Sarah knew right away what the Greenman meant. The last time they parted, he had given her a slender core of wood from his side. She now wore it in a vial attached to a leather string around her neck. Nom had used a sliver of that wood to trap the rat that had bitten their mother. She drew the vial out from under her blouse and held it up toward the Greenman.
"Take the wood, break off a small piece, and put it to Timothy's lips."
Carefully, she broke off a small portion of the wood and bent toward her brother.
But when she touched the wood to Timothy's lips, nothing happened. At least nothing that she could see. She looked up at the Greenman, who loomed over the pair in the dark.
Sarah anxiously, silently counted to thirty.
Still nothing happened. The night all around them was quiet, as if it, too, was watching and listening.
"Can't you heal him?" Sarah asked, looking up at the Greenman again. After all, the core of wood had come from his side.
"Yes, but this is your part of the story. Your task. It's always a gift to be part of healing someone else's hurt. It changes you, too, not just Timothy. Even when things don't work out the way you expect."
Sarah was not sure she understood what the Greenman meant. It would be so much easier if he would just heal Timothy. She thought about the time they had sat together on the roof of their house, outside her bedroom window, talking about wishes. Timothy had wished to be brave, to be wolfproof.
"Timothy, you got your wish. You are brave. You're wolfproof now." Still nothing changed. She brushed the hair out of his face. Then Sarah noticed the briefest flicker of Timothy's lashes.
She held her breath.
His eyes opened wide.
"Timothy!" Sarah buried her face in her brother's shoulder.
"Sarah?" Looking puzzled, Timothy pulled himself to a sitting position. "You're a girl again!"
"Of course I'm a girl. What else would I be? Tell me quickly, what's happened to Mom?"
Timothy winced at a stabbing pain in his side and felt for a wound. The boar's tusk had slashed through his shirt. He ran his fingers along a ridge of raised skin; it felt like a scar. "Mom's all better," he said.
"Really?"
"Yes. The infection's gone. I brought her some salve from Peter's mother, and-"
"Where is Peter?" Sarah cut in. She stood looking from side to side as if she expected him to step out of the shadows.
Of course she wouldn't know, Timothy thought. He didn't answer Sarah but grabbed firmly on to her arm and pulled himself to a standing position. He felt very weak, his leg still throbbed from his encounter with the toad, and he had to steady himself on one of the larger limbs of the fallen alder. All around him, in the darkness, lay the debris of battle.
Silhouetted above him in the moonlight was the Greenman. Timothy looked up into his merry eyes and asked the question whose answer he was dreading. "Did we-"
"You fought well, Timothy. Our enemies are gone. Not destroyed, but gone."
"Will someone please tell me what is going on?" Sarah's gaze flew from one to the other. It seemed that something tremendous had happened about which she knew nothing. "Ew, what's that?" She jumped back as a sinewy, dark creature ran across her foot.
"A ferret, I believe," said the Greenman, smiling.
"Peter?" Timothy questioned anxiously, looking down.
"Who are you talking to?" Sarah demanded. At the sound of Sarah's voice, the ferret wound itself around her ankle. She cringed, remembering the ferret-legging display.
"I think," Timothy said, gesturing at the dark shape on Sarah's foot, "that's Peter."
"What do you mean?" Bending down, she gently lifted the creature to her face. It stilled in her hands. "How can this be Peter?"
"Remember the Animal Tamer? He did this to Peter just like he changed you into an ermine," Timothy said.
"A what?" Sarah almost dropped the ferret in her surprise. But somewhere in the back of her mind were strange images of burrows and mice and eggs. She shuddered.
The Greenman was laughing loudly now. He lifted the ferret from Sarah's grasp.
"Timothy, I want you to cut my branch with your sword. Here, where the sap has dried."
Timothy looked at the Greenman in horror. "I can't do that!" he said. "It would be like cutting a finger or arm on a human!"
"I have already bled once from this wound, and your sister was restored. Peter also needs my restoration."
