---

 

 

Ireland – 537 AD

 

“Your son has a destiny,” the Keeper said. “He must leave this place and prepare to meet it.”

“He is but a child! How do you ask such a thing of a ten-year-old?” The boy’s mother pulled Cian closer.

Standing, the sudden movement shoving his bench backward, Cian’s father bent forward, fists on the rough tabletop, his face inches from the Keeper’s. “How do you ask such a thing of us?”

Outside, sun sparkled off the deep and shining greens of Donegal surrounding the one-room cottage. A breeze bearing freshness taken for granted hushed across the scowl of Dara as if to calm the rage that had claimed his features.

“I don’t.” Despite the tension that had invaded the room, the Keeper smiled. “The Great Magistrate does. Your son is unique because you made him that way. You gave him the kind of heart and courage it will take to do this thing. For that reason and others, he must leave.”

Dara sat once more, focusing his gaze on his son, a gaze that softened as he asked, “And what do you think of all this, boy?”

“I think,” said Cian, son of Dara, “it sounds like a great adventure. You and ma have to come with me, though.” He turned his beautiful young face to the Keeper. “May they come, too?”

For the first time, a flash of something less than peaceful flickered through the Keeper’s eyes. “For a while, of course. Yes.”

Nodding, Cian snuggled closer to his mother. “We should go then.” No smile came with these words, only confidence.

“Good. You have been chosen well.” Standing, the Keeper turned to stare out the small window. “An adventure,” he murmured. “And the first important choice of many.”

 

 

ONE

 

Georgia – This Century

 

Cian MacDara stood, hands clenched behind his back, in the front hall of a dilapidated house in yet another nowhere he’d been before.

The social worker placed a hand on his shoulder. “Cian, this is your new foster mother, Letitia Pettijohn, and her children, Buddy and Retta, your foster brother and sister.”

I don’t like this place, Miss Hunter. I don’t think you do, either. A single fluorescent bar hanging from the ceiling by two wires, light sizzling and popping along its length, frightened him. I don’t like that light. Peeling floral wallpaper, scuffed wood flooring, and three strangers staring down at him assaulted his soul. He closed his eyes. “Don’t leave me here.” A whisper he knew she hadn’t heard – she was speaking.

“All right, Mrs. Pettijohn. You have his paperwork. His luggage is… he only has the one suitcase.” Receiving no response, Miss Hunter cleared her throat, gave Cian’s shoulder a soft squeeze, turned and went to the door. At the sound of it closing behind her, the boy shivered.

His foster mother put a hand on her hip, her gaze narrowed.

Cian’s throat felt dry. What did I do wrong? Should I have said hello?

The daughter stepped forward, leaned her face closer to Cian’s, and squinted. “I don’t think I like him, Ma. Why do we need a foster brother anyway?” Her squeaky voice and harsh accent matched her expression.

“Well, now, I don’t blame you, Retta,” said her mother. “I mean, look at him. Ain’t that the ugliest little piece of turd y’all ever saw?”

Buddy frowned at first, but his chubby face smoothed and he nodded. “Yup. A real dog.”

“Hear that, boy?” The woman glared. “Unacceptable. That’s what you are. Ugly as sin and twice as stupid.” Turning to her children, she smiled. “Okay, you two – upstairs and wash for supper. As for you, you disgustin’ little toad, you come with me.” She grabbed the boy by one arm and dragged him past the stairs. “I’m sure they fed you ’fore you left, so I won’t be wastin’ my good food on you tonight.” She pulled a key from a pocket and unlocked a door beside the kitchen. The door swung inward revealing a maw of darkness and wooden stairs.

Without releasing his arm, Letitia reached in with her free hand and flipped a switch. A bare bulb screwed into a socket in the rafter a third of the way down lit the stairs that ended at a platform, with more steps on its left continuing down into shadow.

She pulled him after her and at the bottom, pointed to the far side of a cluttered basement. “There’s a good mattress over there, boy. Don’t pee on it. That’s where you’ll be sleeping from now on. I don’t want you coming back upstairs, neither, 'til I call you, ya hear?” Not waiting for a reply, she went back up, switched off the light, and slammed the door. The sound of her key in the lock sealing him into an unfamiliar loneliness caused goose bumps along his arms.

In the minimal light from narrow windows set high in the far wall, Cian groped his way toward the mattress and sat on it. Crossing his arms over his knees, he put his head down. “What happened? Why are they being so mean?” Tears burned his eyes. “No. Father told me to be brave and strong… but…”

A sob escaped. Another, releasing the flood behind his lids. Weeping, he began to rock back and forth, arms clutched around his middle, his ten-year-old mind trying to comprehend what was happening. My new mother is… dark inside. Her children, too. Why was I sent here? What of the Light and the destiny the angel told me I have?

No answer came. Worse, everyone he cared about was gone and as far as he could figure, that meant no one would be coming to rescue him – ever.

 

*******

 

Connecticut – Seven Years Later

 

“God, Katie, I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday!” As Celeste Kelly stuffed books from her backpack into her locker, she cast a sideways stare at her best friend, her mouth a sour twist. “Worst day of the week.”

“Why?”

“It’s too far from either end to feel good about. I’m already bored and the day is only half over!”

“I know.” Katie Grandol turned away, sighing.

Celeste hoisted her backpack onto one shoulder, and they headed toward their first class after lunch.

“See him anywhere?”

Katie shrugged. “‘Him’ who?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Like maybe the guy we spent nearly all night texting each other about?”

“Oh, that ‘him!’ No. What I don’t get is why someone who looks like a freaking god is working in the food court at the mall.”

“Hauling trash, no less! Did you see his reaction to me when I smiled at him?”

“Yes, Celeste. He blushed. We texted about that for almost fifteen minutes last night, remember?”

“I… yeah. Still. Attractive guys usually don’t act that way.”

“Obsessed much?”

“Of course. You?”

Katie laughed. “Duh. But we’re justified.”

Celeste had never seen anyone that beautiful, male or female. “Where did he come from? And is there any real chance he’ll show up as a new student?”

“Celeste!”

Celeste burst out laughing. “Sorry.”

“Good. And stop staring around like that. You look ridiculous.”

“Oh, and you don’t?”

“I’m not… shut up.”

Reaching their English class, Celeste dragged herself into the room, dropping her backpack next to her desk. “Why does Mrs. Farrell make us sit alphabetically?”

“Yeah – one of many reasons to hate being here.” Katie rolled her eyes and went to her desk two rows away.

Celeste noticed the despised Mrs. Farrell was rearranging books on the low shelves beneath one of the windows as the class filed in. When the door closed behind the final student, the woman straightened, sighed loudly enough to be heard out in the schoolyard, and went to the front of the room. Her lanky six-foot frame draped in the same black dress she wore every day, Mrs. Farrell crossed her arms as her gaze swept the class. The students lapsed into silence.

She looks like the Grim Reaper’s lighthouse. Sneering, Celeste took her English book from her backpack.

“All right,” Mrs. Farrell began, “good afternoon. Since we've finished our segment on the short story, we will now turn to the full-length novel. I have chosen a classic, one you may even have read – in some form or other. Of course, what’s more likely is that you will have seen a movie version of it, either the Disney rendition or one of the recent hideous live-action films. So!” She went to the whiteboard covering the wall behind her desk and picked up a marker. “‘What book is she talking about?’ you ask yourselves. The book to which I refer is none other than Lewis Carroll’s 'Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland'.”

Dead silence.

Mrs. Farrell nodded, the irritating smirk Celeste knew too well curling her thin lips. “Can anyone tell me the real name of the author?”

Foot shuffling and body-shifting ensued. A hand went up. Mrs. Farrell opened her mouth to acknowledge the girl in the front row but was interrupted by the door opening.

Everyone turned toward the sound and Celeste almost fell out of her chair. The young man from the mall stood in the doorway for a second, and then entered the room.

Swiveling around to see Katie’s reaction, Celeste also noticed that while the boys were gaping, the girls, without exception, were gasping and turning bright pink. Celeste covered her mouth with one hand, snorting.

“Who, er, who - who - ” Mrs. Farrell stopped, blinking. “I… oh, my. Ha! I sound like a stammering owl!”

On seeing their teacher’s blush, her usual scowl transforming into a shy smile, Celeste nearly lost it. Holy crap! What’s going... holy crap! Never mind that the mall worker had shown up at school after all, but finding the imperturbable, Amazonian Mrs. Farrell – she was older than dirt, for heaven’s sake! – clenched in the same vise of attraction as her much younger charges, was almost too much. Yuck! Celeste closed her eyes to shut out the image of Mrs. Farrell making an ass of herself. Under any other circumstance, she figured the woman’s behavior would have been hilarious, but not this. Embarrassing, yes. Rather like barging in on your parents having sex, she thought with an involuntary shudder.

Celeste opened her eyes again. The new student had reached Mrs. Farrell’s desk and was handing her a green slip of paper.

“Ah! Hmm, I… I’m not sure how to pronounce this, uh, C-i-a-n…” Mrs. Farrell raised the slip and squinted at it.

“KEE-an.”

“Oh. Okay. Cian MacDara. I see you’re from Georgia – what brings you to Connecticut?”

“Family circumstances.”

His soothing voice included an accent that sounded southern, but with a hint of something more exotic, familiar. Judging by the total silence around her, Celeste suspected his voice was having a similar effect on the other students as well.

Mrs. Farrell cleared her throat and once again restless feet shuffled, papers crackled, a nearby pencil’s eraser bounced against a desktop.

“Well. Welcome, then, Mr. MacDara. Please take a seat – right here in front would be fine.” She gestured at an empty desk in the front row next to Janine Whitcomb, the girl who had raised her hand.

The previous occupant of that desk was a friend of Celeste’s who had moved away two weeks before. Celeste missed her, but now it didn’t seem to matter…

“Thank you very much, ma’am.”

The woman did what the old-fashioned novels Celeste sometimes read described as “dimpling.” Weird. Beyond weird.

As… Cian, was it?... took his seat, Celeste began to worry about how the other guys in the class would feel about him. She and Katie had estimated that he was a little over six feet tall; his physique was lean, strong, and perfectly proportioned as far as she could tell, his features unworldly in their masculine beauty. She shook herself. Knock it off, Celeste – he’s a person. A guy. What are you doing, getting all poetic and stuff? Jeez!

Where he sat made it impossible to see his face, other than the curve of one cheek. She stared at his thick black hair, remembering he had clear grey eyes that looked… what? Sad? Frightened? But why?

Mrs. Farrell spoke again. “So! Let me ask you the same question I just asked the rest of the class – what was Lewis Carroll’s real name?”

“Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, ma’am.”

“Yes! Excellent! We’re going to be studying the first ‘Alice’ book. May I assume you know it?”

“I’ve read it a few times, and studied some of the commentaries about it.”

Celeste suspected that had any other guy admitted to such a thing, he would have been snickered into oblivion. Yet when Cian said it, he got no reaction, certainly nothing negative. Amazing.

“Mrs. Farrell?” Janine raised her hand again, and Celeste rolled her eyes. Janine had spent almost her entire student career trying to be every teacher’s pet, and after being in school with her since Kindergarten, Celeste was long over it.

“What is it, Janine?” Mrs. Farrell’s sounded irritated, an usual attitude toward the girl, and for a moment, Celeste sympathized with her teacher.

Janine lowered her hand and cleared her throat. “I’ve read the Alice books more than once myself, and I even own the Annotated Alice, which is a wonderful study tool.” She turned her head toward Cian and gave him a broad smile.

To his credit – and Celeste’s surprise – he nodded at Janine, who turned a flaming shade of pink and looked away.

What a gentleman! She’s so obviously kissing up to him – another guy would have laughed at her and said, “So what?”

“I’m sure, dear.” Mrs. Farrell threw back her shoulders. “Well now, let’s continue with the lesson, shall we?”

As if you weren’t the one holding it up in the first place with your gross flirting! Celeste shook her head and opened her notebook.

Other than noticing the other girls’ inability to look completely past the first desk in the fifth row, Celeste found nothing interesting about the rest of the period. When the bell rang, her progress toward the door slowed almost to a halt as a wall of girls looking over their shoulders at the dark-haired youth rising from his desk blocked her exit. Celeste took a deep breath and began shoving into the crowd. “Hey! Out of the way, please – I have another class! Can you please move?”

Before she could get more than a few inches farther, Katie joined her. “Let’s get out of here before the bloodbath. Come on!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The other guys – they’re going to destroy him, and I don’t want to be here to see them –“

“Make friends with him?” Celeste grinned and pointed over Katie’s shoulder.

The boys had surrounded Cian, smiling and laughing, some shaking his hand and introducing themselves.

“I can’t believe this! I think they like him! Huh.” Katie snorted and started toward the door again.

At that moment, whatever one of the others said made Cian give him a broad smile, and Celeste stopped breathing; his incredible features had become even more so.

“He’s a god!”

Startled, Celeste turned to see the head cheerleader gaping, eyes glazed. Celeste chuckled. “Don’t have an aneurysm, Crystal!”

Katie’s hand intruded between two of her classmates and grabbed Celeste by the arm, pulling her toward the door like a battering ram through the girls still loitering in front of it. “Let’s go – we’ll be late for our next class, and besides, I doubt any of us mere females will get a chance to talk to him right now.”

“But – ”

“Celeste! He’s not going to melt away – let’s go. I’m sure we’ll see him later.”

Celeste cast a final amused glance at the cheerleader and shook her head. “Fine. Let’s go.”

When they were halfway to their next class, Katie said, “I think because we already sort of met him in the mall, we’re maybe immunized against his looks or something.”

“Possibly. Did you see Crystal Warren? I swear she was going to start drooling. She even called him a god!”

They broke into laughter, but when they were almost at their next class, Katie sobered. “In a way, Crystal’s right.”

“What do you mean?”

“How many guys of any age have you seen who look even close to that amazing?”

“Okay, but a ‘god?’ Please Katie. He’s as human as the rest of us.”

“I’m sure he is, but maybe there’s more to him. I mean, look at the effect he had on Farrell.”

“True. And even though every girl in the whole school – including teachers, oh gross – will be panting after him, the guys are okay with him. Go figure. Oh! Oh! I almost forgot! Did you catch his name?”

Katie’s brows drew together. “Yeah, so?”

“You don’t get any more Irish than that Katie, and it took me a few seconds to place it, but his accent definitely has some Irish in it.”

“So I guess this means you two were meant for each other?”

“Of course not!” That was what she had meant, but admit it? Ha. “It’s kind of cool, is all.”

“Why?”

Celeste stopped walking and took a deep breath. “I have no idea.”

Nodding, Katie said nothing more about it.

Neither did Celeste, but a strong sense of the inevitable told her that because of this Irish boy, life might never be the same.

TWO

 

The local mall continued to astound Cian – the size of the building, the array and variety of shops within its walls, his acceptance as an employee there. Before moving to Connecticut less than a week earlier, he’d seen a few of these indoor shopping centers, but none had been as vast.

Pulling his waste-removal cart into the food court, Cian passed an older couple staring at the menu sign over one of the Asian food shops. The woman’s arm was linked into the man’s, reminding Cian of Mr. and Mrs. Bolton, his first foster parents.

He’d been given only five months with them. Five short months. Their beautiful home in Atlanta – a plantation house, Mrs. Bolton had called it – had been a place of safety, warmth. The daily drive to and from a private school defined the extent of his travels back then, the reason for keeping him out of more public areas not understood until recently. Had he not travelled for two years with his parents before being left in Atlanta, he wouldn’t even know what a mall was.

Cian unlocked the front of the unit and slid out the overflowing trash barrel, lifted out the lining, and dumped it into the larger bag lining his cart. Recalling the Boltons always made him smile, but as he shoved a new liner into the barrel, his smile faded, pleasant thoughts supplanted by another… of his second foster family.

Safety and warmth had been replaced by six years of imprisonment in a cluttered basement, daily physical and verbal abuse, hard labor at tasks too onerous for a child. Time spent on the upper floors of the Pettijohn’s house and outside had been brief and usually painful. Attendance at school having been denied him, no respite from his misery was possible, his existence pure hell until two social workers sought and rescued him when he was sixteen.

A quick shake of his head to dispel the darker thoughts; he closed the disposal unit and moved to the next. That life is over, done. Stop thinking about it. You’re here now and life is finally better.

Free to attend school and hold a job as a maintenance worker in this gigantic mall, he could focus his thoughts on the future, he reminded himself as he opened the next unit. Many things were yet to be resolved about that future, but here, in this place where he no longer had to fear constant harm, no longer needed to consider killing himself, he could face those unresolved issues with hope.

His smile returned, thoughts turning to his first day at school – a real school, not a small space in a psychiatric hospital where he’d been tutored before being transferred to Connecticut. The students in his classes at the high school had been so kind, so normal.

I’m a stranger, yet they made me feel welcome. Amazing. For the first time in six years, his deep-set insecurities could be corrected without the help of doctors. Insecurities like misinterpreting people’s stares as signs of disgust.

The truth that no one would call his looks monstrous or horrifying had not yet claimed a permanent place, but after the friendly way his peers had treated him earlier that day, he knew relief from the lie was getting closer.

All those years ago, a seed of doubt planted in his ten-year-old mind by Letitia Pettijohn’s venomous behavior had made him wonder. Was something wrong with him? According to his psychologist, Letitia had only needed that miniscule suspicion to break him down.

“I have to stop thinking about it so much,” he murmured, putting a fresh liner in the trash container and moving to the next one. Not easy to do, though, with so many things to remind him, like the chrome sides of the refuse containers in which his reflection was almost as sharp as it was in a mirror. Told he was too stupid to attend regular school and denied access to mirrors because his looks were too monstrous even for him, he had no idea that neither of these assertions was true until a year before coming to this place.

As he looked up from relining the container, he saw his supervisor, Mr. Halloran, approaching.

“Good evening, Mr. MacDara!” The man gave him a big smile.

“Good evening, sir.”

“How’s it going tonight?”

Cian shrugged. “Fine so far, sir. Thanks for asking.” He returned the man’s smile and placed the barrel back into its chrome-sided receptacle.

“Glad to hear it. Keep up the good work son, and before you know it, you’ll be getting a raise.”

A what? “Is that… I mean what... um… ”

“It means you’ll get an increase in pay.” Mr. Halloran patted him on the shoulder and walked away.

Bemused, Cian shook his head. To think he could do what he was being asked and get paid instead of beaten – the mall was, indeed, amazing...

 

*******

 

“No, Katie, we are not going to the mall.”

“Why not? I need a new shirt.”

“No you don’t. You want to see him, and I think it’s a bad idea to bother him at work. He could get in trouble.”

Katie’s silence on the other end filled the next few seconds. “Oh, come on – you want to see him too, and as far as I can tell, no one else from school knows he works there.”

“Maybe not, but I get the impression he needs a lot of space.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve never even talked to him!”

Too tired from the previous evening’s text-fest and the astonishing events at school to explain why she felt the way she did, Celeste sighed. “Look, if you honestly need a new shirt, we can go to Macy’s or The Gap in town, okay?”

“Gee, what a thrill.”

“Okay, fine!” Suddenly irritated by her friend’s insistence, Celeste lost it for a moment. “Go to the stupid mall, but I’m sure not going with you!”

Silence. Then, “Wow. I’m so sorry I called.”

The line went dead. Celeste pocketed her phone, lay back on her bed, and fought back tears. What is wrong with me? Why did I do that? It isn’t Katie’s fault I’m in a rotten mood. She rolled onto her stomach, buried her head in the pillow and wondered whose fault it was.

Unable to work it out, she got up, changed into her pajamas, and turned down the bed. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but she was so exhausted that it felt much later. Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland sat on her desk, and she picked it up. Her mother had read it to her when she was six or seven, and she remembered it being a cool story, if a little confusing. The plot thread was easily lost, she recalled, rather like the way a dream wandered in and without rhyme or reason, but that was what the story was about, after all – Alice’s dream.