Timothy took the short sword and carefully nicked the old wound. But the cut was not deep enough. He had to cut again, much harder-Sarah saw him squeezing his eyes shut and sweat breaking out on his forehead-until a shudder rumbled through the Greenman's trunk, and sap welled to the surface.
"That will do," the Greenman said. "Now hold the ferret under the wound."
Sarah lifted the animal until he was right under the thick drip of sap. It trickled onto the ferret's brown coat, and in an instant Sarah's arms collapsed under a tremendous weight. Peter, human once more, dropped to the ground with a thud and a whoosh as the air escaped from his lungs.
He looked up at the faces staring down at him. Then he gingerly got to his feet, rubbing his backside.
"It's good to see you, Sarah" was all he said.
Sarah shook her head from side to side, as if trying to clear her thoughts. "How did-how did you get turned into a ferret?"
"Didn't know I was one, but I guess the same way you got turned into an ermine-by the Animal Tamer. How did you get rescued?" Peter looked from Timothy to the Greenman. And then his face fell. "Looks like I missed the entire battle."
The Greenman smiled a creaky, wooden smile. "I wouldn't say that, not at all. You were more significant than you know. There's much to tell both of you, but it must wait. There are two others who have worked valiantly and need our help." He looked out across the quiet Market.
They could see the silhouettes of people shuffling about, helping the wounded as best they could. Sarah followed the Greenman's gaze. She had always expected victory to be a glorious thing, but this didn't look glorious at all. Even though they had won the battle, humans and trees lay sprawled on the earth, some moaning in pain, many dead. Books about knights and battles always seemed to glance over this part.
"Jessica has spent long hours tending the wounded," the Greenman added a little sadly, "and Cerridwyn has fought well."
"Jessica?" Sarah peered through the darkness, trying to distinguish their friend from the other slow-moving shadows of the night. "And Cerridwyn? But I thought she died."
"Time out of time," replied the Greenman, who was busy retrieving something from beneath the leaves of the fallen alder and handing it to Timothy. "Perhaps these will help."
Timothy accepted the Uilleann pipes. He put the bag under his arm and began to pump his elbow up and down, while with his other hand he fingered the chanter. At first only a few unpleasant squeaks emerged, but then, finally, a simple melody climbed into the sky.
Sarah stared at her brother, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. When had Timothy learned to play that strange instrument? It seemed that there were all kinds of things about her brother that she didn't know. She noticed, too, that Peter was standing very close, and that something else was happening. Across the battlefield the silhouettes of people and animals were beginning to stand a little straighter, moving with more ease. And two of the people were coming closer.
"Jessica! Cerridwyn!" Sarah ran and threw her arms around them.
Jessica looked very tired but also very happy to see Sarah. "You're not an ermine anymore!"
Sarah shuddered. "So I heard."
And then Jessica caught sight of Timothy. "You're awake!"
Timothy dropped the pipes when Jessica grabbed him by the arms. She swung him around in a silly little dance, something the Jessica he knew at school would never do. And for the first time Timothy felt that there might be some victory to celebrate, after all.
But the Greenman stopped the gaiety, saying, "There's still some work to be done, and here is one more member of our party."
Electra, glowing in the moonlight, stepped toward them from behind a fallen tree.
"Star Girl!" Sarah cried, and stopped just short of giving her a hug.
Timothy thought he saw, for the first time, a look of pleasure cross Electra's face. He put down the pipes, and the group followed the Greenman to where a large eagle lay dead on the ground, the white cap of its head visible in the dark. Timothy saw another eagle perched in a tree not far away, and he thought of the two he had seen in his own yard-the watchmen, Sarah had called them.
The Greenman stooped over the body of the fallen eagle.
"Andor's work in this time is done. But when a noble creature dies, it is good to mourn its passing."
Cerridwyn, meanwhile, had picked up the Uilleann pipes, and now she began to play. She played much more skillfully than Timothy had. The tune, Timothy thought, was liquid sadness, the paralyzing loneliness he felt at times even in a crowd. But there was more than sadness to the music. Something in it also made Timothy feel as if Andor's death didn't end just with sadness, but with significance. Triumphant, he thought. Seventeen points.
9 THE ROAD HOME
THE LAST NOTES of the Uilleann pipes still hovered in the air when a disheveled Julian appeared, with Gwydon padding silently by his side. The Storyteller's expression was somber as he gazed down at the body of Andor and bowed his head.
Gwydon lifted his face to the moon, and a mournful howl rose into the darkness, a howl that made Timothy feel lonelier still. Blood had soaked through the sleeve of Julian's shirt, and Timothy noticed he kept the arm pressed to his side.
Cerridwyn looked at Jessica. "Tend to his wound, dear." Jessica stepped forward and placed both hands on the injury. In moments, the strain on Julian's face eased, and he was able to move the arm, though a little stiffly.
"How did you do that, Jess?" Sarah asked.
"Cerridwyn taught me. My necklace is the sign of a Healer." One hand fingered the ruby stone. "At first it wasn't what I wanted to do. I wanted to be able to shoot arrows like you or fight with a sword. But now it's okay. When I place my hands on a wound, it begins to heal. It's not like there was never a wound at all. It's just as if healing has begun. And something happens to me, too. I get cold and tired, as if I've given a bit of myself away."
Timothy again ran his fingers along the raised scar on his own side and winced where it was tender. He looked curiously at Jessica. She was the last person he would have imagined in that role.
"You can heal. Timothy has the crown and does battle and plays the pipes. But I don't do anything special," Sarah said.
"Not all gifts are evident right away," the Greenman answered. "Sometimes you have to wait for a gift to develop or be revealed."
Sarah looked at the ground, and Timothy could tell that wasn't the answer she was hoping for.
"And what about Mom?" she asked. "Is she really well?"
"As your brother told you, the poison from the bite is gone, and she's in no danger from it now. But she will be weak for some time and will need your help. That is why I'm sending you home soon."
In his mind's eye, Timothy could see his mother just as he had left her, cheerfully propped on pillows, better but still very weak. He wanted to be home with her, but he also longed for something else he couldn't quite name. He lifted his fingers to his head and found that the golden crown was still in place, even after all that he had been through. "What will happen to the Market?" he wondered aloud.
No one spoke for a moment, and Timothy knew they were all, as he was, imagining the wreckage they would see in the daylight. What about the animals that had been captive in the Animal Tamer's stall? Had they managed to escape? What would they do?
Finally, Peter spoke up, a small catch in his voice. "And what's happened to my mother?"
"Fiona's fine, Peter." Jessica was glad to be able to offer him some hope. "She was hurt, but I helped heal her. Trust me, the first thing she asked about was you. It's just…Where will you live now?"
Peter's face broke into a smile, as if a great weight had been lifted off him. "We'll manage. It's not like we haven't had trouble before. The Market always survives!"
"But isn't there one of your company still missing?" the Greenman asked.
Timothy looked from side to side. "The ratcatcher!" he cried. "Where's Nom?"
And just as the words left his lips, a terrible booming shook the ground. It came toward the little group like a cresting wave, and Timothy suddenly wondered what had happened to his short sword. He wondered, too, if Cerridwyn had her bow and arrows with her. But Julian and the Greenman didn't appear alarmed, and Gwydon continued to sit peacefully by Julian's side.
A large oak tree lumbered into view, and there, high up in its branches, rode Nom, waving his spindly arms and shouting.
"Looks like we beat 'em, we did!" Nom cried. "Crawled back into the dirt, they did, back where they's came from! And how do you like that, trees fighting and all?" Then he paused. "Smells like stoats and ferrets been here." His sharp nose twitched wildly. "Sneaky animals, just like rats. Can't abide 'em!"
Timothy poked Sarah in the ribs. She scowled and hissed into his ear, "Timothy James, you have a lot of explaining to do!"
"Brother," Cerridwyn said, addressing Nom, "we have work to do if we are to turn this Market to rights."
Timothy noticed that Cerridwyn's hair was growing shorter and grayer, her back a little more rounded. Soon she was no taller than Timothy-the goose woman once more.
"Come down out of that tree, and help me get to work!" she commanded.