“Celeste! Tara! Set the table! Supper’s in an hour and I want it done now!”

Gimme a break, Mom! I’m so not in the mood.

Dinner at the Kelly’s was at five-thirty. How much nicer it would have been to lie there and read for a while longer so she wouldn’t have to think about anything else, but nope. Not in this family. Everyone, according to her mom, had a job, and every job had to be done in a timely manner (she hated that phrase). Furthermore, she’d have to explain why she was in her pajamas already.

“Why are you in your pajamas?” As usual, Tara had entered without knocking.

“So I don’t get your blood on my good clothes when I kill you.” She picked up a pencil, holding it like a dagger. “Get out!”

“Crabby.” Tara scowled, but left.

Celeste put the pencil on top of the book, stared at it for a second, and headed downstairs.

“Are you feeling all right? Why are you in your pajamas?”

Celeste grabbed a tablecloth from the buffet drawer before answering. “I’m fine, Mom. A little tired, maybe. I thought I’d relax tonight and wanted to get comfortable.”

“Okay, if you’re s– ”

“I’m okay. Really.”

“Mm. Don’t forget the napkins.”

When the table was set, a chore done in silence for a change because she was too upset to pick on Tara, Celeste returned to her room, dreading the solitude and the dreary thoughts it would invite.

 

*******

 

As Eileen Kelly was setting out the glasses on the kitchen table, someone knocked at the side door – only strangers and people peddling religion used the front. “Must be one of the girls’ friends.” She glanced up at the clock over the stove and frowned, wondering why any of them would be showing up at dinnertime. “How odd.” She went down the short hall leading from the kitchen, saw Katie through the glass-paned door, and opened it.

“May I come in, Mrs. Kelly?”

“Of course! How did you get here?”

“Mom dropped me off. I need to see Celeste.”

Celeste’s sullen attitude earlier… Katie’s uncharacteristic dinner-time arrival… two plus two. “What happened?”

“Nothing… well, yeah. I mean, nothing bad. We had a misunderstanding when we were on the phone before and I’d like to straighten things out.”

Eileen stepped aside, ushering Katie in, and shivered in the icy air that slipped in with her. “She’s in her room. Have you eaten?”

“No – I was too upset.”

“Oh. Well, you’re welcome to join us, then – dinner will be ready in about ten minutes. Assuming everything works out okay, that is.” She smiled and went to the sink. “Go ahead upstairs, hon. I’ll call you when the food’s out.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Kelly.” Katie rushed out of the kitchen.

“That’s weird,” Eileen said under her breath, turning on the water. “Those two almost never fight. Explains the pajama thing, though. I just hope they’re not getting involved in anything they shouldn’t.” She shook her head. These days, she knew, growing up had a whole new set of dangers that her generation would have never considered possible.

Grabbing the coffee pot, she filled it with fresh water. Would things be any better when Tara, who was twelve, reached Celeste’s age?

The sound of the garage door opening heralded the arrival of her husband. She finished measuring decaf into the basket, set it into the coffee maker, and poured water from the pot into its reservoir. “Good. That’s done.”

The door from the garage opened and Donal Kelly, partly obscured by a rectangular box, staggered into the kitchen.

Eileen started toward him. “Need help?”

“Nope. I got this – it’s more clumsy than heavy. Come see.” He maneuvered the box around the table and disappeared into the family room.

“Okaaay.” Eileen grinned and followed.

Donal had placed the box on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. Tara was standing beside him, doing little bounces on her toes, eyes shining, quiet music coming from the far side of the room indicating she’d abandoned the show she’d been watching.

“What is it? What is it?”

“A box! A box!”

“Dad!”

He laughed and opened the flaps.

Leaning a shoulder on the doorframe as she watched, Eileen enjoyed her husband’s boyish glee. “Better not be a leg lamp.”

He frowned. “A what? I – oh, right, like in that Christmas movie! No, my love, not even close.” He reached inside, and amid the crackling of whatever protective packing material was in it, drew out –

Tara shrieked. “It’s awesome!

“My God, Donal, it’s beautiful! But what made you think to buy a harp?”

He brushed a piece of white Styrofoam off the bottom and started to reply, but the sound of pounding feet on the stairs cut him off. He set the instrument on the coffee table, stood back, and gave Eileen a wink.

 

*******

 

Someone was knocking on Celeste’s bedroom door. She frowned – her mother usually said something at the same time as her knock, her father was still at work, and God knew Tara wouldn’t knock if her life depended on it.

Too depressed to do much of anything, Celeste had tried reading another chapter about Alice’s adventures, but visions of Katie never speaking to her again, of Katie ignoring her in school, of her other friends nagging her about what had happened and constant questions to figure out whose fault it was, assaulted her with every attempt to finish reading a sentence. And then someone – what the heck? – was knocking. “Come in?”

The door opened a little and Katie poked her head inside. “Uh, is it okay?”

Celeste slid off the bed, rushed to the door, and grabbed Katie, pulling her into the room. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, giving her friend a hug.

Katie returned it with a quick squeeze and sniffled. “It’s all right – really.”

They separated, teary-eyed. “You’re such a good friend, Katie. Leave it to you to come all the way over here because I was being a… a big jerk.” Celeste hiccoughed and wiped at her eyes.

“You’re not a big jerk. A little one, maybe.”

They giggled, hugged again, and with identical sighs, Celeste sat on the bed, Katie parking herself on the floor against the wall. From the other side of the house came the sound of the garage door rumbling along its tracks.

“Dad’s home.” Celeste smothered a yawn with one hand.

“So what were you doing?”

“Oh. Reading 'Alice'. Or trying to.”

Katie leaned her head back against the wall. “I remember that story from when I was way younger – you?”

“Yup. Well the first time, my mom read it to me, but I’m pretty sure I read it again a few years later.”

“So why do you think Farrell is doing that one with us?”

Celeste stifled another yawn and shook her head. “Because she’s insane?”

“Well, there is that.”

“After today, I know she’s nuts.” Celeste shook her head.

“For real. Any more of that ‘Oh, Cian!’ flirty crap and he probably would have barfed!”

Celeste thought about that for a second, trying to picture it, and couldn’t. “No, not him – he’s too cool to do something so gross and undignified.”

“Yeah. You’re right. By the way, your mom said if everything was okay between us, I could stay for dinner. So is everything okay?”

“Of course it is! You’re my best friend, Katie. No matter what happens, we should never let anything interfere with that.”

“I can stay?”

“No. You have to climb out that window, down the drain pipe, and go home immediately.”

Katie got up and went to the window where she peered down at the shadowy yard two stories below. “Nope. Sorry. You’re stuck with me.”

Celeste laughed and joined her. “You know, I doubt that stupid pipe could hold either one of us.”

“Dang. There goes a perfectly good escape route.”

“And a perfectly good way up, too.”

“Uh, what?”

From downstairs, they heard Tara shriek, “It’s awesome!” and Celeste forgot what she’d been about to say.

“Investigate!” they exclaimed in unison. Zooming out of the room, they headed down the hallway to the stairs. At the bottom, they nearly fell over each other in their rush to get to the family room.

“What happened? We heard Tara – oh, wow!” Celeste had reached the coffee table first, and her eyes went wide. “Dad! A harp?”

“A harp it is. What do you think?”

“Are you kidding? That’s the most beautiful instrument I’ve ever seen. You know I’d always wanted to learn to play one.”

He nodded, grinning. “I remember, which is why I bought it. Not that you aren’t a darn good pianist.”

“We considered buying a harp when you were younger, actually, but couldn’t afford one at the time,” said Eileen. “Of course, we were pricing concert harps. This one is…” She frowned. “What kind of harp is that, Donal?”

“Why, an Irish harp, of course. She’s got twenty-two strings, and is quite old, according to the gentleman who sold her. Joel at the office told me about an estate sale he’d been to during lunch – got himself an almost new set of golf clubs. He said they had a harp there, so I went after work and bought it.”

“Joel.” Celeste tilted her head. “Wait. Wasn’t he here last Christmas Eve for dinner?”

“That’s right,” Donal said. “And you played carols after supper. That’s probably why he told me about the harp. He knows you’re a musician and must have thought you’d like one.”

“Well, he was right. Please thank him for me?” She went around to the side of the table, peering closer, and pointed at something on the harp. “Look at the Celtic scrollwork!”

Katie scooted past Tara to join her. “What’s scrollwork?”

“Looks like your problem has been resolved,” Eileen said, smiling. “Katie? You’re staying for dinner, yes?”

“Yup.” Her smile was as wide as Celeste’s. “Just gotta call my mom and make sure it’s okay with her.”

“Good.” Eileen straightened, “Everyone please wash up. I’ll set an extra place – glad things are good again, you two.” As she headed back into the kitchen, Celeste heard her mutter, “Teenagers…”

THREE

 

 

Thursday. Heavy sigh. Celeste had waded through Geometry II without the support of Katie, who took it during a different period, but now they were reunited at the doorway of World History with only P.E. remaining before the end of the school day.

“How was Home Ec?” Celeste asked as they shuffled into the room with the other students.

“Lame. Geometry?”

“Lamer.”

Seating was neither alphabetical nor assigned, and the teacher was okay, but Celeste was not in the mood for class of any kind. All she wanted was to go home and experiment with the harp. Her father had promised to find an instructor for her and Tara, and they’d agreed to take turns practicing. It looked like a simple instrument, so until they had a teacher, she thought she could figure out a lot of it on her own.

A minor commotion at the door… an odd shift in atmosphere… Celeste turned to see Cian entering the classroom accompanied by nearly every girl in World History. He wasn’t smiling or talking, perhaps because none of the girls were speaking to him, merely giving him adoring looks as they piled in around and behind him.

“Oh, geez.” Katie rolled her eyes. “They look like a bunch of zombie sheep from a bad movie.”

“Okay, everyone, let’s get going here – bell’s due to ring any second.” Their teacher, Mr. Barata, put down the book he’d been reading and glanced up.

Cian stopped at the teacher’s desk and held out a green piece of paper Celeste recognized as another transfer slip. Behind him, the girls came to a stop in a sloppy semicircle. Celeste grinned. I should take a video of this and post it on Facebook…

Mr. Barata took the slip from Cian, scanned it, and then nodded. “Cian MacDara?” He’d pronounced it correctly.

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Why don’t – ladies?” He pointed at the room behind them. “Take your seats, please. Now.”

Celeste nudged Katie, who was sitting next to her, and nodded at the girls who had begun to wander toward their seats. “Unbelievable.”

“Okay! As I was saying.” Mr. Barata paused, waiting until everyone was settled before looking back at Cian. “Why don’t you choose a desk?”

“Yes, sir.” Cian turned and searched the room. One of the three unoccupied seats was in front next to Janine Whitcomb; another was in the middle of the fourth row where he would be surrounded on all sides by girls, all of which, Celeste was sure, would have loved to have him near them; and one was in the second row where Celeste would be on his right, the other three desks around him occupied by boys.

To Celeste’s delight, he chose the desk beside hers. As she had in the mall two nights before, she gave him a brief smile, hoping he wouldn’t think she was like all the other girls.

Mr. Barata did the roll call and class began; the words, “Migration of the Celts” was still up on the board from the week before. “I assume you’ve all done the reading assignment, yes? Can anyone tell me the starting point of this migration, or at least one of them, since there are various schools of thought on this?”

Janine raised her hand; without waiting to be acknowledged, she blurted out, “The Volga Valley.”

“Thank you, Janine, but next time please wait until I call on you – there were other people with their hands up, too.” He looked around the room. “Ah. Cian, you’re probably the most Celtic in origin of anyone here, with the exception of Celeste Kelly and Mike Quinn. Since you’re new, you won’t have gotten the assignment, but you may still know something about this. What information, if any, have you been given about your ancestors?”

Cian frowned and stared at his desktop for a moment and then looked back at the teacher. “I’ve been told that the Celts were originally from an area between the northern countries and the southeastern part of what you call Germany. They moved around a lot and did a great deal of conquering. In fact, they defeated the Romans a number of times.”

Mr. Barata nodded. “Very good! And because of this outward migration they may have, at some point, ended up in the Volga Valley, but that was after the Bronze Age. All right.” He got up from the edge of the desk where he’d been perched, went to the wall behind it, and pulled down a map of Europe.

Using a laser pointer, he indicated the areas discussed. Celeste, who had been watching Cian from the corner of her eye, saw him give a start when the teacher turned on the pointer.

You’d think he’d never seen one of those before. Huh. And why did he say, “what you call Germany?” Something about Cian MacDara was odd, but Celeste couldn’t put a finger on what. She’d have to ask Katie if she’d noticed it, too.

“What part of Ireland is your family from?” Mr. Barata was addressing Cian.

“Tír Conaill.” He’d said it with an accent thicker than Celeste’s father’s. She looked at him, puzzled.

“What was that?” Mr. Barata put his head to one side.

Cian swallowed and took a deep breath. “Donegal. Sorry. That was the ancient name, after its first king, Niall.”

Mr. Barata sucked his front teeth with his tongue as he nodded. “So it was.” He folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Do you speak Gaelic?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fluently?”

“I believe so sir, although I’ve had no one with whom to speak it for well, quite a while.”

“Not many Irish Americans know that language, but if you contact one of the Irish-American societies, they may find someone for you who does. You might also want to go online to check.”

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps I will.” He looked down, and Celeste saw him mouth the words, “Go where?” A second later, and before she could consider this strange reaction, the classroom disappeared…

 

*******

 

Katie, who was on Celeste’s right, glanced at her friend to see how she was reacting to the bizarre way their new classmate was behaving – how could a laser pointer startle him? – and found Celeste staring, eyes blank, at the map.

Oh, no, not again! Katie tore a sheet of notebook paper from her binder, ripped it in half, and crumpled the two pieces into balls.

From time to time, Celeste would go into a strange, trance-like state for no apparent reason. Sometimes her lips would move, but she was oblivious to everything and everyone around her. When it was over, she’d claim to have no memory of what had happened, and sometimes she’d start spouting information about things Katie was sure she’d had no prior knowledge.

Hoping to snap Celeste out of it before anyone else noticed, she picked up one of the paper balls and took aim…

 

*******

 

Celeste stood amid pristine beauty. Around her spread a lush green land, small animals grazing here and there on surrounding hills. A few scattered dirt and stone huts, a stretch of cobalt blue water that sparkled with sunlight in a bay with no ships but a crude dock on one side. From behind her came several voices; she turned.

A group of men, some in long robes, others in knee-length tunics, were standing in a circle. A problem with cattle raids was being discussed. After she’d been listening for a while, it occurred to her, based on their clothing and accents, that they couldn’t possibly be speaking English. She began to wonder how she could understand every word. Who were these men? If she asked them, would they understand her?

Before she could speak, a small object struck the side of her head. She brushed at it with one hand, and another followed it. Not painful, but nonetheless annoying, so she glanced around for the source…

…and saw Katie, eyebrows raised, and she was back in History class.

Hey! What was that? What happened? She shook her head to clear it and… what was wrong with Katie? Why was she tossing large spitballs at her? Class was boring, but still!

“... religion of the ancient Celts?” Mr. Barata’s voice faded back in.

Celeste raised her hand, realizing that despite having heard only the end of the question, she not only knew the answer, but needed to respond.

“Miss Kelly?”

“Their priesthood consisted of Druids who also served as lawmakers and arbitrators. When there was a dispute, they settled things at meetings where all kinds of matters were dispensed. The people felt safe with these religious rulers, who were so convinced of the reality of reincarnation that they would often agree to settle a current debt in the next life.”

Silence followed as everyone turned to stare at her. Celeste bit her lip. She’d sounded like Janine, for heaven’s sake! But wait – where did all that come from? She blushed, uncomfortable with the attention but hardly surprised. Most of the time, her replies were confined to an “I don’t know,” or the shortest possible correct answer. This time, though…

Mr. Barata cleared his throat. “Aha. So you know something about that, do you?”

“Seems so.” Don’t ask me to explain, don’t ask, please–

The bell rang.

“You’re on a roll,” Katie remarked as Celeste sprinted for the door.

“What?”

“Chill, Celeste! Slow down.”

When they were out in the hall, Celeste leaned back against the nearest wall and took a deep breath. “What are you talking about, Katie? How am I ‘on a roll’?”

Katie looked away for a few seconds, then back, sighing. “Okay, I can tell you’re horribly upset, and I don’t want to make it worse, but you… you did that… that thing again.”

Celeste’s eyes widened. “When?”

“Oh, I don’t know – a few minutes before turning into a walking Irish history book.”

“Crap.”

“Maybe you really should get, like, a brain scan or something.”

“You think I might have a – a brain tumor, like in that movie about the guy who suddenly got real smart and thought it was aliens?” Celeste was on the verge of tears.

“I – well, no, but – I mean…”

“Excuse me.” Cian had walked up behind Katie, but was staring at Celeste. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if I could talk with you?”

“Uh, sure – about what?”

He shifted from one foot to the other, shoved a hand in his pocket and fidgeted with the strap of his backpack with his free hand. Finally he nodded and shrugged. “I remember seeing you the first time in the mall, er, Katie is it? And Celeste?”

Katie grinned. “Wow! Yeah! How’d you know? I mean, we never introduced ourselves or anything.”

“Your names have been called in every class I attend with you, remember?”

“Wow, duh.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Well, okay, so what do you need?”

“I thought I only wanted to talk to Celeste, but it occurs to me that you probably know her so well that it would make sense to talk to you, too.”

“Hello? Celeste here.”

Cian blushed.

This guy is full of surprises! thought Celeste. Somehow, blushing didn’t seem like something a boy so incredible would do, and she was enchanted.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Look, can we meet after school? I think perhaps both of you can help me with something.”

Celeste exchanged a look with her friend, and they replied at the same time. “Sure!” She wrinkled her nose, embarrassed. “We don’t normally don’t do that.”

“Really? I rather thought you would.” He grinned, adjusting his books under one arm. “Anyway, where can we meet?”

“How about the library?” suggested Katie.

He nodded. “That’s perfect. See you later.”

As she and Katie watched him walk away, Celeste became aware of the cold, hostile glares of every girl who happened to be in the corridor at that moment.

Katie stood taller and glared back. “You look like pissed-off rabbits. Get a hobby.” She turned to Celeste. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

As they went down the hall side by side, Celeste could almost feel daggers of jealousy thudding into her spine.

“Stupid rabbity-sheep creatures,” Katie muttered as they turned a corner. “Why don’t they talk to him instead of following him around, glassy-eyed and almost slipping in their own drool?”

“Beats me. I’m so glad we got over that stage early on. Not that I’m not attracted to him, of course.”

“Me, too.” Katie sighed. “I’d have to be either a robot or a blind not to be.”

“What do you think he wants to talk to us about?”

“Whatever it is, I hope it isn’t something creepy.”

“Or illegal.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Nothing further was said about it, but Celeste sensed something was coming, something that had to do with what had happened in class. Something she hoped she could handle.

FOUR

 

Cian sat in the library at a table near the main doors, and tapped his fingers on top of his books. Stared at them to shut out the longing gazes of every girl who entered, the horrible adult version of the same from the Librarian. What was going on? Yes, he’d experienced this kind of attention several times before while in Georgia, had even been given what the doctor, and everyone working with him, must have believed was a logical explanation. Still…

Someone behind him giggled. Hoping the reaction had nothing to do with him, he stopped drumming his fingers and closed his eyes. The mirror. He thought about the mirror, the one the social worker had made him look into. Expecting to be horrified, to see someone whose ugliness defied description, he had instead been shocked by the normality of his reflection. A six-year lie. Nonetheless, he had to convince himself even now that he wasn’t grotesque – the part of him that had been so badly wounded during those years continued to fight against letting go of the cruel deception.

Another thing – his true origins. That other place and time where people rode horses, kept cattle and sheep, and fought with swords. With swords! How could those memories be real, memories about other lands, times and languages? Yet he still knew those languages, was still proficient with a sword. Recollections about being from another country, of traveling a lot when he could only see adults’ faces if he looked up, instruction with a variety of blades, some curved, most straight. Why?

Until recently, he’d forgotten about the people who’d been key in changing his life – the harper, the Brehon, and that unspeakably beautiful being – had they been imagined? Or the instruction to find a girl named Celeste – was that part of his quest?

Whispers. People around him probably wondering if he’d fallen asleep. He opened his eyes and the book to make it look like he was reading. Appearances could dispel uncomfortable opinions…

Another question made the words on the page meaningless, invisible. Why was he planning to talk to Celeste and Katie about this quest of his? Was he right to think that because she was Irish and had the correct first name that Celeste would understand and believe him, and further, prove to be the same person he’d been told to find?

Other than his foster brother and sister, and one or two patients at the Marcus Institute in Georgia where he’d been brought after being taken from the Pettijohn’s home, Cian had met few others his age. The majority of the girls he’d met in this school so far had said little to him, only staring at him in a disturbing way all the time, whereas the boys never did. Nor did Celeste and Katie, which fascinated him, but he wasn’t sure how to behave around their simple friendliness. Not an auspicious state of mind for convincing them that he was from a long-dead century and needed their help in this one.

Katie. She seemed quick-witted and smart, while Celeste impressed him as being gentler but Katie’s intellectual equal. Both were pleasant, likeable, but how could he form an honest opinion while trying to remember why he was there in the first place? Was it just to get back? That made no sense.

Cian had been encouraged by the social worker running the foster home where he currently lived to make at least one or two good friends he could confide in at school. None of the boys he’d met so far fit that requirement; they were too preoccupied with something called football, with parties, and perhaps with their most constant topic of discussion: impressing girls. Cian knew nothing about football, had never gone to a party, and somehow, all he need to do to impress girls was show up in class. That last one bothered him more than the other two.

But Celeste… she seemed to know about the village priests and what they did. How? Did they still exist? What was her connection with such things? Her knowledge – and her name – had convinced him to approach her, and since she and her friend appeared to be inseparable, it made sense to include Katie.

So what am I going to say to them? Hi. I’m looking for someone who can help me get back through a magical Door… ?

A glance at the wall clock behind the Librarian’s desk reminded him they would be arriving at any moment. Sitting straighter, Cian focused his gaze on the open page and tried to read for real, but all he could see were the faces of the two pretty girls who had agreed to meet him. Katie: blonde with light blue-green eyes, skin like cream with features that were delicate and even. Celeste: red-gold hair, dark blue eyes, a pale, slightly freckled complexion, angelic features, and possibly the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Both were slender, but while Katie looked athletic, Celeste was more willowy and moved like a melody.

I can’t believe they would even speak to me... no! Stop it! Damn that woman! Why did she do this to me? Was it jealousy like the psychiatrist explained? But why? Because she thought I was more attractive than her own children? How insane.

Bemused, he shook his head, smirked. Insane? What he was about to do was anything but normal – admit to a past that defied logic or reason, and couldn’t be explained in a rational way. Was any of it –

“Hey, Cian.”

He looked up. Katie and Celeste stood in front of the table, smiling. Here goes. “Thank you so much for meeting with me. Please sit down?” He got up and went around to the other side to pull out the two chairs facing his.

“Wow – thank you,” Katie said, sitting.

Celeste smiled. “Most guys would never even think to do that. Guess that stuff about ‘Southern charm’ is true.”

Cian had no idea what that was. The Boltons, serious about good manners, had impressed upon him the importance of maintaining them throughout his life. Was that “Southern charm?” Letitia Pettijohn, on the other hand, wouldn’t have recognized good manners if they’d bumped into her in broad daylight and introduced themselves. Uncertain, unable to find a reply, he shrugged and went back to his seat.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Celeste brushed a stray wisp of hair off her cheek.

Could she tell he was finding it hard to breathe? Like the first time he’d seen her at the mall… “I hardly know where or how to start. It has to do with... with my past. With Ireland. I need help with something I’m trying to do.”

The girls looked at each other, their frowns identical.

“I suppose that really doesn’t explain anything, does it.”

Celeste tilted her head. “No.”

“Anyway,” Katie added, “I’m not Irish, so I really don’t see what I can do – ?”

“Maybe not, but you know your friend so well, I’m sure you can help her to help me.”

“Um, what?”

Cian looked down at his hands for a moment, made a decision. “The people you mentioned in class…” He looked back up at Celeste. “How do you know about them?”

“About them? Them who?”

“The village priests. The Druids.”

“Oh. Right.” She cast a wide-eyed glance at Katie.

Katie sat straighter. “She doesn’t know how she knows. See, every once in a while she kind of goes into one of these off-the-wall trance-like things, and when she comes out of it, doesn’t remember it happening.” She shot a sudden glare at Celeste, whispered, “Ow!” and leaned down to rub her lower leg. “Anyhow, what I think is that when she’s in that state, she sees stuff and then suddenly starts spouting it off like a robot, but can’t tell you how or where she learned it because she forgets whatever happened when she was tranced-out.”

Cian nodded, unsure how to respond. He’d only understood about half of what Katie had said, but if he was right about the half that made sense, then he may well have found who – and what – he’d been looking for since the day he’d gone through that cursed Door. “So you’re saying that… what? That Celeste has visions?”

The girls did their bookend expressions again, this time with raised brows. “Visions?” they asked at the same time.

“You’re not sisters?”

“We know each other ridiculously well, is all,” Katie explained. “We’ve been friends since pre-school.”

Pre-school? How does that work? “Oh. Anyway –”

“I never thought of them as visions.” Katie turned to Celeste. “I mean, that sounds better than the trance idea.”

Celeste crossed her arms on the table and frowned at Katie. “But visions of what? And why am I getting them, and who’s giving them to me? And like you said, I never even remember having them. Besides, I thought visions dealt with the future, not the past.”

“I’m pretty sure it can be either, or even of something happening elsewhere in the present. Maybe. Or not.”

“Time is… slippery,” said Cian. “I don’t understand its nature myself, but I’ve seen how it works and how confusing it can be.”

Celeste stared at him for a second. “Yeah, I’ve seen how it works, too. I own a watch and can see myself getting older and all that.”

“No, no – not regular time. I’m talking about… ” Waving both arms in opposite circles, he indicated something bigger. “Time.”

Katie chuckled. “You mean like Marty McFly?”

“Who?”

“What? You know – ‘Back To The Future.’ The flux capacitor. The DeLorean?”

Cian was silent for a few moments, trying not to look like an idiot. Not only didn’t he know the reference, he wasn’t even sure she'd been speaking English. They’ll know I’m baffled. Maybe I should just leave… oh, great, Cian – how mature of you! Stop it. He chose a better option. “I’m not sure.”

Katie sat back, tucking hair behind her ears. “Where did you grow up, Cian?”

Terrific – another question I can’t answer without lying. “I… uh, I mean… ”

“Where were you born?” Celeste’s smile snatched away his breath again.

“Ireland.” He cleared his throat, mortified.

“Cool. How long did you live there?”

“Until I was eight.”

“And then where did you live?”

Bless you, Celeste – how kind you are for giving my ignorance an excuse. “We left Ireland and... traveled some, and then we came to this country. I grew up in Georgia after that.”

“Then you came here,” Katie continued.

“Exactly.”

“Pardon me?” The librarian had come up behind the girls and was batting her eyes at Cian. “I’m so sorry, but the Library will be closing in about three minutes.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Cian got to his feet.

“Oh, it’s all right!” She waved a limp-wristed hand at him.

Katie and Celeste also rose, hoisting backpacks onto their shoulders, and pushed in their chairs, looking, Cian thought, like they were about to explode. How bizarre...

“Good bye, children!” The librarian’s voice had risen nearly an octave, and acquired a tremble.

“Bye,” the girls replied.

Now they sounded like they couldn’t breath. What? “Afternoon, ma’am.” Cian gave her a polite smile.

The woman’s right hand fluttered to her chest over her heart and she smiled back, but didn’t speak.

The school looked deserted by this time. The girls rushed down the hallway ahead of him to the outer doors. He caught up with them a moment later, in time to see Katie pull out her cell phone and burst into hysterical laughter. “‘Children?!’” she shrieked. “Since when did Miss Bertoni ever call any of us that?”

“Like never!” Celeste was half-choking, doubled over with hilarity. “She sounded… like… like the Good Witch… of the East!”

After several more minutes of this, Katie grew calmer. “I’d better call my mom. The bus will be stopping at our street soon, and obviously I’m not on it.” A few last chuckles escaped as she tapped the screen and put the phone to her ear. Then, “Hey, Mom – it’s me. I had to go to the school library and missed the bus… what? Oh. Yes. She’s right here. Want me to – huh? Okay, if you want. I’ll tell her… yup… No, nothing unusual. We wanted to meet a friend there… yes, she does. Uh, bye, mom. See you when you get… huh?… Let me ask, but I doubt it.” She put the phone against her shoulder and looked up at Cian. “You got a ride?”

“I live nearby. I could be home before your mother gets here, so no, but thank you for asking.”

She nodded and put the phone back to her ear. “No, but thanks for asking…Yeah, uh-huh… Okay. Fifteen minutes.” She hung up. “She’s gonna let your mother know,” she told Celeste, who had seated herself on the bench next to a line of metal stands against which Cian had seen bikes leaning when he’d first gotten to school. “Hey, we could go to the regular library and look up stuff about Ireland, if you like.” Katie gave him a shrug, removed her backpack and set it down between her feet.

Cian nodded. “Good idea. But tell me, are there still Druids?” That topic had been derailed, but he needed to know.

“A few,” Celeste answered. “The last time we went to Ireland to visit my Dad’s family, some of them were hanging around at a street festival, holding hands and chanting about the sun or something.”

“They were? How odd.” He thought about her description for a moment. “How did you know they were Druids?”

Celeste shrugged. “I don’t know. It could’ve been the big sign they were standing next to that said ‘Druidic Rites’ and the fact that they were the only ones dressed in white robes. They looked like American tree-huggers to me, but at least one had an Irish accent.”

Stepping over the unrecognized phrase he asked, “Were they speaking English?”

“Well, yeah. The only time we heard Gaelic at all was once in a pub. Some old guy was talking to someone in a corner, and since I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, I assumed it was Gaelic.”

“I see.” He nodded. Her name was right. She had visions – about Druids, it seemed. But she didn’t speak their tongue… or maybe… taking a risk for the sake of getting confirmation, he turned to face her directly. “Go raibh mile maith agaibh as bhur gcunamh.”

“Ta' failte romhat,” Celeste replied. A second later, she clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at him, and then up at Katie, wild-eyed.

He’d found her.

Katie gaped. “What is going on here?”

“I said, ‘thank you very much for your help,’” Cian answered, “and Celeste said, ‘you’re welcome.’ In Gaelic.”

Katie’s chin trembled and she compressed her lips for a second. “How did she do that?”

“I think I know, but we need to talk more before I explain it.”

“Talk?” Katie’s voice had risen a few pitches. “Talk about what? The fact that my friend can speak a language she never learned? The fact that you’re so... so abnormally gorgeous and strange at the same time? The fact that you keep saying things that make it seem like you’re some kind of I-don’t-know-what who belongs somewhere else entirely?” By this time she was waving her hands around and nearly shouting. “And what is this crap about time?!”

“Your mom is here.” Celeste pointed.

“Right!” Katie yelled. “My mom’s here!” She spun around, stared at the Mercedes pulling up at the curb, and then swung back to face Cian. “My mom’s here,” she repeated, calmer. Grabbing her backpack she swung it onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She wagged a finger at him. “And believe me mister, we have some talking to do! Right, Celeste?”

Celeste nodded while Cian replied, “Okay.” He hated being called “mister.”

“Right.” Katie turned toward the car as her mother was starting to get out. “Oh, no, Celeste – quick!” She grabbed her friend’s arm and dragged her toward the car. “She’s seen him!”

“Duh.” Celeste trotted in Katie’s wake, still attached.

Now why would that upset Katie? Cian wondered, watching as they got into the car. He stood, pulling the straps of his backpack over both shoulders. Katie’s mother, he saw, was staring at him over the roof of the car. Her mouth fell open.

Not waiting to see any more of that, he turned and headed away at a rapid walk. What a day this had been – still… he smiled. At least he’d found one answer, and at last allowed himself to believe there was hope.

 

*******

 

Kristen Grandol stared over the roof of the car at the young man who had been talking with her daughter. “Who – ?”

“Never mind, Mom – let’s go.” Katie slammed her door. “Come on!”

“But who –”

“Mom! Hurry up! I have to pee really bad!”

“Me, too!” Celeste added.

Kristen got back in. “Wow!” she said, putting the car in gear. “Where did he come from?”

“Georgia.” Katie said this at the same time Celeste said, “Ireland.”

“That’s not what – who is he?” Her hand was on the gearshift but she wasn’t moving. Even at a distance –

“Mom? Can we go?”

“What?”

“Put the car in drive, and step on the gas pedal.”

Blinking a few times, Kristen took a deep breath and looked into the rear-view mirror. “Thank you, dear. I think I know how to drive.”

Katie stared back at her reflection, shaking her head and smirking.

“Oh, come on!” Frustrated by her sudden inability to understand what had just happened, Kristen pulled away from the curb. “You can’t tell me he isn’t incredible to look at. Talk about ‘eye candy’! Is he a movie star or something? I mean, normal people don’t look like that!”

“Mom! My God! He’s my age! What are you thinking?! And no, he’s not a movie star – sheesh.”

Kristen chortled. “Knock it off. I’m older, not dead. I can appreciate good looks, too. Then again, he’s way beyond the ‘good looks’ category, isn’t he.” Why did I feel paralyzed like that?

“You should see the way all the girls – and female teachers – react to him at school!” Katie shook her head.

Glad to hear she wasn’t the only one who’d experienced such an extreme reaction she gave a soft snort. “I bet. Looks that good can be a handicap.”

“Good point, but anyway, Mom, I was wondering if I could go to Celeste’s for dinner. She got a harp!”

“Really! What kind? Celeste?”

“Oh. An Irish harp.” Celeste sat straighter. “My dad got it at an estate sale yesterday. It’s really old.” She yawned.

“I saw it for about two seconds last night, but it was amazing.”

“Since when are you interested in harps?” Kristen shot a glance at her daughter in the mirror.

“Since last night. Besides, some stuff happened at school we need to go over.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“History stuff.”

“What? How does ‘history stuff’ happen in school?” She slowed to a stop behind another car at a red light. “You’re sounding kind of cryptic, Katie. Explain.”

“Okay, it’s not really ‘stuff,’ not like… some new stuff was talked about in History class, is all, and it’s confusing.”

Kristen turned to look at Katie in time to see her shrug, eyes wide.

“Light’s green.” Celeste pointed.

“Fine.” Turning back to focus on the traffic, Kristen nodded. “I guess if it’s okay with your mom, sure. It’s a school night though, so Katie can’t stay too late.”

Celeste took out her cell and called her mother, handing the phone to Kristen to confirm that Katie could be dropped off at Celeste’s house, stay for supper, take another look at the harp, and then go home – the Kellys were as strict about school nights as the Grandols were.

Passing the phone back to Celeste, Kristen had the lingering impression there was more to the request than a harp and a history lesson. More likely, it had everything to do with whomever that stunner was they’d been so quick to try and distract her from discussing.

A few minutes later, she glanced again into the rearview and saw the girls’ heads together as they whispered something, no doubt about that luscious young man. Kristen’s smile went crooked – oh, to be that young. At least she had her own luscious man at home. The smile widened. Yeah, nothing wrong with not being that young after all.

FIVE

 

Georgia - Five Years Earlier

 

Primitive, made of wood, the sword was hardly recognizable as such, hilt and blade being one piece, but it was sturdy, thick, and in skilled hands could – he believed – do a lot of damage. Cian, now 12 years old, had crafted it from something he’d found in the basement. He’d recognized the wood as ash, knew it was strong and solid, but couldn’t have said how he knew about ash trees. Perhaps something slumbering in his memory had tossed in its sleep, whispering significance into his ears.

At some point in his earlier life he’d seen pictures of these objects, the original configuration something thick, long, tapering near one end and smooth, used for hitting small white spheres as part of some game. Over several months Cian had transformed it into its present shape using a dull pocketknife and some sandpaper.

A few final swipes with the coarse square. A quick check in the dull light from the window. Done. Far better than the smaller swords his previous, clumsier efforts had produced. Those, made of old boards stacked near the cellar walls, didn’t hold up, were ill balanced, asymmetrical, and he’d destroyed them, breaking each into pieces that bore no resemblance to swords. Had Letitia found them, she might have used them as yet another way of hurting him. Lessons learned.

Holding this latest effort parallel to the floor and raising it to eye level, Cian sighted down its length. Looked straight enough. Using his forefinger as a fulcrum, he tested its balance. Perfect. He smiled.

The smile turned rueful a moment later. How much better it would have turned out if he’d had access a blacksmith’s tools! The significance of that thought with its implication that he would know how to work with such tools escaped him until a future year. His name was Cian, yes, but he was also called Unacceptable, and that person was always more concerned with survival than exploring inexplicable recollections. Staying alive was simple. Understanding why he needed to fight so hard every day to do so was not. Swords were simple, too. No other understanding was necessary at that moment.

Stepping back from the window, away from his mattress and the boxes stacked on either side, and into the more open space of the cellar, he swung the sword in wide, swooshing arches. Soon he established a rhythm, one that became familiar now that he had a weapon more like the metal ones with which he’d been trained – yet another recollection of possible great meaning that somehow sparked little curiosity as it passed through his mind. Instead, he gave in to the motion’s familiarity until he was moving about with ease, stepping this way and that, ducking and whirling with the skill of experience. Before long, his movements became faster, then faster still, until his arms were nearly a blur of motion as he wielded the weapon first with one hand, then the other, his body fluid and swift. It was like a dance, and he exulted in its freedom.

A loud click – the door at the top of the stairs being unlocked, a sound that stopped Cian dead. His foster mother. Rushing into the bathroom, he tucked the sword behind a large pipe that ran from floor to ceiling. Along with the weapon, every bit of confidence and grace his swordplay had given him was hidden away.

When his breathing calmed to normal, he came out to find Letitia standing in front of the clothes washer, loading items into the top.

Without turning, she said, “Did you clean the bathroom like I told you to?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He ducked his head and stared at the floor. Multiple beatings had taught him never to look directly at her, so he didn’t wait for her to face him. His ugliness would make her sick if he did, but not too sick to hit him for it.

“Uh-huh, but what about the floor out here? It’s dirty as hell. I mean, look at all that dust!”

He didn’t see any, but what did that matter? The broom’s bristles visible in his peripheral vision where it had been leaning against the nearby wall disappeared. He cringed. Getting hit with the broom was always bad, but better at least than the wire.

“When I tell you to sweep the floors,” she growled, coming at him, “sweep – the – floors!”

Between each word she brought the handle down across his back, hard, and he went to his knees, biting back the cries rising in his throat.

“You stupid, stupid beast!” Grabbing him by the hair she snapped his head back. “God, you’re disgusting!” She backhanded him across the face, and when he fell sideways to the floor, she kicked him a few times in the ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, arms cradling his face and head against damage.

“What? Speak up, pig!”

“I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry all right. What else are you?”

Oh, how he hated this, hated it more than the blows. “I’m uglier than Satan,” he choked.

“What else?”

“I’m stupider than… than a jackass with brain-damage.”

“That’s right. You’re a total moron with a face that could break the windshield of a Peterbilt truck.”