In response, the oak bent its branches as close to the ground as it could, and Nom jumped down.
But something was still bothering Timothy. "Greenman, what's happened to Tristan?" The children looked at one another.
"The Master of the Market?" the Greenman asked solemnly. "I think he will find that his master was not kind."
"His master?" Sarah asked.
"He means the Animal Tamer, I expect," Peter volunteered. "Tristan always did everything the Tamer told him to."
"Is Tristan gone?"
"Just changed, I'm afraid," said the goose woman, twirling her stick as if at one of her geese. "It will take all I've got to keep him in line."
"He's a goose now?" Timothy asked.
"A gander," the goose woman corrected with a shake of her head. "And he'll be the terror of the gaggle."
Peter began to laugh, and soon the others joined in. "It fits him, somehow. Now he can puff out his chest all he wants! But the Market still needs a Master," he added more seriously.
"Don't you remember your legends?" Julian said, ruffling Gwydon's fur. "A true Master of the Market is a Filidh. There is one being prepared even now. But it's late. Dawn is coming."
The darkness was beginning to lighten just the tiniest bit. The Greenman looked from Sarah to Jessica to Timothy. "Yes, and it's time for you three to be leaving. Arkell will see you safely home." He gestured for the goose woman to give Timothy the pipes. "Timothy, see that these are returned to their owner. He has more to tell you. And you two"-he indicated Timothy and Jessica-"don't trade your gifts again! You'll be needing them."
Timothy took the Uilleann pipes from the woman's weathered hands, feeling a terrible sense of loss welling up inside him. Desolate, he thought, a word that sounded as bleak as its meaning and worth only nine points. He looked at the Greenman and wondered how long it would be until he saw him again.
"And I have things to discuss with these other fine fellows. Come." The Greenman and the oak strode off side by side toward the forest, where the other trees waited.
"Wait," Timothy called, but his voice came out small and choked.
The sky was pale pink and the clouds were touched with silver. In contrast, the Travelers' Market was a dark wound in the forest. Timothy looked at the charred earth, the splintered caravans. Already vultures were circling over the dead.
"Peter, I know your mother's looking for you. Best come with me." The goose woman nodded toward the boy.
An expression of anguish crossed Peter's face. He looked at Sarah.
Sarah met his gaze, and Timothy could tell that his sister was trying not to show how she was feeling. "Go, Peter," she finally said. "I'm sure Fiona misses you terribly."
"But you're coming back, right?" Peter asked.
"I hope so. I want to…" Sarah didn't say anything else.
Peter nodded. Jessica gave him a quick hug, and Timothy did the same.
"The Old Ways are awake again tonight. Timothy, you've traveled that road before," Julian said. "Arkell will lead you three to it. Follow him. Gwydon and the star girl will travel with me."
Timothy looked up at the clear sky, which was now tinged with blue, and saw the morning star shining in the vast distance. If this was a book, he thought, the story should end now. But it wasn't a book. It was his life, and apparently he still had normal things to do: his parents to see, school, chores…Timothy sighed and ran his fingers over the crown on his head, just to see if it was still there.
For now, it seemed, he would have to content himself with showing Jessica and his sister his skill at balancing on the back of a moving road.
10 SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT
ARKELL LED THE CHILDREN to the same stand of birches and the same path Timothy had traveled once before.
"It just looks like a trail in the woods." Sarah was frowning.
"It is. But it's not just any trail; it's an Old Way, one of the ancient roads." Timothy looked at Sarah and Jessica's puzzled faces. "It's another type of portway that helps you travel through time, like when we first came here to the Travelers' Market. But it's even more amazing." Timothy could feel his excitement growing. "When the Old Ways wake up and carry you, it takes a little getting used to. You just have to try to ride with it." When he'd traveled this portway, it had taken him a while to find and keep his balance, much like the first time he had ridden a skateboard. He hoped he could do it again, especially in front of the girls.
"Watch me, and you'll get the hang of it." He stepped onto the trail. Underneath his feet, the road shifted. It flexed like a muscle. He looked over his shoulder. Sarah and Jessica stepped cautiously onto the path.