He had no idea what that was, but it sounded extreme, so he apologized again. A moment later he heard her crouch down beside him. This was the worst part: she started stroking his hair.

“That’s a good boy,” Letitia crooned. “No one would ever want you or put up with such a grotesque monster like I do, now would they?”

“No, ma’am.” Stop touching me!

“That’s right, little toad. Your mama must’ve been an even bigger idiot than you, wasn’t she. Well?”

No. He wouldn’t answer that one. The stroking stopped, replaced by a hard smack on the side of his head that crushed his other ear into the cement. Tears of pain filled his eyes, but he stayed silent.

“Fine.” He heard her stand. “Get up, you rotten piece of filth.”

Pain slowing his movements, he got to his feet, cradling his ear with one hand, nursing his side with the other. His ribs were sore, his ear hurt, and his back ached. Nothing worse.

Letitia had towered over him when he was ten. Now he was almost her height, and he had a feeling she didn’t like that one bit. How much taller would he grow? And would she still try to hurt him then, assuming she hadn’t killed him before that? Irrelevant thought, but a needed distraction from the pain.

“Do the laundry and get it done fast. I want to see everything out on the line by noon, or you don’t get lunch.” She turned to leave, but stopped and turned back. “In fact, I don’t think you deserve to eat today at all – I do not like your attitude, mister!” After stomping up the stairs, she left the door unlocked so he could take the laundry outside. The dryer was only used when it rained, and in the winter.

Like every other time he had to hang the laundry on the line in the small, weed-choked yard, he thought of escaping through the gap in the fence, running until he was far away from this awful place, these awful people. But like every other time, he was too injured to run far or fast. He was convinced that she hurt him on purpose on laundry days to keep him from bolting.

At least this time he had his new sword to practice with when he was done. But how well can I practice with my side and back hurting like this? Blast her! When he felt a little better, then. And that was okay. Having the sword made it all, in a twisted way, tolerable.

Yet even after more than two full years of physical, verbal and psychological abuse, it would not occur to him until years later that this weapon he wielded with so much skill could have been used against these horrible people to win his freedom.

 

*******

 

Connecticut - Now

 

Celeste and Katie finished setting the table and ran up to Celeste’s room. The meal would be in another hour or so, giving them time to talk about what had happened after school. Passing Tara in the upstairs hallway, Celeste issued a warning that she and Katie were not to be bothered, even if the house was burning down.

“No problem.” Tara gave her big sister an exaggerated grin and went into her own room.

“Great,” Celeste murmured. “That means she’ll bother us the minute she feels like it. I’m locking my door.”

When they were in and the door locked, Katie suggested Celeste stuff one of her blankets into the crack between its kick plate and the wooden floor beneath so her sister couldn’t hear their conversation.

“Good idea.” When it was done she straightened, went to her bed, and sat against the headboard. Leaning back, she hugged one of the throw pillows to her stomach, sighing.

Katie sat in her usual spot on the floor facing the side of the bed and shook her head. “What a mad, confusing day.”

“Yeah. Good description. I mean, how could I have possibly spoken Gaelic? I really don’t know the language at all!”

“Well, you did hear it, like when you were in Ireland and stuff. Maybe some of it registered subconsciously.”

Celeste drew up her knees, put the pillow on them, and rested her head sideways to look at Katie. “That’s not possible. You can’t ‘register’ complete understanding of a sentence spoken in a language you don’t know, and then know the exact words to the answer. I don’t think it works that way.”

“Okay, true.” Katie chewed on her thumbnail for a second. “So, like, how do you explain it?”

“I can’t.”

“Are you going to cry?”

“No, but I am freaked out. Wouldn’t you be?”

“I already am, Celeste. Cian kind of scares me, but what’s happening to you scares me even more.”

Burying her face in the pillow, Celeste groaned.

“Think we should talk to your parents about it?”

Celeste jerked upright. “No! What are you smoking? Oh my God, no!”

Katie shrugged. “You’re right. Never mind. But what should we do? I mean, I really think we need to talk to somebody about this. It’s too, uh, too…”

“Spooky? Eerie? Creepy? I can add to that list, if you want.”

“Don’t bother.” Katie got up and went to the window. “I have a long list of my own, thanks.”

“Are we going to talk to him tomorrow?”

Katie was silent for several moments. Then she nodded. “I think if we’re going to get this resolved, if we’re ever going to find out about your ‘visions’ and everything else weird that goes with them, we’ll have to. He said there’s more than what he already told us, and if we look at it like a puzzle, he’s got to have some of the major pieces. Let’s hope we have classes with him tomorrow.”

Celeste leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. Something was wrong with this. In fact, little of it was adding up. She opened her eyes, sitting straight, and stared hard at Katie. “Explain to me how this total stranger could be tied in so closely with my… visions. It makes no sense, yet it seems to be true. And another thing. He keeps talking about time as if it were an entity. Could he be a time traveler or something?”

A thick silence clamped down on the room; Celeste felt paralyzed by whatever force her own suggestion had unleashed, and if the look on Katie’s face was any indication, she felt the same. For several long minutes they sat, unmoving, and might have continued to do so for several more if Tara hadn’t banged on the door.

Katie and Celeste jumped, startled, and got up.

“Hey! Food’s ready! Mom’s been calling you guys to come eat, and I’m starved!”

As they went toward the door, Katie hissed, “Not a word of this.”

Celeste stopped. “Really?”

“Sorry, had to make sure.”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s go – before TARA BREAKS THE DOOR!” she ended in a shout, hoping to scare her little sister off. It seemed to work – the girl was gone when they came out, but her disappearance could as easily have been the result of hunger as the fear of getting pounded.

Celeste didn’t feel hungry, but she was willing to eat enough to be polite. As far as Katie appetite went, Celeste knew that food, unless awful, was never at risk of being ignored.

Taking her seat, Celeste gave the meal a sour glance. Most of the time, her mother’s offerings consisted of cleverly disguised tofu and vegetables that had been prepared with extraordinary skill. But at other times, like tonight, she’d make a meal that was somewhat healthy, but skirted the edge of the decadence cliff...

... lamb chops with a delicate, minty cream sauce; fluffy mashed potatoes oozing with sweet butter; steamed fresh asparagus sprinkled with chopped pecans and finely-shredded Swiss cheese; and to drink, peach nectar over ice with a mint leaf mounted in a sliver of lemon…

Celeste gave in. This was impossible to resist, and her hunger returned in a rush. She could go back to being solemn and angst-riddled later.

“Mrs. Kelly tells me you wanted another look at the harp, yes?” Donal Kelly asked after devouring three lamb chops, two helpings of potatoes and most of his asparagus, his glass halfway to his lips as he addressed Katie.

“Yes, sir.” She gave him a broad smile.

“Ah.” He took a sip. “Any idea how old it is?”

“Uh, no, but it sure looked way old.” She ate a piece of asparagus. “How old is it?”

“Well, I don’t really know myself,” he admitted. “It was part of an estate sale, you see, and the people didn’t have the original bill of sale. They only knew it had been in the family for a long time.”

“Was it an Irish family?” Tara asked.

“Now that you mention it, no, I don’t believe they were. Last name of Alwin.”

“Sounds British,” said Eileen, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“I’m pretty sure it is.” Donal took a longer sip, put his glass down, and turned to Celeste. “Guess what I did today.”

“Uh, went to work?”

“Besides that.”

“No clue.”

“I found you a harp-teacher!” He sat back, loosening his belt and looking pleased with himself. “That was quite a meal, love,” he told his wife with a grin. “I’m stuffed to the gills.”

“Oh, whoa, whoa!” Celeste dropped her fork onto the plate. “You did what?”

“Found you a teacher.”

“That’s great! When can we start?”

“Hmm. How’s Saturday?”

“What time?” Tara asked. “Not too early, please?”

Donal laughed, reached over and tousled Tara’s dark hair. “Need your beauty sleep, do you?”

“No, I’m already beautiful, thank you. But I like to sleep in a little on weekend mornings before Mom - " she tossed a friendly glare in her mother’s direction, “ – wakes us up to do chores.”

“Well, I told him eleven o’clock. His name – need help with that?” He interrupted himself and half-arose as he addressed Eileen, who was starting to remove dishes from the table.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Sit.” She gave him a big smile and nodded toward the girls. “You were saying?”

“Ah, yes. His name is Gerald Croghan.” He pronounced it “Crawn” but with an Irish lilt, betraying its origins.

“Makes sense,” said Celeste, digging into another lamb chop. “An Irish harp teacher for an Irish harp.”

Mrs. Kelly had gone into the kitchen and was coming back out as Celeste said this. “Indeed!” She continued to remove plates and silverware. “When everyone is done eating, I have some Devonshire cream and blueberries for dessert.”

“Great. Take your time, Celeste. We can wait.”

Noting Tara’s glower, she returned it with a sickly smile, spearing another forkful. “Good. Not all of us eat like half-starved wolves.”

Donal cleared his throat. “Well now, I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m so full I could use a few minutes between courses.”

“Me too,” Katie agreed. “No offense, Tara, but I mean it. The meal was incredible, Mrs. K, and I think I may have eaten more than usual. I’m stuffed!”

“Didn’t think that was possible,” Celeste said under her breath. A few minutes later she got up from the table to bring her empty dish into the kitchen, and came back out carrying a big bowl of the delightful cream in one hand and a smaller bowl of blueberries in the other.

When they were done eating, the family and Katie helped Eileen clear the table, rinse off the plates and load the dishwasher. Then, having dealt with the pots and pans, they all filed into the family room to relax.

Donal took the harp from its place beside his leather recliner. “Here she is!”

Katie got up and crouched beside the chair, running a finger over the carved scrollwork. “Seriously, this is the loveliest thing I remember ever seeing.”

“Would you like to hold it?” Donal nodded at it.

“Wow, may I?”

“Of course – be careful, though.”

She took it into her arms and plucked one of the strings.

Celeste sighed at the sound, which to her ears was somewhere between molten silver and the voice of a star. “Wow,” she breathed. “That is awesome!”

“That’s what I said,” Tara remarked.

“But enough for one night! Mind you, I don’t mean to tease.” Donal’s grin denied that statement, but Celeste also knew him well enough to see he was partly serious. “I don’t want a thing to happen to it, and must put it away now.”

Soon after, Katie’s mother came and took her home, Tara went upstairs to get ready for bed – under protest – and Celeste, feeling drained, went back into the family room for another look at the harp. She decided to put off doing her homework until later, hoped she wouldn’t fall asleep before it was done, then decided she didn’t care.

SIX

 

Cian’s thoughts raced, tumbling, jumbled, new memories of old knowledge battling with questions about what had been and what should happen next. Like the girls, he had been jolted by the outcome of their discussion, but had controlled his reactions.

As he walked home, exhilaration was added to the shock: he had found the person he’d been told to seek, the one who could reconnect him with all he had known and lost. Of course, that didn’t help much without clear instruction about what to do next. More important – what was he supposed to say to Celeste and Katie about all this? If only he could remember more about his past, who he was, why he’d been brought here.

When he reached the state-run home where he’d lived for the past several days, Cian ran up its wooden steps and unlocked the door. He was late.

A wide foyer with a carpeted staircase and doors that opened on the left, right, and straight ahead reminded Cian of the mansion in Atlanta, but where that home was white, plant-filled, and airy, this one was defined by dark, polished wood and smaller windows. For a colder climate, the spacious Tudor house was perfect.

At the back was the kitchen and beyond that, a large breakfast nook that had been converted into an office. Joe Geller, the social worker who ran the foster home, sat behind his desk, reading. Taking a deep breath to stabilize the tumult in his head, Cian knocked on the glass-paneled door.

Mr. Geller looked up and waved Cian in. “Where’ve you been?” A finger tapped the face of the large watch on Mr. Geller’s wrist.

“I am sorry, sir. I met with two of my classmates after school to discuss… history.”

“History, you say.” Amusement glinted in his eyes. “And what gender were these classmates?”

“They were girls – but it’s not what you might think, Mr. Geller, I promise!”

“Cian, I’m delighted that you’re spending time with young ladies. That’s healthy behavior, and I have no problem with it. What I do have a problem with, is you not calling to tell me you’re going to be late.”

Phones! Cian was so unused to these devices, especially cell phones, he rarely thought to use his. He felt terrible – this man had put so much trust in him, was working so hard to help him adjust to normal life...

Mr. Geller laughed. “Don’t look so stricken. I’m only reminding you to keep in touch, okay?”

“Oh. Okay.” While no longer expecting to be struck every time he made a mistake, not tensing was impossible. He nodded, made himself relax. “I’ll try harder to remember, sir.”

“Good.” Geller pointed at a sheet of paper in front of him that Cian recognized as the meal schedule. “Pot roast tonight! Hope you’re hungry.”

Smiling, relieved, Cian nodded. “I think I am, sir. Thank you – I’m going upstairs to get my homework done now.” He left the office and trotted up the back set of stairs, through a connecting door, and down a long hallway to his bedroom. Compared with the dark, damp, moldy cellar he’d lived in for six years, this room was a miracle.

Dropping his backpack on his desk, he went to the window and looked out at the large backyard with its winter-browned grass, the trees bare and looming. Were it not for the lowering sun making a yellow-orange backdrop for the lacy pattern of branch-shadows across the lawn, the view might have been gloomy, yet still far nicer than the barren landscape surrounding the house in Georgia.

As he watched the day fade, the sky going from gold to deep red to purple, he began to feel less frantic. Someone… perhaps his mother? Not remembering well made him sad. But someone had once told him that hope sometimes hid itself, yet it was always nearby, and would come blazing forth at exactly the moment it was most needed. Sounded nice, but didn’t fit with his life. Or hadn’t. Until Celeste Kelly. Was she his hope?

If only he knew why he had been chosen to be part of all of this in the first place; or maybe why he had stumbled into it by mistake if that was what had happened… why couldn’t he remember? Realizing his hands were clenched at his sides, he opened them, shook them out.

The bell for supper chimed and he focused. As he hurried to the bathroom at the end of the hall to wash up, he realized he hadn’t started his homework. Good job, Cian.

Several of his housemates were already seated when he got to the dining room. Tomorrow night it would be his turn to help with setting the table and the cleanup, but tonight that was someone else’s chore, so he sat in his usual place near the end by the windows.

Only four other foster children were living there, two of them twelve years old, one fifteen, and the other, like Cian, seventeen but older by almost eight months. His name was George Pacheco; as the “senior” resident, he sat near the head of the table to Mr. Geller’s right, and was expected to set an example for proper etiquette. Mr. Geller had explained all this not long after Cian’s arrival four days earlier. The implication, of course, was that once George was gone, Cian would be expected to fill that role. He wasn’t sure he could, but had enough to think about already, and refocused.

George. Not on his senior position, on him. Cian hadn’t been at the foster home long enough to say more than a few words in passing to George, but because they were so close in age, he thought it might be easier to discuss his problem with him than Mr. Geller, maybe tell him as much as he remembered of his bizarre past. Assuming he didn’t have me committed for insanity, he might offer some good advice.

As the food was served, Cian stared at the older boy. If he approached George the right way, and managed to explain his dilemma without sounding like a complete lunatic… maybe… He blinked. No. As it was, Cian knew almost nothing about his past. Trying to explain the parts he did know, most of which sounded like fiction, would be ridiculous.

Around him, conversations had begun. Cian knew he wouldn’t participate unless someone asked him a direct question. So much of what they were discussing had to do with things about which he knew little, and he hated looking stupid. Had to avoid anything that might cause his newfound self-esteem to wither. Having to return a question with a blank stare was one of those things to avoid.

Sighing, he turned his attention to the meal. Everything tasted delicious; an early memory, one of the few that had returned, arose and commandeered his thoughts: his mother. Pounding raw dough on a wide-planked table. Brown, grainy flour taking up residence in her hair and eyelashes; on her chin and along her sturdy arms; under her fingernails and in every crease and plane of her clothing. As she worked, she told Cian that nothing made without love was worth eating. He heard his younger self ask how he would know if a thing was made with love or not. Her response had been simple, if cryptic: “Oh, you’ll know, boy. You’ll know.”

Whether or not the foster-home cook had a particular love for everyone there he had no idea, but she smiled a lot and had a friendly word for him and the others whenever addressed. And since nothing he’d eaten there so far had been unpleasant in any way, his mother’s wisdom had held. He wished her features had remained as clear, rather than as fragments and blurs.

Another memory came with that one – sitting by the fire with her on colder days while she told him stories...

Stories! That’s it! How simple!

After supper, when everyone but Cian and George was busy clearing the table, Cian headed for the hall, trotting after George. “May I speak with you?” Cian slowed to a walk as he came near. “If you have a few minutes, I mean.”

“Sure.” George shrugged, raising an eyebrow. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I, um, I need your opinion about a… a story. I’m not sure where it should go, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re writing a story?”

“Trying to finish one. Can you help?”

George looked at his watch, nodded. “Okay. I want to catch a TV show, but it doesn’t start for another hour.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“Where’d you want to talk?”

“How about the library?” The large room, Mr. Geller had told him, was at one time a front parlor, but now housed a sizeable collection of books on built-in shelves that covered two full walls and part of the third. The fourth wall held a huge picture window flanked on either side by diamond-paned casements. A friendly room, good for conversation, Cian assured himself.

They crossed the foyer to the open set of double doors on the far side. With the other boys occupied with their after-dinner chores, the library was empty.

“So what’s this story?” George sat at one end of the sofa, draping an arm across the top.

Sitting in the opposite corner, Cian hesitated, not sure how to start. Even as a fictional account, it would sound a little crazy. Still... “Well okay, it’s about a family in Ireland, and takes place a long time ago. Back when people fought with swords and rode horses. Anyhow, there’s a father, a mother, and a son. One day a harper comes to their village –”

“A what?”

“A harper – someone who travels the countryside with his harp and sings about what’s been going on in the world.” Cian frowned and looked down. How could he explain about harpers to someone like George, whose family origins were so unlike his?

“Oh! You mean a bard?”

Or not. “Yes! You know about bards?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I mean, dude. Being an orphan doesn’t make me stupid.” He said this with a twisted smile, but didn’t sound angry or annoyed.

Cian nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s only that your culture is so different, but I suppose that’s irrelevant.”

“My culture?”

“I’m… I’m not from America, and still can’t be sure what things Ireland and this place have in common.”

“Okay – got it.” George waved a hand. “So go on. What happens with this family?”

“Well, the harper – bard – comes to the village and stays at their home for the night. He stays awake after everyone has gone to sleep, but the son, whose head is still full of the stories the man had sung to them, is awake, too. He sees the harper go outside, follows him, and finds him talking to an old man. The harper is saying how he believes he found the one they were looking for, and the old man says they have to be absolutely sure, because to send the wrong person could destroy everything. And then the harper asks if he should show the Door to this person they’d been looking for.” This memory was sharp, as though it had occurred only minutes before.

George shifted and held up his index finger. “Wait – so the bard tells the old man that he’s found some person the two of them had been looking for, right?”

“I’m not entirely sure it was only the two of them looking, but I guess that’s good enough.”

“Okay. And then this bard asks the old man if whoever this person is should be shown the door... what does that mean? That he should be thrown out?”

What? How could he think I meant… oh. “I see. No, that was literal. He’s asking if, okay. There’s a Door. A, uh, magical Door you might say, and the harper knows about it, and so does the old man. For some reason, the harper wants to know if he should show this magical Door to the person he found who, as it turns out, is the son in this family. I think. I’m still not certain about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it seems they’d have been seeking someone older, is all.” Cian looked away for a moment, having considered that point many times in recent weeks, but then took a deep breath and continued. “The boy is intrigued. He has no idea what they mean by all of that, but has a feeling he shouldn’t be caught listening in on their conversation, but it’s too late. The bard sees him, but isn’t angry and introduces the old man. After they speak a few words, the boy returns to the house and goes to sleep – ”

“Hold on. How could this kid see the bard leaving in the first place? Were they in the same bedroom?”

Cian raised an eyebrow. “The same bedroom? No, there were no bedrooms. It was a small cottage by a hillside not too far from Donegal Bay and had only one large room. Everyone slept on straw on the floor.” He’d given the modern name of the town this time, although he suspected it didn’t matter.

George shrugged. “All right. Then what?”

“Well then, um, the…” Cian looked up at the clock over the doorway and shook his head. “It’s a long story, and I know you want to see your show, so I’ll make it brief. The boy ends up going through the Door with his parents, finds out it’s a Door into Time itself, and eventually comes here, to this century. Along the way, he meets some people who try and explain what’s going on, but he’s too young to understand all of it. So he goes along with everything, but well, he can’t seem to find his way back and gets stuck here, looking for someone he’d once been told to find who could help him.”

George chewed on a knuckle and stared hard at Cian for a moment. “Okay. I take it this is the part where you’re unable to like, I don’t know… you have what they call ‘writer’s block,’ right? And you want to know what should happen next?”

Cian nodded. Writer’s block. Sounded reasonable. “He finally finds this person, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“How about talking to him?”

“Her.”

“Fine, her.”

“He did, but hasn’t told her everything yet because there was no time.”

“Why not? I mean, telling her something that important should have been a priority.” He gave a short laugh. “This is a really complex story line, man. Almost sounds like something that really happened.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” He sat forward. “Look, since this chick is the right one, he needs to talk to her, and then get his ass back home, right? I mean, why make things more complicated than they already are?”

Cian stared at the darkened window for a moment, then looked back at George, smiling. “You’re absolutely right. That’s exactly what I’m doing – complicating everything. Thank you!” He got to his feet. “I really appreciate your help.”

George got up, too. “No worries. Glad I could be of assistance.” He gave a mock bow, eliciting a grin from Cian, and left the library.

After a moment, Cian went up to his room. He’d had a passing sense that George was beginning to suspect the story was an actual recounting, but the moment had gone by without further inquiry and, as Cian had expected, the older boy had given him good advice.

Feeling better, he settled himself at his desk to tackle his homework. When he was done, he was surprised to see it was almost time for lights-out. He got up and stretched, closed the curtains, and got ready for bed.

Tomorrow I’ll talk to her and explain everything. Keep it simple, right? Things are difficult enough.

While he was returning from brushing his teeth, the chime for lights-out sounded; he made it into bed as the room went dark. Closing his eyes, Cian told himself not to do too much thinking, and took deep, relaxing breaths. Within minutes, he was asleep.

 

*******

 

Celeste stared at the harp. Her father had placed it on its side in the fluffy packaging. The wood was dark yet filled with golden undertones, a lovely brown luster where the light played over it. The strings were dark as well, tarnished with age and neglect. She lifted it out of the box, settling it on her lap, and touched the lowest string, brushing a finger lightly across the metal.

It spoke to her. Not in words, but in a distinctive voice, one that was deep and soft, not too dissimilar to Cian’s, and she pulled back her hand, startled. The last thing she wanted to think about was Cian, but the glistening note of the harp brought speeding back into focus all the thoughts of him that she’d been pushing away since coming home from school. How could a musical note do something like that?

After a moment, she became aware of an odd feeling on the finger that had touched the string, and raised her hand. A dark, thin smudge ran diagonally across its tip. With a frown, she turned the instrument so she could look directly at the string. The dark coloration was gone where she’d touched it, revealing a pale, reddish gold patch that gleamed in the light of the nearby lamp.

“I wonder...” Replacing the harp with care, she got up and hurried to the kitchen.

Her mother looked up from the cooking magazine she was reading at the table. “Everything okay? And why do you look so flushed? Are you coming down with something?”

“I hope not. Mom, do you have any metal polish?”

Eileen puffed out her cheeks and then expelled the air slowly through pursed lips. “In fact, I do. Why? You going to polish the silver for me?”

“No, the harp strings.”

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Really! Why do you think they need polishing? And is that a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? Anyway, when I touched one of them – never mind; I’ll show you.” She ran back into the family room, retrieved the harp from the box, and returned more slowly. Setting it on the table, she pointed to the golden spot on the bottom string. “When I touched it, some black stuff came off and that’s what was underneath.” She held up the smudged finger.

Eileen abandoned her magazine and stood, coming around to the adjacent side and turning the instrument directly into the light. “Oh my goodness…”

“What? What is it?”

“I think this, well, I could be wrong, but It looks like gold, Celeste, real gold. The polish should be under the bottom shelf in the back pantry, probably behind some other cleaning things, um, left side. Better turn on the light in there.”

Celeste ran, tearing open the pantry door and nearly yanking the light pull out of its hole in the fixture. She groped around for a few seconds, pushing bottles and boxes out of the way, until she found a small, square tin painted white with shiny copper lettering describing it as a polish for fine metals, including gold, and which was still heavy with liquid. “Got it!”

“Good! Turn off the light, please!”

When Celeste returned, she saw her mother had spread several sheets of newspaper across the table. A small pile of cleaning rags sat next to the harp, her mother’s magazine dangling half off the counter near the sink.

“Should we get Dad?”

Crossing her arms, Eileen put her head to one side. “I’m not sure. After Katie left, he went upstairs to make phone calls about a meeting tomorrow, so it might not be a good idea to interrupt him. Tell you what. Let’s clean off the strings first. He should be done with his calls by then, and it will be a nice surprise.”

“Great!” Celeste grabbed a rag. “How do you want to do this?”

“What do you mean? We’re not assisting at a childbirth here. Shake the can for a few minutes. It’s been sitting in that pantry for ages and the stuff in it must have separated by now. Then put some on your rag and start polishing.”

Celeste picked up the tin and gave it a vigorous shaking. “Guess we should try and keep it off the wood,” she remarked, her voice quaking with each jiggle. When she was done, she fought with the cap for a moment before it unscrewed, and picked up her rag.

“Don’t put too much on the cloth and pull it gently up and around each string,” her mother advised, picking up a rag for herself. “That should control it.”

Most of the dark residue came off easily, revealing glorious, pale reddish-gold metal that resonated and squealed with the passage of the rags over their length. Celeste found the sounds disconcerting, but her mother appeared unaffected.

Polishing from either end of the harp, they got to the last string together, which happened to be the middle one, and Mrs. Kelly stood back. “It’s all yours,” she said with a smile.

Celeste shrugged and set to work with her rag, but to her surprise this one did not shine golden when she was finished, but a bright, almost white, silver. She stared at it, curious, wondering, and touched it.

And was immediately somewhere else.

The sound of the silver string grew around her, turning into the main note of a melody. She was holding the harp on her lap, and beside her someone with a pleasant voice was singing to that one note, harmonizing with it. She guessed he was in his mid-twenties, and was wearing a long, soft blue robe with intricate silver stitching sewn on the wide cuffs and around the collar in the delicate pattern of Celtic knot-work. He had pale hair, blue eyes, and skin that might have been fair at one time, but now looked ruddy and weathered as if from constant exposure to the elements.

A few seconds later his song ended and he gave Celeste a wide smile. “The silver string is the key,” he told her. “You do well to let its light be seen.” He stood, turned away, and walked into the shadows.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and when she looked, she saw her mother frowning at her.

“Celeste, what is it?

And Celeste was back in the kitchen. She blinked, at once forgetting whatever she’d been thinking. “Nothing – look. This string is different.”

Eileen stared at her for another second, and then turned her attention to the harp. “Yes, I saw that! Maybe they ran out of gold ones.”

“No, this was supposed to be silver.”

“How – or why – can you be so sure?”

“I dunno. Seems right, is all. Anyhow, can we get Dad now?”

“Sure.” She pointed at the mess on the table. “I’ll call him after you’ve put the harp back in the box and helped me clean this up, okay?”

Eager to see her father’s reaction to their discovery, Celeste brought the harp back into the family room and replaced it with care, then returned to the kitchen where she balled up the newspapers, tossing them in the trash while her mother threw the rags into the laundry bag behind the cellar door. That done, they washed their hands at the kitchen sink to remove the black residue.

“Here.” Eileen tossed her a damp sponge. “Give the table a final swipe, will you?”

As Celeste complied, Eileen left the room, and a moment later Celeste heard her call to her father from the foot of the stairs, telling him to come down as soon as possible.

When he joined them, Eileen took his arm and led him back out of the kitchen, bringing him to his chair. “Celeste and I need to discuss something with you. Please sit.”

“You’re not going to tell me a walrus tripped and fell onto the hood of my car, are you?” He sat, giving her a narrow-eyed stare.

Eileen rolled her eyes while Celeste giggled, sitting opposite him on the sofa. “Hardly. Please take the harp out.”

His eyes widened. “Why? What happened to it?”

“No walruses,” Celeste promised, trying to look solemn. It didn’t happen, and a snort of laughter escaped.

“I see,” he muttered, reaching into the box. When he pulled the instrument out, he stared at it for a second before his eyebrows shot up. “Heavens! Is that… are these strings gold, do you think?”

“We do,” said Eileen. “And the middle one looks to be made of pure silver.”

“How did this happen?”

“We polished the strings.” Celeste gave him a casual shrug, like it was no big deal.

“Did you now?” As usually happened when he was taken by surprise, Donal’s native Irish brogue came rushing back.

“It happened by accident, really. I took the harp out to try and play it a little, and some of the dirt came off on my finger. The tarnish or whatever on some of the other strings didn’t come off that easily, which is probably why we didn’t see this when Katie plucked it.”

“Amazing. I… amazing.” Donal shook his head, saying nothing more.

In the silence, Tara came bounding down the stairs. She looked upset and started to say something, but stopped short, pointed at the harp strings and gasped. “How pretty!”

“I’ll say,” her father remarked. “You know, those strings are the same color as Celeste’s hair.”

After a quick glance at Celeste, Eileen nodded and sat next to her. “Think we should get the thing appraised?”

Celeste was outraged. “The ‘thing’?! And never mind that – will I still be able to use it for my lesson Saturday?”

Her parents exchanged a looked and Donal shrugged. “I suppose. I mean, it’s survived all this time, yes?”

“Oh, come on, Dad!” Celeste flopped back, arms crossed. “If the strings break, they’ll still be gold, won’t they?”

“W-yes, so they would.”

“She’s got a point, Donal. Anyway, they probably sound a lot better than regular ones, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “They’d better! I mean, golden strings –”

“And don’t forget the silver one,” Celeste added.

“Right. One would expect they were put on there for the sound as much as the value.” Donal pursed his lips, his accent back under control.

Tara went to the harp and bent down to get a closer look. “Wait a minute. Are you guys saying these strings are real gold?”

Celeste snorted, and her parents burst out laughing. Oh, awesome – we’ve turned into a TV Land family!

Tara, however, hugged herself and pouted, but finally smiled, the smile soon morphing into a grin. “You guys are crazy-weird, you know that?”

“Okay.” Eileen stood, still chuckling. “I think it’s time all of us got upstairs and settled in for the night.”

“Good idea.” Donal replaced the harp in its box.

After saying goodnight and giving her parents a kiss, Tara went back upstairs. Celeste said goodnight as well; it had been another long, strange day, and she had no objection to going to bed. She brushed her teeth, did her nightly face-cleansing ritual, and slid under the soft covers. Within seconds of turning off the light, she was asleep.

And dreaming about a harper – a different one – who sat atop a deep green hill, playing a song of warning.

 

*******

 

Cian stared at the moonlit branches outside his window. At some point after falling asleep, he’d begun to toss, restless, half-conscious twists of thought wrestling with his exhaustion. Sleep had fled, defeated, and he’d gotten up. In the wide space between the window and the foot of the bed he paced for a while. That didn’t help, so he returned to the bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard, frustrated.

His conversation with Celeste and her involuntary knowledge of Gaelic had not only convinced him she was the same Celeste he sought, but had also begun to stir up memories that until this day had been more or less forgotten.

What had brought him fully awake was the recurrence of a dream he'd had several years earlier. Since the day he'd been left with his second foster family, he'd experienced dreams that while comforting, were nonetheless bizarre. They always involved another place and time, but had been hazy and hard to remember the next day.

By the time he was fourteen, the dreams had become more vivid, a lot more realistic, and he was beginning to remember them longer and in more detail upon waking, convincing him that these were not mere dreams, but actual memories. The one that had awakened him, he realized, had been triggered as much by his conversation with George as by the one with Celeste.

The dream had to do with a storyteller, a man with a harp who traveled about the country, staying in whatever home would welcome him so he could sing of news from various parts of the land. People from the village and surrounding farms would come to listen. Those who got there first were able to squeeze into the small cottage with the family, leaving the rest to sit outside.

The cottage in the dream belonged to his parents, and people were packed into its one tidy room. Others stood or sat on the coarse grass and stony pathway outside the door, while those who had arrived late sat halfway up the hill by the side of the cottage. The man’s voice was deep and resonant, clearly audible even to the small crowd outside.

This was where dream had merged with reality. With a few exceptions that only a dream-state could produce, the rest had happened in each recurrence. What he’d told George was in essence a recounting of the dream.

A harper had, in fact, come to stay at their cottage; Cian had long since acknowledged that the man’s arrival had been the event that had changed everything. He couldn’t remember what his song-tale had been about, but he did remember everyone leaving when the moon was heading back down its dark path, and the harper creeping out into the night after his parents had fallen asleep. But Cian had been feigning sleep, and as soon as the door was pulled shut, he’d gotten up and as in the dream, followed the man out into the clear night air.

The harper hadn’t gone far – only to the end of the path leading from the door – and was met there by another man who had a long, tangled beard and was greyed with age. Niall. That was the older man’s name.

The first time he’d had this dream, Cian’s progress toward the pair was noiseless and he couldn’t feel the small rocks beneath his bare feet, yet somehow the chilliness of the night cut through him. He could also hear the low, deep thrum of their voices but not distinct words. And then suddenly, when he was almost close enough to distinguish syllables, the path seemed to grow beneath him, taking the two men even further from his hearing. He didn’t dare run or even walk faster for fear they would hear his approach. They were gesturing at each other as though arguing, and Cian’s frustration was such that he nearly cried with it. He knew without understanding why that they were talking about him, and that’s what upset him the most. He kept moving forward, sometimes getting closer, other times pulled farther away by the strange antics of the path. After three or four more tries, it appeared that he was finally going to get near enough to hear them, but the dream had ended.

He recalled that the cellar light had been switched, awakening him. In the winter, his foster mother had made him get up at five o’clock in the morning to start his chores even though it was still dark. Over the years, the dream had ended at the same place, because he always seemed to have it toward morning – never after first falling asleep.

This time, however, the dream had begun not long after he’d drifted off, but ended because it had brought back several new memories he must have buried out of emotional self-defense. Startling memories pushing him hard into wakefulness. A memory of the harper’s name: Croghan.

Tired, he watched the wind whip the bare limbs and twigs against the glass. Their resistance to the unseen pressure gave rhythm to the dance, and thoughts of his parents arose. Neither he nor they seemed to have had any say about their fate. A vague recollection now: the three of them leaving the cottage the next day in the company of the harper and the older man, escorted by unspoken resistance. His parents hadn’t wanted to go, which even at eight years old, Cian had sensed. Other details of the memory were a smear, merged haphazardly with no defining edges. In the wake of the thought’s passage was the deep silence of loss.

He would never see his home again, and all too soon his parents would be made to turn back, leaving him alone in this noisy, violent, frightening place with only dreams and memories to help him survive. He knew he’d never see them again either – their lives had ended centuries ago.

A tear spilled out, crept down one side of his face, ignored. He swallowed the sob rising in his throat and slid down under the covers once more, praying for sleep that might – if any of the gods he knew about were listening – bring at least a few hours of forgetfulness.

But sleep, like his need for peace, never came.

SEVEN

 

Friday, it turned out, was the only day that neither Katie nor Celeste shared any classes with Cian. The girls were not happy about this. Celeste was desperate to learn what Cian thought he knew about her that she did not. Katie expressed concerned about how this mystery was going to affect Celeste. The only good thing either of them could say about the day was that it was Friday.

 

********

 

Cian, having seen neither Celeste nor Katie in any of his classes that day, despaired of seeing them at all before they went home. He was exhausted from his sleepless night, further fueling his frustration at not being able to find them anywhere, despite looking through the crowds of students and teachers streaming through the halls between each class. Even spending his entire lunch period traveling the length and breadth of the Cafeteria searching for either girl yielded nothing.

Aggravation made worse by the knowledge that his last class, Phys. Ed. (which he had to have explained to him by an administrator), was not co-ed, he was oblivious for the first time of the stares every girl he passed was giving him.

Upon reaching the gym, he saw several of his classmates had changed into shorts and tee shirts. He had a tee shirt under his other one, but no shorts. Great. Cian began to wish he’d stayed in bed.

A small office with the word “Coach” painted on its open door’s glass panel was a few feet away near the locker room entrance. Inside, a man sat at a desk, writing in a large notebook. Cian knocked on the doorframe.

Without taking his eyes off the page, the man pointed with the end of his pen at the chair in front of his desk. Cian came in and sat, waiting in polite silence for several minutes until Coach Eastman – according to the nameplate on his desk – finished what he was doing and looked up.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Cian began. Why is he staring at me like that?

Coach Eastman cleared his throat. “Uh, may I help you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the proper clothing for this class, sir.”

“You’re new here, yes? Do you have your transfer slip?”

“Oh, sorry – here.” Cian took the folded green paper from his shirt pocket and handed it across the desk,

Eastman nodded, frowning at it. “How do you say your first name?”

Cian told him.

“Huh. Not that it matters. I use everyone’s last name in class anyway.” He smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “I was curious, though – never did see a name like that.” He stood up. “Come with me – I think I can help you.”

Cian followed him out into the locker room, which was packed, some of the boys sitting on long rows of benches between the lockers, while others stood in clumps here and there.

Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, Coach Eastman went past them and stopped at a wooden cabinet on the far end of the room next to the shower stalls. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” The doors opened on squeaky hinges; he stared inside for a few seconds.

I had to oil all the hinges in that house in Georgia… got a beating every time one made the noise this one made…

“Okay.” A quick look back at Cian, a nod, and the coach turned back. Reaching inside, he pulled out a folded pair of black shorts and a white T-shirt that he handed to Cian. “What size shoe?”

“Twelve, I think. I have a tee-shirt.”

A grunt. “Bet you don’t want it to get all sweaty, though.” He bent down and pulled out a pair of shoes. “Don’t bother telling me you don’t need ‘em. The ones you have on don’t have the right kind of sole, and you could slip on the polished wood floor. These have been well cleaned. I hope you don’t mind that they’re used.”

“No, sir.” He was more accustomed to wearing used items than this man could ever imagine.

“Good.” A smile and a pat on Cian’s back and he headed out of the locker room, calling over his shoulder, “Any locker will do, if no one else is using it.”

Cian took the first left and chose one without a padlock. Never having dealt with a locker before, he struggled for a few seconds with the mechanism. Once it opened, he put the stack of clothes on the top shelf and sat on the bench opposite to remove his shoes.

“Hey, MacDara!”

One of his classmates from history – Tyler Something – had entered the row. “What’re you doing way back here?”

“Most of these looked available.”

“Oh. True. You have a lock?”

“Not yet.” He bent over, pulling off his shoes. “Where do I get one?”

“Wal-Mart? Hardware store? Wherever. Everyone’s got them – even the supermarkets.” A pause. “Guess you never needed to buy one before.”

“No.” Cian placed the shoes on the floor of the locker, then took out the shorts and removed his jeans. “What will we be doing?”

“Usual crap.”