The ride on the road was not as glorious as Timothy had hoped. For one thing, Sarah caught on very quickly-it must have been from all her years of dance-and for another, Jessica didn't seem to be nearly as impressed by his skill as he had hoped she might. Glancing behind him, Timothy could see Jessica and Sarah both balancing upright on the moving road, better than he had done his first time. Like him, they must have known it was quite impossible for a road to wake up, or to travel by a portway at all. But, Timothy decided, it was better not to dwell on the impossible too much these days.
Later that night, long after Timothy should have been asleep, he crept into Sarah's room.
Sarah sat up, her long hair in tangles around her face, and pulled the covers close around her shoulders. "The portways haven't failed us yet. It's always as if hardly any time has passed here at home. And Mom looks better."
"Yeah, she does."
"Much better. Timothy, you did a good job. She never would have survived if you hadn't come back."
"Maybe. Or maybe it was just the new antibiotic." He burrowed under Sarah's comforter with her to ward off the chill in the room. The November nights were growing colder now.
"How can you say that after everything we've seen?" she protested with a broad yawn.
"Because now that we're back, it all seems like something I imagined."
But Timothy was too tired to puzzle anything out; he was hardly even aware of Sarah still talking. He was asleep when the first gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and he was already dreaming when two cats leapt onto the roof outside Sarah's room.
They hissed at the branch wedged in the window casement. "It will take a storm to move that wood," said one cat to the other.
"We can wait. Perhaps the old professor sleeps without protection."
"Then he will soon enjoy our company."
The larger of the two cats padded to the edge of the roof. On the front porch, Prank, Timothy and Sarah's orange tabby, arched her back, the fur rising in pumpkin spikes. Above her, the two cats slipped like shadows off the edge of the roof and back into the night.
11 AT MR. TWIG'S HOUSE
TIMOTHY HAD ARRANGED to meet Jessica after school on Wednesday to return the Uilleann pipes to Mr. Twig. That meant he would have to miss chess-club practice and, as a result, the tournament the following week, but somehow that didn't seem as important as his errand.
Sarah would meet them there after ballet practice. She had been very quiet that morning as they got ready for school. At first Timothy thought it was just because she was so tired. But when he'd wondered out loud what Peter was doing, she told him, in a very un-Sarah-like way, to shut up. Then she'd slammed the front door on her way out to catch the high school bus.
Timothy had shrugged his backpack over one shoulder and checked his pocket to make sure the Greenman's leaf was there. He'd taken the pipes from the closet and buried them in the bottom of his oversized pack before taking a brief glimpse at the assigned chapter in his geometry book. Then, after helping his father bring his mother breakfast in bed, he'd headed out into the frosty morning.
All in all, it was a very unsatisfactory day.
The school day plodded along more slowly than any other Timothy had ever known. He caught sight of Jessica's curls in the hallway once, and the fact that she was laughing with one of her old friends annoyed him for some inexplicable reason. He snapped at his friends at lunch, couldn't answer the question when called on in history, and found his locker door jammed in PE, which made him lose points for arriving late on the basketball court.
Jessica was waiting by the city bus stop just as she had promised. She wore a short white jacket with some type of fake fur trimming the hood and cuffs. It was already growing dark, and they'd have only a short time at Mr. Twig's before Timothy would be expected home.
"So, how was your day?" he asked in a conversational tone, once again repressing that inexplicable feeling of irritation.
Jessica smiled and pulled up the hood of her jacket. "Jordan invited me to a Christmas party, and my poem was selected for the lit mag. All in all, not too bad."
The bus groaned to a stop, and Timothy followed her up the steps, now feeling thoroughly out of sorts. Jessica slid off her hood, and Timothy noticed that if he looked carefully, he could see strands of red in her brown hair. Then he thought it was odd that he should be noticing at all.
He scooted as far away from her as he could on the seat. "The pipes are in my bag," he said glumly.
"Do you think there's a reason we're supposed to go to Mr. Twig's, other than just returning the pipes?" she asked.