Whatever that is. The shorts fit perfectly; he hoped the same would be true of the shirt, and was so intent on finding out that he forgot an important reality. After removing his top shirt, he hung it on a hook inside the narrow locker and pulled his undershirt off over his head. As he reached for the other tee shirt, Tyler gasped behind him. Cian froze. His back…

“Oh my holy God, what the hell happened to you?”

Sitting heavily on the bench, he looked up at Tyler, shrugged. A massive number of scars crisscrossed his entire back, shoulders and sides, those that hadn’t gone deep beginning to fade, but he knew plenty were still visible, a few still dark red. Not something he thought about often. Couldn’t see them, wasn’t reminded, didn’t want to remember their cause but did. Of course. “My foster mother didn’t like me very much.” He looked down, pushing away memories of the woman’s hatred, the electrical wire she’d used as a whip, the horrible pain… “Why is the back door squealin’? You useless idiot – oil it now!”… and slipped the tee shirt on, covering the scars. Like pulling a soundproof curtain down in front of a screaming monster.

Tyler leaned against one of the closed lockers. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” He gulped, his face pale. “Does it still hurt?”

Cian shook his head and stood. “Not too much any more. Once in a while I get a little achy, but it’s nothing worth complaining about.” Shoes. Don’t pity me.

“Damn. But you – you work out a lot, right?”

Cian’s eyes widened for a second. Work out… what? Tyler was changing the subject, but his question could have meant one of several things, and –

“I mean, you do some serious exercise, yes?”

“Oh. Uh, well, sort of.”

“Sort of!” Color returning to his face, Tyler gave a lopsided grin. “Right, Cian. You have a freaking six-pack there, bro.”

Can’t they say things normally? What in the world is a six-pack?! “I do?”

“Aw, come on – I wish I had abs like that! And I do at least 150 sit-ups a week!”

Now he understood. “I do some of those, too.” Relieved, he finished putting on the shoes. Not a perfect fit, but better than he’d expected.

“What else do you do, then?”

Before Cian could answer, the second bell rang.

“Tell me later.” Tyler waved an arm. “Come on.”

Out in the gym, the students had lined up along the far wall. Tyler trotted to the end of the line, Cian right behind him.

“Okay!” Coach Eastman approached, nodded at them. “Laps for the next ten – you know the drill.” Orders given, he started reading something on the clipboard cradled in one arm.

Cian didn’t have to wonder what the coach had meant – the students began to jog around the perimeter of the large room, so he followed suit. Imitation: the best friend of the ignorant.

“Pick up the pace, boys!”

Cian liked running, maybe because he’d never been able to do anything like this in Georgia. He’d thought about it a great deal back then, albeit in a different context. Running away was not the same as recreational running.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and Cian stopped, turning toward the sound in surprise.

“Never heard a coach’s whistle before?” asked one of the other boys, grinning.

The rest of the class had stopped as well, but none of them looked startled. “Oh, I, er, wasn’t expecting it.” Must be that thing the coach has around his neck on a string. Interesting.

The heavier-set boys, Cian noticed, were red-faced and gasping for air, the ones who were too thin in a similar state, while the athletic members of the class were, for the most part, running in place. Cian, while in this last group, stood still, observing.

After checking his clipboard, Eastwood looked up at the class. “Okay, my little sweethearts, let’s do some pushups – seventy-five for now – and seventy-five sit-ups. I think we can all handle that, can’t we? Pair up after the pushups are done.”

A few groans ensued, but a fiery glance from the coach quelled that in a hurry, and everyone got down on the floor.

Buddy, Cian’s foster-brother, had unwittingly taught Cian how to do push-ups – or how not to do them. While hanging laundry one afternoon, Buddy had come outside, looking storm-cloud rebellious. Behind him, his mother was saying, “If your teacher says you need to exercise, young man, then I suggest you get to it right now!”

The rotund youngster had gone face-down on the grass and begun pushing himself up with his hands, grunting, only to lower himself to the ground again a second later. He managed to do three of these before giving up. With a snort, Letitia had gone back into the house.

“You better not be staring at me, boy,” Buddy had growled, his voice muffled by the grass.

Cian had said he wasn’t, but wondered aloud what it was Buddy had been doing.

“They’re called ‘push-ups,’ stupid.”

With some idea of what was expected, Cian glanced at the other boys, noted how they did these, and started.

He reached seventy-five in a short time, surprised by how easy they were, and stood up. A moment later, the more athletic boys had joined him.

“Okay, those of you who’ve finished, pair up and get to the sit-ups. We have other things to do today.” Mr. Eastwood was staring at Cian with raised brows and a smile.

“Wanna go first?” Tyler, had joined him, his complexion rosy.

“Uh, sure.” He lowered himself to the floor. The Foster Care Division of Georgia’s child welfare agency had enrolled him in physical therapy classes. All the years of confinement and physical abuse had left him unhealthy, wounded. Sit-ups had been one of the exercises given to help him recover.

Tyler knelt and anchored Cian’s feet with his hands. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Hands behind his head, he laid flat, then pulled himself back up to a sitting position, touching elbows to knees. Within about a minute and a half, he was done.

“Crap.” Tyler shook his head. “You’re not even breathing hard.”

“Should I be?”

“Technically, no. But then, most of us don’t fit into the ‘technically’ category.” He offered a rueful smile as they traded spots. It took him a little longer, but not much. His face red, chest heaving, Tyler shook his head and got up. “I gotta exercise more.”

The whistle’s shrill voice pierced Cian’s eardrums again, and he wondered what they’d be doing next. I hope it’s not something I've never heard of before, much less know how to do…

“Still rings, boys!”

…Like that.

Cian crouched down to re-tie his laces, watching the class go to the other side of the gym. He stood as Eastman grabbed a long pole from the corner and used it to unhook two lengths of rope suspended from the ceiling. From each was appended a thick white circle.

What are we supposed to do with those?

Eastman was hoisting one of the more slightly built boys up by the waist as Cian approached. The boy grasped one ring in each hand, and the coach let go.

“A simple L will do for today,” Eastman instructed.

Nodding, the student pulled himself up until his arms were straight down at his sides, and then raised his legs so they were out in front of him, causing his body to form an L-shape.

“Okay, good.” Eastman put out his hands. “Hold it, now. That’s it. Don’t worry if your arms get a little shaky – it’s your abs we’re working on here. That’s it Shavers, hold it a few seconds longer... good! Slow release, remember.”

Shavers – Cian didn’t know his first name yet – lowered his legs as instructed, but he was trembling. When they were once again straight down, he lowered his whole body until his arms were all the way up over his head, and released the rings.

A scattering of applause was accompanied by muted cries of “All right!” “Way to go Shavers!” “Good one, Pete!”

Ah. Pete.

The coach looked around for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Let’s see… Aha. Marx. Your turn.”

A boy who was easily twice the size of Shavers came forward, stared up at the rings, shaking his head. “Sure I won’t pull them out of the ceiling?”

“They didn’t fall out last time, so no such luck, princess. Up you go.”

Jerry Marx. He’d introduced himself to Cian that morning. Much taller than Shavers, Jerry was able to reach the rings on his own. Pulling himself up, however, seemed beyond him.

Eastman stared at the struggling youth for a second. “Okay. Two weeks ago we were swinging from them, so of course you didn’t have to pull yourself up. Try it like this – close your eyes and concentrate on your upper arms. Don’t think about how much weight you have to lift, and imagine yourself pulling the rings downward.”

Marx nodded, closed his eyes, and with a few grunts and groans, managed to get himself to where his hands were nearly at his chest. Then, with a whoosh of released breath, he let go and dropped to the floor.

To Cian’s amazement, the class gave Jerry as much applause and verbal encouragement as his more agile classmate. How different these people were from those with whom he’d spent six miserable years! He admired their kindness and hoped it would extend to his ignorance.

Several minutes later, Eastman called his name. Cian, while not sure how he would manage, was no longer fearful of the reactions of his classmates. Like most of the boys who had done this exercise with ease, he was more than tall enough to reach the rings unaided, and grasped them tight. Remembering the instructions Eastman had given a few of the others, he began to lower his arms, lifting his own body weight, until they were straight at his sides.

“Good, MacDara.” The coach stepped back. “Let’s see that L.”

Imitation. He raised his legs until they were out in front, pleased with how little effort it took. “Like this?”

“You can talk?” Eastman sounded surprised.

Why wouldn’t I be able to talk? “Of course, sir.”

“Okay – see how long you can hold that position.”

Cian nodded, keeping himself still. A few moments of this found him thinking about Celeste and Katie again, wondering how he might locate them before they left to go home. Celeste concerned him the most – how was she handling what had happened the previous afternoon? Both girls had been clearly shaken by the…

“MacDara!”

He refocused and looked down to see the coach staring up at him and shaking his head.

“Sir?”

“Are you, uh, ready to come back down yet?”

“I don’t know – have I been doing this long enough?”

“Very funny,” one of the boys shouted, and the others chuckled.

“Uh, yeah, I think three whole minutes is plenty long enough. I’m lucky if I can get someone to stay up for three seconds!”

“Oh.” Cian lowered his legs, raised his arms, and dropped to the floor. Mortified, he stared at the top of his shoes. “Sorry.”

Another moment of silence, then the class burst into wild applause, with whistles and shouts, several of his classmates pounding him on the back and laughing. Cian couldn't have been more surprised had the image from one of the Bolton’s books of a wild elephant with lavender monkeys on its head come to life and charged through the gym on its hind legs.

He grinned in spite of himself, but all this attention was, in its own way, more embarrassing than thinking he’d done something stupid.

“You’re in gymnastics, aren’t you,” Mr. Eastman said, his smile broad.

Cian frowned. Gymnastics? “I don’t… think so, sir.”

“Really!” He put a hand to his face, holding his chin between thumb and forefinger. “You know, you might want to consider it, even if you are a bit tall for the sport.”

“What kind of exercise do you do, anyway?” asked a lanky youth with greasy blond hair.

“Sit-ups and some weight-lifting. I – well, I – my father taught me how to use a sword when I was younger, so I mostly exercise using the techniques I learned.”

“Okay, now that is too cool!” Alex Frebin, who had greeted Cian at the end of English class on Wednesday, had introduced himself as football team captain.

Cian grinned, thanking him.

Coach Eastman blew his whistle again. “All right, boys – next!”

By the time the bell rang, Cian was the center of everyone’s attention. As he headed into the showers, he overheard people talking about how he had “destroyed” the English teacher, how all the girls were acting like Stepford Wives (whatever that was), yet he was too cool to let any of it go to his head, and other things of a similar nature.

How to deal with all this was, for the moment, beyond him.

By careful maneuvering of his position, he managed to take his shower and change without anyone else noticing his scars. Before leaving the gym, he sought out Tyler and pulled him aside. “I was wondering – why didn’t you say anything about my back to anyone?”

Tyler shrugged. “I don’t know – you don’t seem the type who would want people to feel sorry for you. Am I right?”

“You are. Thank you.”

“No problem!” Tyler’s quick grin appeared. He punched Cian lightly on the arm, and left.

As Cian headed toward the front doors, the final bell rang and the classrooms spilled out their student contents. He looked in vain for even a glimpse of either Celeste or Katie, despite walking in the same direction as others who took the buses.

“MacDara!”

Cian stopped and turned. Coach Eastman was trotting toward him, clipboard still cradled in one arm.

“Sir?”

“I was thinking you might want to try out for some of our teams.”

Alarmed, Cian shook his head. Teams? I’ve never been on a team! What would I have to do? “I don’t know, sir – I don’t know much about sports. I was, um, not, I – I didn’t go to a – ”

“Don’t worry – I can teach you everything you need to know. Me and your teammates, that is.”

“I also have a job after school.”

“Well, we can work around that, too, if you’re interested.”

Cian frowned, too many possible responses rendering him mute.

“Okay, I tell you what – you think about it for a bit, like over the weekend. Let me know on Monday, okay? You can come to my office any time.” He patted Cian on the arm, smiled, and strolled off.

Everyone’s patting me – I’m beginning to feel like a giant puppy. And then he remembered the bus. “Oh, no!” He sprinted the rest of the way out to the bus area in time to see the last one pull away.

So much for that. He’d have to wait until Monday. “Not good.” This needed resolution, and soon. Discouraged, tired, and distressed about his sudden popularity, he hoisted his backpack to a more comfortable place on his shoulder, and headed home.

EIGHT

 

On most Saturday mornings, Celeste clung to every semi-waking second prior to being made to get up by her energetic mother, who had often announced that sleeping in on a day free to fit extra chores into was sinful. Eileen had made it a rule that her children and husband were to be up and busy before eight o’clock, and everything finished by noon.

This Saturday, however, Celeste was up at seven, washed and dressed by seven-thirty, and sitting in the kitchen eating an English muffin by – according to the clock over the sink – seven-thirty-six.

“Well!” Entering the kitchen, Eileen gave Celeste a kiss on the head. “All it took was a piece of wood and some wires to get you up early!”

Celeste grinned through a mouthful of muffin. Too excited about her lesson to hear her mother’s remark through the usual Dumb-Things-Parents-Say filter, she swallowed, shaking her head. “Golden wires.”

“Mr. Croghan won’t be here until eleven, you know. Here, let me take that.” Eileen picked up Celeste’s dish and brought it to the sink.

“I know, Mom. I wanted to be wide awake for the lesson, is all, and get my chores out of the way. I told Katie about it and she was like, no way would I get up as early as I said I would, so I think I’m gonna call her and wake her up – ha!” She stood. “Thanks for taking my plate.”

“No problem – it seemed only right since you hauled yourself out of bed without my having to hire a backhoe.”

Celeste narrowed her eyes at her. “You’re so weird.”

Eileen chuckled.

Grinning, Celeste left the kitchen, cell phone to her ear. By the time she reached the family room, Katie still hadn’t answered, so she hung up, waited a few seconds, and tried again. This time she was rewarded with a noise that made her think of a marshmallow gagging on a pillow. “I said I’m up!” she repeated, holding back a giggle.

“Aw, hellllll… p. Hi, Mom.” Apparently Katie’s mother had come into the room. “I’m talking to Celeste.”

Celeste heard Mrs. Grandol’s faint remark, “This early?”

“Yup. Don’t know why – ”

“Hello – bff here. Talk to me, Katie.”

“Oh. Sorry. So what’s up?”

“I am! Listen – ”

“I’m listening. Why are you calling me so early? I mean, like, plants aren’t even up yet.”

“Ha-ha, funny! I’m calling because you were soooo sure I wouldn’t be able to get up early enough to do my chores and then be ready for my harp lesson.”

“Hmm. Okay. You win. I lose. May I go back to sleep now?”

“If you can.” Celeste knew Katie was rarely able to sleep again once she’d been wakened.

Silence. “That was mean.”

“Sorry – for real. But I’m so happy! I’m finally going to learn how to play the harp!”

Katie whispered a sarcastic, "yippee!" followed by a loud yawn. “So I’m up now, too. For the moment, anyway. Hang on – I’m all tangled up here… there. Want me to come over later?”

“Of course! My lesson is at eleven… hmm… eleven-thirty… how about twelve or so?”

“Yeah, okay. I – ” she yawned again, “I should remember who I am by then. See ya.” She hung up.

Smiling, Celeste shoved her phone in her pocket and went off to do her Saturday chores without the usual inner grumbling and grousing.

By ten-thirty she was finished, and decided to take a few minutes to mess around with the harp before the teacher arrived. Removing the beautiful instrument from its box, she sat on one of the double-sized easy chairs near the fireplace.

As she leaned the instrument back against her shoulder, she closed her eyes, feeling as though she were holding an old friend. A happy sigh escaped and Celeste’s fingers caressed the strings, brushing across them toward the back of the harp with a swirling motion.

They spoke to her, whispered a greeting, telling her she was their rightful owner. The wood touching her shoulder felt warm through her sweater, conforming to its place in her arms. Celeste plucked strings at random as her conviction grew that she and the harp had been meant for each other, and as she played without thought, tears of joy spilled out from beneath her closed lids.

Celeste was no longer a teenager of the new millennium, sitting in her family’s house waiting for a music lesson. She was someone – and someplace – else. Someplace bright and green, with air so fresh it seemed to breathe for her. And she was part of something ancient, a being whose life stretched out in many directions into unseen distances.

What held her there, peaceful and serene on a green hill at the hub of an infinite crossroads, was neither the harp nor the music separately, but both united with her and each other. She opened her eyes; before her stood the harper, the one she had dreamed about, whose song had advised caution. She no longer remembered why, only that this harper was different from the first she’d seen… somewhere. But now, this dark-haired man whose being was wrapped in unimaginable depths of time, was smiling and nodding.

“You do well,” he told her, his voice as soft as the grass beneath their feet, “but do not ignore my warnings.” His smile faded. He raised a hand, palm upward, and said, “Play, loved one. Always. Play to keep away the darkness.”

“I will.”

“You will what? And when did you learn to play melodies on that thing?”

Celeste’s vision-image shifted like lightning, and she was looking instead at her mother. Eileen was standing in front of her, arms crossed, brows knit.

“What melodies?” Something had been there, some thought, but – no. Gone.

“The one you’ve been playing for the past fifteen minutes or so.”

“What? I have not! I sat down…f ifteen minutes? But I sat down only a few seconds ago and was – I mean, I…” She stared at the instrument in her arms, her hands flat against the strings, dampening their sounds, the back still resting against her shoulder.

Eileen crouched down in front of Celeste, one hand going to the girl’s forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Was I really… was it really fifteen minutes since I came in here?”

“Yes.” She stood. “You don’t remember playing the harp this whole time?”

“Not really. I mean, I sat down with it and leaned it back, and it felt really nice, and then I strummed the strings a little, but, but then there you were telling me I was playing melodies! Mom, what’s wrong with me?” A coldness filled her as memories of the past few days crowded into her thoughts – Katie telling her she’d zoned out again, her sudden, inexplicable knowledge of Gaelic and Druids, her Mom acting weird when she’d first touched the middle silver string... “Am I, like, insane or something?”

“No, honey. I’m pretty sure it’s not that.”

“Then why are all these crazy things happening to me?”

Eileen sat on the chair opposite. “What crazy things?”

She looked so concerned, yet so solid and reliable – Celeste was suddenly frightened enough to break her own rule of never telling her mother things, especially things like this. “Can I talk to you about… some stuff?”

“Of course you can – you know that.”

Taking a deep breath, Celeste launched into an account of everything that had happened since the evening a few days before when she and Katie had gone to the mall. She told her mother about Cian, about the “trances” Katie had noticed, about her sudden, bizarre knowledge of Druids, and finally, of her speaking perfect Gaelic in response to a question asked in that language, a language she’d never before known or understood.

“And now,” she finished, “I seem to be able to play the harp, even though I’ve never touched one before. Mom, I’m scared.”

Eileen got up and snuggled her petite frame into the chair with Celeste, who slid the harp back into its box at her feet. She leaned back into her mother’s comforting arms that squeezed warmly around her shoulders.

“Let me tell you something, Celeste – I’ve never mentioned it before because, well, I guess I hoped I was imagining or exaggerating it.” Eileen gave the girl a tiny smile.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ever since you could walk and talk, which kind of happened at the same time, you would, I don’t know, slip off into your mind. It didn’t happen all the time, and I chalked it up to you being a dreamy kind of kid. You did have one heck of an imagination, you know.”

Celeste frowned. “How did I act – afterward, I mean?”

“Like nothing unusual had happened. One time you did it right in the middle of a sentence, and when you ‘came back’ from wherever, you picked up the sentence right where you’d left off.” Eileen shook her head. “It was like someone had hit the Pause button while you were speaking, then un-paused you.”

“Great. So I’ve always been nuts.”

“I didn't say that. Anyhow, I figured it was a normal phase that some kids go through while growing up, maybe.”

“Yeah, except when I ‘come back,’ as you put it, I come back knowing stuff I didn’t know before. That’s not normal.”

Her mother drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, and then took a deep breath. “I have to agree, at least about the claim that you could speak Gaelic. Are you sure about that, or could it have been this young man claiming you did and making you think he was telling the truth? I’d like to meet him – he’s the one with you and Katie outside the school yesterday, right?”

“Yeah – how did you know about that?” She hadn’t mentioned this in her narrative about the strange occurrences of the previous few days.

“Katie’s mother told me.”

“Mom, did she even tell you how she reacted?”

“Yes, and she said she was merely amazed by his looks, is all. Believe me, Celeste, my asking to meet him has nothing to do with any of that.”

“Really? I’m not so sure – ” The doorbell rang and Celeste jumped up. “That must be the harp teacher – thanks for listening, Mom, and not having me locked up or anything.” She started toward the front hall to answer the door, but turned back, worried again. “What if it happens while he’s teaching me?

“Stop it – get the door. I’ll be right here, okay?”

Celeste hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged. “Okay.” The bell sounded a second time, and she ran to get it.

A tall, middle-aged man with chestnut hair, a smooth, handsome face, and deep green eyes smiled at her. “Is this the Kelly residence?”

She nodded – there was something about him, his slight accent…

“I’m Mr. Croghan. May I come in?”

Celeste blinked. “Oh! Sorry. Of course.” She stepped back and he swept into the house. He was wrapped in a long, blue wool coat and dark red scarf, his hands sheathed in padded leather gloves.

Donal entered the front hall as Celeste was closing the door. “Ah! Croghan!” He grinned, hand extended.

The harp teacher pulled off a glove and took Donal’s hand. “How are you, sir?”

Celeste noticed that the teacher had managed to use a deferential term yet sound regal at the same time. Pretty good trick – I’ll have to try that sometime…

“Very well indeed,” said Donal. “This, by the way, is one of your students – my daughter, Celeste.”

For a mad moment, she felt like she was supposed to curtsey, but the horrible urge passed and she shook Mr. Croghan’s hand – a large, strong hand, she noticed.

“A pleasure.” Mr. Croghan’s eyes seemed to twinkle, his smile widening.

A light pounding heralded the entrance of Tara as she thundered down the stairs and into the hall.

Donal waved her closer. “And this is the other – Tara.”

Mr. Croghan shook hands with her and nodded. “Tara – home of the Tuatha de Danann.” He pronounced it, "too-ah day dann-an." A day ago, Celeste wouldn’t have known those words or how they were spelled; now she did. How?

“The what?” asked Tara, doing an Elvis lip curl. “I thought it was the home of ancient Irish kings.”

“Well, that’s what I said, isn’t it.”

The inflection of the sentence caught Celeste by surprise. The accent she’d detected was apparently an interesting combination of British and Irish. Yet another connection to Ireland. Was she ever going to have a normal day again? All these odd happenings and coincidences…

Tara was staring up at him, jaw outthrust. A moment later she grinned. “I wouldn’t know. Dad here doesn’t teach us all that much about our ethnic history.” Her eyebrows arched as she gave Donal a look.

“And when do you sit still long enough for me to teach you anything?”

“Well, now, let’s hope she sits still long enough to learn some things on the harp.” Mr. Croghan grinned and unbuttoned his coat. “Which of you lovely young ladies do I torture first?”

Celeste stared at Tara, realizing with a vague shock that no one had decided this point yet. And then, as the insecurity she’d expressed to her mother resurfaced, she nodded at Tara. “She can start. I have to help my mom in the kitchen.”

A slight frown appeared between the teacher’s thick brows. “Very well. Where shall we hold these lessons?”

He was being regal again, Celeste thought.

“The family room will do.” Eileen had come into the foyer smiling, hand extended. “How do you do, Mr. Croghan – I’m Mrs. Kelly.”

“Mrs. Kelly.” He nodded as he shook her hand. “A distinct pleasure. You have a lovely home,” he added with a sweeping glance at the front hall.

“Thank you.” She gave him a warm smile. “Please – the family room is this way – "

When Mr. Croghan had settled in front of the fireplace and Tara was seated on the sofa, Donal drew the harp out of its box and handed it to Croghan. “I picked this up at an estate sale, believe it or not.”

As momentary as a camera flash, a look crossed Gerald Croghan’s face that struck Celeste as being one of satisfaction. Brief as it had been, Celeste felt it somehow had to do with her father’s statement.

“May I?” The teacher reached for the harp.

“Of course!” Donal held it out and Mr. Croghan took it with a tenderness and care that made Celeste think of a mother taking her newborn back from the arms of a well-meaning but annoying mother-in-law, something she’d witnessed at Katie’s aunt’s home. More strangeness. What was going on?

Croghan sat on the edge of the loveseat, holding it against his shoulder in exactly the way Celeste had, and closed his eyes. Bending his head close to the strings he murmured something – Celeste would have sworn on a mountain of Bibles it was some form of Gaelic – and began to play.

As far as Celeste knew, nothing strange happened while she listened to the magnificent sounds shimmering from beneath the man’s well-shaped hands, except that the music made her want to weep, it was so lovely.

When the melody ended, everyone, including Celeste, sighed as though they’d been holding their collective breath.

“Bravo!” Donal exclaimed. “What do you think, Tara?”

“About what? I mean, wow and all – I’d love to be able to play like that! But... is that what you meant?”

Her father chuckled. “Pretty much. All right – let’s leave them alone.” He headed back toward the stairs.

“Celeste?” Eileen waved her toward the kitchen.

“Right.” She was going to follow her anyway to discuss what she was feeling.

Eileen went to the counter, turned around and crossed her arms. She was frowning.

“What?” Celeste could sense tension from her mother as the sound of the teacher’s deep voice tumbled from the other room.

“Did you recognize the song he played, by any chance?”

“No, I’ve never heard it before. Why?”

Mrs. Kelly stared hard at her daughter. “Because that’s the exact same tune you were playing earlier.”

NINE

 

When he’d been hired to work at the mall, Cian had learned that on Saturday mornings it didn’t open for business until eleven o’clock, but as one of the maintenance staff members, he was required to be there several hours earlier. Mr. Halloran had met him at a maintenance entrance in the back of the huge building, and before leaving to take care of something in another part of the mall, instructed Cian to go to the Maintenance Office to clock in.

The quiet that greeted him as he entered the public area upstairs gave a sepulchral feel to the empty walkways, his rubber-soled footsteps echoing like a remote whisper as he made his way to the office. Despite the peaceful silence, Cian was tense, his mind focused on how to resolve what had begun on Thursday afternoon, frustration weighing on him like a wet quilt.

“Meeting with Celeste and Katie should be my priority, not this job. I need to call Celeste, but how?” Grateful no one was around to catch him talking out loud to himself, he continued in silence. There has to be a way to reach her, but without her number or that of anyone who would know it, that will be impossible!

Reaching the office a few minutes later, he started toward the time clock but stopped, frowning. Looks like the only way to speak her is to go to her house… wherever that may be.

A Celtic expletive escaped his throat and he closed his eyes. Now what?

“Have you forgotten where the time clock is?”

Startled, Cian turned to find Mr. Halloran standing in the doorway giving him a crooked smile.

“No, sir. Sorry. I was trying to figure something out.” He went to the other side of the room, hung his coat on a peg, and punched in, feeling silly.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“I doubt it. I need to find the phone number of someone from school and don’t have any idea how to do that.”           

Halloran’s eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you about the phone book, or the online version?”

Oh, my God – of course! What an idiot he must think me!

“It’s okay, kid. I know there are a lot of things that aren’t familiar to you yet. I take it you’ve never looked up someone’s number before?”

“I… no – what a fool I must look... ”

“Never mind.” Chuckling, Mr. Halloran ducked into his office, a small area enclosed on two sides, and came back out with a thick, soft-covered volume. “Here you go – the residential White Pages. If the person is not unlisted, you should be able to find the number with no problem, assuming you know the last name. If not, you can Google it, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I do know the last name, though. It’s Kelly.” Google? Not sure what-

“Ah! Another good Irish name!”

Cian smiled and opened the book. When he got to the page of Kellys, the smile faded. “There must be hundreds! How can I possibly find the right one?”

“Good question.” Mr. Halloran peered over Cian’s shoulder. “You don’t know your schoolmate’s father’s first name or their address by any chance, do you?”

“No.” He was about to give up but remembered something – Katie’s last name, Grandol. He’d heard it dozens of times during roll-call and hoped it wasn’t as common as “Kelly.” Flipping to the G section, he scanned the pages until he got to “Gr,” and ran a finger down the list.

Grand… Grande… Grandesky… Grandle…“Ha!” It was the only one, and was worth a try. “Might I borrow the phone, sir?”

“I thought you had a cell phone.”

“What? I – as ucht Dé! I think I left my brain on the pillow this morning.” He took it from his back pocket. “I’m so stupid.”

“No, you’re not.” Mr. Halloran’s tone was sharp and Cian almost took a step back. “Mr. Geller told me some of your background, about the abuse, and how they made you believe you were ugly and stupid. You know none of that is true, and I’m not about to let you lapse into self-criticism. You’re a fine young man, Cian, remember that.”

Cian sighed and nodded. “You’re right – thank you. I shouldn't say such things anymore.”

“No, you shouldn't. Now – are you going to make that phone call? It’s getting late and you’ve already clocked in.”

“Right. Sorry.” He tapped the number onto the pad on the screen, put it to his ear, waited.

“Hmmmmph. What… ”

The voice, for all its sleepiness, was recognizable. Cian almost cried with relief. “Katie?”

“Uh… Cian? Great – first Celeste wakes me up, so I turn off my cell, but then you call the house – leave it to my Dad to put us in the stupid phone book instead of leaving our number unlisted – something about business…. sorry. I’m a real grouch in the morning.”

“Listen – I apologize for having to disturb you like this, but I need to talk to Celeste as soon as possible. In fact, I have to see her.”

A moment of silence followed, and Cian thought that she’d hung up, but then she said, “She’s home, but she’s probably having a harp lesson right now.”

“Harp…. oh, God. Who is her teacher?”

“Huh? Geez, I don’t know, uh wait. I was there when her father told her about the lessons, um, Gerald Something, a weird name… Crow? Crow-an?”

“Katie, thank you! Go back to sleep!” He hung up.

“Another problem?”

Upon hearing the name of the harp teacher, Cian had gone cold, his heartbeat quickening, and he was finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden.

“Hey, don’t hyperventilate, kiddo – what is it?”

Swallowing hard, Cian tried to think of an explanation. Failed. “I – I – it… I have to go.”

“All right, sure. You need a ride somewhere?”

“What? Yes! I – Oh, no!” He looked at his phone again, and tapped Katie’s number.

“Aw crap, now wh- "

“Katie! Where does she live?”

“In Westfield, like me.”

“No! I mean what’s her address?”

“Uh, 2579 Gardener Circle.”

“Thank you!” He hung up and turned to his boss. "Can you take me to 2579 Gardener Circle in Westfield?”

“Well no, but I can have someone else drive you there. Hold on.” He went back into the office and came out, his walkie-talkie in one hand. “Jack?” He was answered by a few seconds of loud static, followed by a tinny-sounding voice.

“Jim? What you got?” More static.

“I need someone to give one of my maintenance guys a ride – I don’t think it’s too far – know where Gardener Circle in Westfield is?”

“No – let me Google it.” Static, then, “Okay, got it. It’s only about ten minutes away, maybe less. Tell him to meet me at the Sears loading dock, okay?”

Forgetting to grab his jacket, Cian took off, sprinting across the mall to the side exit, heart still pounding with something besides exertion.

Jack hadn’t arrived yet, and oblivious to the cold, Cian controlled the urge to shout in frustration. A few minutes passed before an old, rust-eaten car pulled up next to him. The driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. “Let’s go,” he said, revving the engine a little.

Cian all but dove in. “Thank you so much,” he said, pulling the door shut.

“Emergency?”

“Well, yes, in a way… yes, actually.” Cian hoped the man wouldn’t ask for a further explanation.

“Okay. Hang on – and put your seatbelt on, please. I’m Jack, the East Mall Supervisor, by the way.”

“Cian MacDara. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

Jack smiled and nodded. “According to the GPS, we’ll be there soon.”

Within ten minutes they were pulling up in front of a pretty fieldstone and stucco two-story house.

Cian got out. “Thanks again.”

“No sweat. Just call Mr. Halloran if you needed a ride back.”

As Jack drove off, Cian stared at the house for a moment, took a deep breath, and strode to the front door. He pressed the bell and stepped back to wait.

A middle-aged man opened the door a few seconds later. Raised brows, a pause. “May I help you?”

The man’s faint Irish accent registered, but Cian couldn’t think about that right then. “My name is Cian MacDara, sir, and I was wondering if I might speak with Celeste. We’re in school together.”

“I see... was she expecting you?”

“I doubt that, sir. But this is very important, or I would never bother you like this, Mr., um…”

“Mr. Kelly. I’m her father.” He stepped back. “It’s freezing out there, and I’ll not be leaving you on the doorstep to catch your death, so come in.”

Cian entered the foyer, finally noticing how chilly he was as the warmth of the house surrounded him.

“Her sister is having a harp lesson at the moment, and Celeste will be next, so don’t take too long, all right?”

As he started toward a door on their left, a woman Cian assumed was Mrs. Kelly entered the foyer followed by Celeste.

The woman stopped short, and Celeste barely avoided crashing into her. “Well for heaven’s sake! I don’t believe this. Uh, Cian, is it?”

He nodded, hazarding a glance at Celeste, who was shaking her head.

Stepping around her mother, Celeste stared up at Cian. “What are... how did you find my house?”

Cian looked at the floor. “I called Katie. I hope you don’t mind and won’t be angry with her. I’m pretty sure I woke her up – twice – and didn’t give her time to think.”

“Why? Is there a problem?” Mrs. Kelly crossed her arms and scowled.

Cian looked back up. “The harp teacher. I know him.”

“Is he someone we should be worried about? And… wait. How did you know he’d be here?” asked Mr. Kelly. “Did Celeste tell you at school?”

“No. I’ve been needing to talk to your daughter about some things that happened Thursday, but then Katie mentioned the lessons and told me the teacher’s name and… I... ” He stopped, having no idea how to continue.

A pretty girl with long dark hair and eyes the same shade as Celeste’s entered the foyer. She looked a few years younger, but the resemblance left no doubt she was Celeste’s sister. So far, she’d been looking at her family, but he knew she’d eventually see him and he cringed, knowing what would happen.

“Hey, why is everyone hanging out in… the… oh. My. God.”

Yes, that. Cian bowed his head. “I’m sorry.” Why do they react this way? I no longer believe I’m a monster, but how could anyone’s face cause that kind of... i hate this!

“So. Where’s my next student?”

Cian looked up. All the tension in his shoulders and neck faded.

A second later, the harper saw him. “Ah, Cian MacDara. I expected we’d meet again soon.” He crossed his arms and nodded at the boy with a huge grin.

“The Croghan. I was right, then.” And something inside wanted to weep with a relief that nearly broke him.

“I’m not sure yet, but I think so.” His eyes slid briefly in Celeste’s direction.

“As do I.” It was real! It was all real!

“And that, I suspect, is why you’re here, yes?”

“It is, sir. Have you – "

“Not yet, but then, we haven’t had our lesson.”

“Excuse me!!!!” Mrs. Kelly had apparently had enough. “Will someone please tell us what is going on here?!”

Judging by the startled looks of her family, Cian guessed this woman didn’t make a habit of raising her voice, but realized that his exchange with Croghan had to have been disturbing.

Gerald Croghan, however, gave her crooked smile and shrugged. “Mr. MacDara and I have known each other for... years. He knew I was seeking someone special, someone with a, ah, certain ability with the harp, and I believe he – as do I – thinks it may be Celeste.”

The woman pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. “I see. No, I don’t see. What in blazes are you talking about?”

“And where do you know each other from?” put in Celeste’s father. He turned to Cian. “For that matter... why are you so, so unnaturally, uh, I mean –”

“Drop-dead gorgeous?” Tara supplied. “Beautiful beyond belief? Too incredibly handsome to be real?”

Cian sighed. “No, I’m not.”

Almost as one, the Kellys exclaimed, “You’re kidding!”

“No he isn’t.” Croghan put a hand on Cian’s shoulder. “He’s been through some horrible things. I won’t go into detail, unless he wants me to.”

“I’d rather you didn't. Not yet.”

Croghan nodded. “I understand.” He looked back at the Kellys. “Let’s just say he had no idea what he looked like until recently, and he still doesn’t realize the extent.”

“That’s all great,” said Celeste, “but what about the other stuff you were saying? You don’t think I missed that, do you? What is it you’re both ‘right’ about? Me? And why? Does it have to do with the harp? Or maybe my trances?”

One of Croghan’s eyebrows shot upward. “Trances?” He stood straighter. “Cian, please stay with the girl’s family. She and I have a lesson to do.” He gazed for a long moment at her parents and sister, and then turned to go back they way they’d all come, the Kellys following without a word.

Cian knew why no one objected or insisted on continuing the conversation, why they allowed Croghan to lead Celeste away toward a fireplace at the far end of the room they had entered as he went with her parents and sister into the kitchen. They had, in fact, no idea who or what they’d invited into their lives, but Cian did because in that moment, he remembered about this man and what he could do. How he could put people into a kind of mental stasis when necessary.

As he stood observing their glazed eyes, none of them moving, more details from the past returned to his still-healing memory, including this one about how the harper would speak into the minds of others to calm them, or as needed, convince them that they should allow what was happening because it was for the best. The recipients would be left in a kind of daze that allowed them to function, but not think normally for several minutes.

With this restored recollection came the knowledge that the Kellys were in good hands. Things were coming together, giving him hope that the glimmers of recollection sparking through his mind meant that he would finally remember the rest.

TEN

 

Georgia – Three Years Earlier

 

The dreams had gone on for much longer, but now he was awake. Bones and muscles were stiff, his back… he was on his stomach, a position in which he never slept. Why is it so bright? He tried to turn over. Couldn’t – too much pain. And he remembered.

Retta. I looked at her, let her see my face. The beating her mother had given him for this transgression had been the worst yet, and after what had felt like hours of being struck by the electrical wire, she had scrubbed the wounds with lemon juice and salt poured into a steel wool pad. Only a few seconds of this, and he had succumbed to the pain and blacked out.

Blinking away grogginess, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Then of Retta’s puzzling reaction. Her expression had held surprise, not disgust. Or, no, not surprise. He couldn't put an adjective to it. Like the place he was in – confusing, strange.

A slow-moving wave of pain made him wince. Miserable, he closed his eyes. When it passed, he opened them again, and found someone standing near the bed. Wait. I’m on a bed. Why? And where? To spare whomever this person was, Cian tried to bury his face in the pillow but the exertion cost him too dearly, so he lay still.

“Glad you’re awake, young man. I’m Dr. Lee. How are we feeling?”

We? What... oh. He means me. Wait – a doctor? Ah. Now I know. Years before, while traveling with his parents, his mother had become ill and they’d taken her to a huge place where many sick people could be treated at once – a hospital. Still, how? “It hurts some.” His voice was hoarse, he didn’t know why. “How long have I been here?”

“Your poor mother brought you in three days ago.”

Cian’s fists tightened on the edges of his pillow, an inner burst of helpless rage forcing words through clenched teeth. “She’s not my mother!”

A brief silence before the doctor spoke, his tone placating. “Of course not – I know she’s your foster mother, but I’m sure she loves you as much as any real mother would.”

Cian wanted to scream. Why would this man assume such a thing? After what she’d done to him – ? Tears of frustration darkened the sheet by his cheek in tiny spots.

“It’s all right, son. We know about your self-destructive episodes. She told me all about the barbed-wire fence.”

Despite the pain, he raised his head enough to look into the doctor's eyes. “What… is a barbed-wire fence?”