"Don't you remember? When we were at the Market, the Greenman said he'd have more to tell us," Timothy said. "I didn't really want to come home, you know."
Jessica looked straight at him. "I didn't, either. It doesn't seem real now, does it?"
Timothy thought for a minute. "No, it's being here that doesn't seem real. There, wherever there is, seems more than real."
Mr. Twig, professor of mythology-emeritus, as he liked to point out-lived in an old, tree-lined neighborhood across town. The first time Timothy met him, he was dressed all in blue from his sweater to his socks. He favored consistency. He was also prone to asking disturbing questions. A light glowed in the front window, and Timothy could see the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair, reading.
"Good, he's home." Timothy shifted nervously as he waited for Mr. Twig to answer the front door. The only other time he had been at Mr. Twig's house, the professor had asked him if he believed in evil. The memory still sent shivers down Timothy's arms.
"Do you think he left you the pipes on purpose?" Jessica asked. "He might have intentionally left them behind in the woods, so that you'd have them when you came back to the Market."
"You never know with Mr. Twig. You'll see. The last time I saw him, we talked about parallel universes."
The door swung inward, and Mr. Twig, dressed all in shades of brown, greeted them in stockinged feet, reminding Timothy of a woodland elf.
"Well, well, what a pleasure, Timothy James Maxwell and a friend. Come in, come in." Mr. Twig waved them into his warm living room. A book lay facedown on a chair by the window, and a fire warmed the hearth.
"This is Jessica. We've come to return your pipes." Timothy slid the backpack off his shoulder and pulled out the instrument.
Mr. Twig raised his generous eyebrows. "I expected you'd be returning them someday. Now, young lady, have a seat." He gestured toward the red couch where Timothy and Sarah had sat a month ago on their last visit. It was there, Timothy thought, that they had first heard the name Balor, and he shuddered.
There was a knock at the front door.
"Ah, more visitors." Mr. Twig swung the door open to Sarah. She stood on the porch, rosy-cheeked, her ballet bag over her shoulder. "Come in, Sarah. We've quite a party here. I don't often get this many visitors in a week!" Mr. Twig seemed delighted to see them all. "Have a seat. Let me make some tea."
Timothy held out the pipes. "We probably don't have time for tea. We need to be home before dark."
Mr. Twig looked disappointed. He took the pipes in one hand. "Very wise for many reasons. Well, have a seat for a moment, anyway, and tell me what you've been up to. The last time I saw you, Timothy, you were trying to put my eye out and asking me questions about parallel universes." He laid the Uilleann pipes tenderly on the table next to his chair.
Timothy flushed and then said, "It would take a long time to explain everything…"
"I see at least that you have your sister back safe and sound. I suspect the pipes were a help to you there."
"Did you leave them there on purpose?" The question that had been rattling in Timothy's brain popped out.
"I thought they might be of some use, to you in particular, Timothy. Were they?"
Timothy sat down on the couch in between the girls. "They were. But how did you know they would be, and why were they?"
"Ah, more questions! I suspect the girls can help me answer that."
The girls glanced at each other, Jessica frowning and Sarah looking puzzled. "When Timothy blew the pipes," Jessica said, "the battle changed in our favor."
"Of course it did. It always does when a Filidh arrives." Mr. Twig sat back in his chair, looking very satisfied with himself.
Filidh. There was that title again, Timothy thought.
"Your mother is an O'Daly, isn't she?" Mr. Twig steepled his fingers.
"Yes, but…"
"Remember that the Filidh is a hereditary title handed down for generations through the family O'Daly. And that the last true Filidh turned his back on his calling for promises of power. So why do you think you have the crown, Timothy James Maxwell? No one chooses the crown; the crown chooses him. A Filidh is a keeper of the word, of memories, tasked with reminding people of the true stories, and in that way the Filidh is a guardian. And with that title comes another." Mr. Twig paused. "The Master of the Market."
"I knew it!" Jessica pounded the sofa arm. "It's just what Julian and Cerridwyn told us. And Timothy must find a special stone to prove his birthright."