Dr. Lee frowned. “You’re saying you have no idea what that is? Or that maybe your foster mother lied to me… huh.” He reached to his right, pulled a stool on wheels over to the side of the bed, and sat. “Do you have a fence on the property?”

“Yes. Wooden one.”

“Then how did you get injured, Charlie?”

Cian closed his eyes and lowered his head to the pillow once more, exhausted, incredulous. “My name is not ‘Charlie.’”

“No? What is it then?”

“Cian.” It felt good to say it out loud. “Said she didn’t know how to pronounce it, so... ”

“So she calls you ‘Charlie,’ right?”

“No, sir. She calls me ‘Unacceptable.’”

Dr. Lee put his head to one side. “You mean, she describes you that way?”

“No, it’s the name she gave me.”

“I see.” The doctor thrummed his fingers on his lap for a second. “All right, let’s try something else. Tell me how you got your wounds.”

“From her.”

“Why?”

Cian felt too tired to answer, but knew this would be his only chance to speak on his own behalf. Willing his eyes to stay open, he said, “I looked at Retta by mistake. She happened to come out of her room as I was going down the stairs with the laundry basket, and I turned around.”

“And why was that such a bad thing?”

Was the man blind? “How can you ask that? You’re looking right at me – I’m so ugly… probably made her sick. I was told never to look directly at anyone, but because I’m an idiot, I didn’t think, and got a beating for it.”

“With what?”

“Electrical wire. That’s what she uses when I've done something dumber than usual.”

“What does she use when you do something, uh, not so dumb?”

“Her fists, the broom, whatever’s nearby.

“I see.” He stood, shaking his head. “Get some sleep, son.”

Cian tried to answer, but couldn’t. He was already sliding back into unconsciousness. Much better.

 

*******

 

Confused and worried, Dr. Lee returned to his office and shut the door – he’d go talk to Mrs. Pettijohn later. Right now, he needed to figure things out.

Had she been lying to him about everything? Based on the boy’s words and behavior, it was beginning to look possible. She hadn’t lied about his looks, though – they were startling, almost unreal. Other than that, she may have indeed been untruthful about the rest.

The lad’s responses had come easily, for one thing, making it plain that he hadn't needed to think about them first the way someone who was making things up might. Besides, in his condition – and it was obvious he’d been fighting to stay conscious – he wouldn't have the clarity of mind to formulate answers like those. In fact, even though he was in pain, Charlie… Cian?... had turned to look him in the eye when he’d spoken, and had displayed not an iota of deceptive behavior.

Another thing: after Mrs. Pettijohn had told him the boy had caused his own injuries by throwing himself into a barbed wire fence, he’d wondered aloud why someone with such good looks would do a thing like that. Her explanation that her foster son hated himself, while only a bit questionable at the time, was looking more and more suspicious, especially in light of Charlie… no, Cian’s apparent ignorance of barbed wire.

The folder with Cian’s x-rays and photos of the injuries was still on his desk; he took a closer look at everything. The deep wounds were not, he suddenly realized, consistent with her explanation – that Cian had thrown himself into the barbed wire because his foster sister had rejected his advances.

Two things were wrong about that – first of all, nothing in the boy’s behavior indicated a person who was (as Letitia claimed) egotistical, so it made no sense that he would make improper advances toward Letitia’s daughter. Next, someone with a psychosis strong enough to impel him to engage in such violence against himself wouldn’t look so…so desperate, so confused. The story Cian had told him was a world away from the usual characteristics of the personality described by Letitia Pettijohn.

On the physical end of things, the way the wounds were distributed didn’t fit. Even multiple contacts with barbed wire would show some evidence of deep punctures and consistent, parallel wounds, no matter how often he’d done this during the past couple of years as his foster mother claimed. The cuts instead crossed one another, a configuration that tracked with someone being beaten with a whip or, as the boy claimed, a wire, and he could see no evidence of piercing that would fit with forceful contact with the razor-sharp points of the barbs. The presence of minute flecks of metal, while at first might seem consistent, were not. Only something fine, like steel wool, would have left that kind of residue, not contact with barbed wire. The only way metal would have flaked off into the wounds would be if it were rusty. He’d check on that immediately.

Further, neither his legs nor arms had so much as a scratch, which they would if he’d been injured the way she described. However, there was evidence of older, deep soft-tissue damage, which fit perfectly with what Cian had said about being struck with various hard objects, including fists.

He picked up his phone and called Radiology.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Lee. Are you calling about Charlie’s MRI?”

The doctor found himself cringing. “Er, yes. I just have a quick question – did any metal fragments or evidence of rust show up in the scan?”

The sound of computer keys being tapped for several seconds. “Okay, let’s see… uh… no. Nothing at all like that. Just what was in the initial report – that traces of something metallic but extremely small presented. We can have this sent to your computer right now if you like. The technician is done processing the scan.”

“Thanks. I’ll – thanks.” He hung up, feeling cold. So no rusty metal? A barbed wire fence that had been in use for even two years would have developed some, and had the boy hurt himself this badly on it, lots of that would have crumbled off into the wounds. Yet there was nothing.

Leaning back, Dr. Lee closed his eyes as a headache started, but he made himself return to his earlier train of thought.

Who had told Cian he was ugly? No way had he been making that up, and besides, why would he even say such a thing? Dr. Lee wasn’t a psychologist, but he’d studied enough psychology to know that while a delusional individual who might be paranoid about losing his looks or not being appreciated might claim he’d been called ugly, he would never take it to such an extreme. What had the boy said? That he expected his looks to make others sick? But more than what he’d said was how he had said it. He’d spoken in a matter-of-fact way, no histrionics, no martyr-complex mannerism. Cian had to have a genuine, unshakable belief that he was hideous, and must have felt that way for a long, long time.

Perhaps the biggest point, the one that should have raised an immediate red flag, was why no one else seemed to know about any of this. The healed scars, the bruising, the horrid self-image… wouldn’t someone at school have noticed and reported it? Yet Mrs. Pettijohn had said nothing about working with the school psychologist, even though, as she claimed, this had been going on for years.

“I’m a fool.” Closing the folder, Dr. Lee took out a pad of sticky notes and scribbled a reminder to himself to contact the school district to see if any reports had been filed that would back up even one of Mrs. Pettijohn’s claims about her foster son.

If his suspicions about what this boy had suffered was even one-tenth true, he could be looking at one of the worst cases of child abuse he’d ever encountered. Slamming a hand on his desk, furious with himself, he stood. It was time to have a talk with Letitia Pettijohn.

He found her sitting on the large green sofa in the waiting area, looking prim but not at all concerned. More proof.

She looked up as he approached, took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at dry eyes. “How is he, Doctor Lee?”

Where are the tears? It had occurred to him that if the boy had been telling the truth, returning him to her care would be idiotic. Still, unless he could find solid proof that the extensive injuries had been at her hands, Cian would be sent home with her as soon as he was better. For that reason, he couldn’t let this woman know what her foster son had told him.

Instead of accusations, he’d have to give an award-winning performance and pretend he believed her story. “Your foster son is stable. I just have a few more questions for you, if it’s okay. He’ll be fine, by the way.”

“Oh, good. I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t, you know.”

The doctor nodded and sat on a chair adjacent to the sofa so he could watch her reactions at close range. “He seems a little confused. I’m afraid the pain medication may have caused him to imagine things, maybe mix up reality with fevered dreams.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, he claims to be extremely ugly, but of course we both know nothing could be farther from the truth!” He forced a genial laugh, but never took his eyes off her face. “People say the craziest things when they’re on opioids.”

“Ugly! I’d say it must be whatever you’ve got him on!” She shook her head, lips in a firm line.

“And that’s not the worst, I assure you. He says he believes he’s stupid! I’ll have to try a lower dosage of those pain meds.”

Mrs. Pettijohn put a hand to her bosom. “Stupid! That boy? Why, he’s smart as a whip! I wish my own two would apply theirselves to their studies the way he does.”

She had not, he noticed, used his name. “You call him ‘Charlie,’ right?”

She sighed. “Well, he doesn’t like it much when I do – says it’s… unacceptable. But I can’t seem to pronounce his real name right.”

How clever… He hadn't missed the way she’d glanced down at her lap when she’d said “unacceptable,” perhaps to hide the subterfuge.

“So what did you want to ask me, Dr. Lee?”

“Oh, nothing much. I noticed there were no cuts or scratches on any other parts of his body – only on his back, and a few on his sides and the back of his arms. I had to wonder how that’s possible if he was thrashing around in barbed wire.”

She dabbed at her eyes again, sighed, and sat forward. “Now, I told you before – he wasn’t in barbed wire, Dr. Lee – it was a fence of it. Like I said, all he did was throw hisself backwards against it and then, when he tried to free hisself, caused a whole bunch of damage until he got off. Then he did it again, three or four times.”

That was it – had Cian done as she’d described, most of his wounds would have been horizontal, may of them deep punctures, not long, unbroken vertical gashes. Only something like the electrical wire the boy had mentioned could do that. Problem was, proof was needed that she’d been responsible. He’d have to go out there and see for himself if there was a barbed wire fence, take photos, and then go to the police. If they asked for a possible motive he’d be at a loss, but those who dealt with child abuse would probably know how to find out.

Getting to his feet, he forced another smile. “That cleared things up. Thank you for listening to my questions, Mrs. Pettijohn. I appreciate that you’re upset and hope I didn’t upset you any further.”

“Not at all, Dr. Lee. I know you have to get to the bottom of such cases, and I don’t mind in the least.” She gave him a smile that made him want to smack her. “Thanks so much for taking care of my boy.”

“No problem.” He wanted to get as far away from this woman as possible. “He’s strong and should mend quickly. As soon as I determine a long-term course of treatment for when he’s released, and there’s no risk of infection, I can estimate how much longer he’ll be here.”

Extending a hand, she bobbed her head and pushed to her feet. “Thanks again, Dr. Lee.”

“You’re most welcome.” Not wanting to touch her to shake hands, he turned away, acting as if he hadn’t seen her gesture, and headed for his office.

      As soon as the schools opened on Monday, he’d be making some calls.

 

********

 

Outside the front entrance, Letitia took her cell phone from her purse. Several people were waiting for rides, so she went a short distance away to be sure no one could hear her. She tapped her son’s name on the list of recent calls, pacing as she waited for him to answered.

“Mom! I’m in class – the teacher’s gonna take my phone away!”

“Not if you explain that your Mamma’s calling from the hospital. Now shut your mouth and listen.” She lowered her voice, glancing around. “You need to get home as fast as those fat little legs of yours can get you there.”

“Why – ”

“Hush! Go to the shed, put on the gardening gloves, and haul that barbed wire roll out. Get the sledge hammer and knock the posts it’s on into the ground between that gap in the fence on the left side of the house, and make sure it looks like someone fell onto it, okay?”

“What? Ma, that’s a awful lot to ask – ”

She clenched her teeth. “Do it! Then get your ass back to school. Tell them you had to leave for a little while to pick me up from here, okay?”

“But I only got a learner’s permit, ma. They ain’t gonna believe you’d let me drive the car without – ”

“I’ll call ‘em! Just get home!” She hung up and called the school. Halfway through the recorded list of options, she pressed “0” and was put through to the operator.

“This is Buddy Pettijohn’s mama,” she told the woman who answered. “He needs to leave school to come pick me up at the hospital. His… cousin was staying with us, and the other day he got hurt real bad and went to the hospital. I took the bus here this morning to see him, but the next bus don’t come for quite a while and I’m feeling a bit light-headed. So I’m giving Buddy permission to use the family car to come get me. I don’t drive.”

The school had never been notified about her foster-son, and if they found out, an investigation would be started to as to why he wasn’t in school with her other two children. That would lead to problems she wasn’t prepared to handle. As it was, she’d been a fool to tell the doctor the truth about the boy being her foster son, but it didn’t occur to her until after she’d said it, and now it was too late.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am, but we can’t let him check out of school on his own.”

“Why ever not? I’m giving him my permission, aren’t I?”

“I’m sorry, but I have no way to be sure you’re his mother.”

Letitia scrunched her eyes shut, trying to think of a way around this obstacle – and found the answer. “How’s about this – call the hospital here, ask for the main desk, then have them page me. I’ll show them my I.D. so they can confirm it for you, and you’ll know it’s really me, okay?”

“What hospital are you at, ma’am?”

Letitia told her, suggested she get the number from the hospital website, and hung up, hurrying back inside to the main lobby.

Five minutes later, the receptionist, speaking over the intercom, requested Mrs. Letitia Pettijohn to come to the front desk.

“I’m right here!” Pulling her State I.D. from her purse, Letitia scurried to the desk.

The receptionist looked at the card and spoke into the phone. “Yes ma’am, she showed me her photo I.D… Certainly – here she is.” She handed the phone over the desk.

“Mrs. Pettijohn here.”

“This is the front office at your son’s school. We spoke a few minutes ago. I’ve had your son taken out of class pending this call, and he’s up here right now. I’ll have him sign out right away. How is he getting home?”

“On his bike – same way he gets there and back every day.”

“Good. We’re all set then. Thank you, and I hope your nephew is feeling better soon.”

“Thank you.” She handed the phone back, thanking the receptionist as well. “My son is coming to pick me up, but he needed to get permission to leave school, you see.”

“I do. And you’re welcome.”

Outside again, Letitia didn’t stop at the curb where others were still standing, but kept going until she was off hospital grounds and out on the sidewalk. She turned left out of view of the hospital altogether. Buddy wouldn’t be picking her up, but no one else needed to know that – they only had to think it happened.

She realized by now that she’d have to find a different way of punishing her foster-son; this had been a close call and might not be over yet. That jackass of a doctor could still cause her some trouble. What if he insisted on pursuing things, like contacting the DFC or the school to check the boy’s behavior records or something? Now that was a horrifying thought! Well, she’d have to find a way to take care of Dr. Lee before he could do any such thing.

As for that foster-son of hers, well, she’d figure a way to make him wish all he was getting was another beating. And god knew he was going to get punished big time once she got him home. How dare he tell the doctor things that were causing so much trouble for her! She’d fix him good for sure.

      Real good.

ELEVEN

 

Connecticut – Present Day

 

Uncomfortable in the silence, Cian stood by the kitchen table, hands folded in front of him, waiting for Celeste’s parents to return to full cognition.

The Croghan was back in his life but the first name, Gerald, was new to Cian. Each time he’d appeared during their travels to and from…Yes. A new memory: The Hub of Time. That beautiful being had been there, too. An angel. At the Hub, Cian had been schooled in new languages because… why? Because… ah, of course. At the Hub, Time stood still, giving him as long as he’d needed to learn.

Traveling through the ages, always forward, he and his parents had been guided by the bearded man, Niall. But then the Croghan would show up to see how things were, or to tell Niall to return with them to the Hub. During these brief encounters with the enigmatic harper, Cian had seen him interact with others in that unnatural way he just had with the Kelly family. To make them stop talking, to get them to become cooperative. Like now.

A brief glance at Mr. and Mrs. Kelly standing by the sink showed them dazed still, eyes nearly blank. Perhaps the Croghan had sensed, as Cian had, that Celeste’s parents were about to toss them out of their home. He looked away, knowing the effect would soon wear off, and didn’t want them to see him watching them.

The Croghan wasn’t entirely human, he suddenly remembered. At one time, yes, but according to the creature… angel… Celesta, that had been in a long-ago millennium. The flash of a new memory now – Celesta gazing down into Cian’s eyes, explaining things about the Croghan, about his past, about his purpose.

Blinking, Cian’s awareness returned to his surroundings. What had Croghan spoken into the thoughts of Mr. and Mrs. Kelly? How would they react when they returned to full awareness? Celeste’s sister, too, had lost all expression, followed her parents into the kitchen, and gone out the back door, taking her cell phone from her pocket before shrugging into a coat that had been hanging on a hook by the adjacent wall. Would she remember why?

Cian could hear the murmur of voices in the family room, infiltrated now and again by a series of golden notes. More sounds of conversation, a long, lovely melody that floated sweet and gentle through the open door. Its simple beauty swept away his tension for the few moments it lasted.

Then silence returned, and with it, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly shifted, stared at each other, and looked at Cian.

“What… what are you standing there for, boy?” Mr. Kelly waved a hand at the table. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Why do I feel like I missed something?” Mrs. Kelly left the sink and sat on the other side of the table.

Before Cian could think of a response, the Croghan entered the kitchen, followed by Celeste, and addressed Cian. “You’ve said nothing?”

“Nothing.” And what would have been the point? You had them all but frozen!

“Good. Please – Mr. Kelly?” He gestured toward the table for him to sit. “You won’t want to be standing up for this.”

Mr. Kelly paused in the process of pulling out the chair at the far end, his brows almost meeting. “What do you mean?”

“Only that it’ll take a while to explain certain… things to you.”

Cian noticed that Celeste’s complexion was more grey than rosy as she took a seat next to her mother and directly across from him.

The Croghan lowered himself into the chair facing Mr. Kelly. He smiled. “Your daughter, sir, is amazing.”

“We already knew that. Surely there’s more you’re wanting to say.” Mr. Kelly’s thickened accent startled Cian.

Where did that come from? He sounds more Irish than I do!

“Cian?” Mr. Croghan nodded at him. “Would you like to explain things to them?”

“I – I’m not sure where to start.”

“Try the beginning.” Mrs. Kelly’s smile was not pleasant.

“Yes, ma’am.” He swallowed hard. “I, um, I was born in Ireland – in Tír Conaill, which was later renamed Donegal. My father was a druinenech…sorry, weaver.” He swallowed hard and glanced down for a moment. Speaking of his home, his parents, was causing a bizarre reconnect with his native tongue. Why? Deep breath. Keep going. “Also a farmer by trade, and when necessary, a warrior." Raising his eyes, he shrugged, controlling the inner shock at this onslaught of memories.

“Hold on!” Donal slapped the table with one hand. “What kind of nonsense is this?”

“Nonsense?” The Croghan’s eyebrows rose nearly an inch. “Hardly nonsense, Mr. Kelly. Difficult to believe, yes. Nonsense – not at all. I assure you, sir, that what you are about to hear is true from start to finish. Few humans are allowed to know what I’m here to tell you. You’d be wise to consider the possibility that there exist things that go far beyond the realm of human knowledge.”

A long pause. Mr. Kelly took a deep breath and sat back. “Ah, I see it now.” His thunderous look was gone, replaced by a crooked smile, and he chuckled. “How much did Mitch pay you to come here, eh?”

“Donal? What are you talking about? What does Mitch have to do with this?” Mrs. Kelly turned to Celeste. “He’s talking about Mitch Lundgren – I don’t know if you remember him from our Christmas party last year, the same one where you met Joel.”

“Mitch is the one who told me about this clown.” Mr. Kelly jabbed a thumb in Croghan’s direction, smirking. “So how long ago did you two set this up, and how much is he paying you?”

“Never and nothing, sir. He does come into this, but much later in the story.”

“For the love of… what story?” Eyebrows inching closer again, Mr. Kelly crossed his arms and sat back. “And I still don’t know why we’re even having this discussion!”

Cian, meanwhile, was lost. Mitch? What was Mr. Kelly even talking about? He spoke as if this was some kind of joke or trick.

Croghan pushed back his chair and got to his feet. Leaning forward, hands flat on the table, he narrowed his eyes. “Things there are, Donal Kelly, that of necessity take place out of view and comprehension of the average denizen of planet Earth. Those of us responsible for keeping Time in balance rarely interact with the creations of the Great Magistrate, but once in a while, necessity removes the option of choice. Be silent now and listen. Your daughter is part of something far greater than you can imagine, and it has to do with this young man, who himself doesn’t know the extent of his destiny.” He straightened, fixing Donal with his gaze for a few seconds more, and then sat.

No one moved for several seconds, but then Mr. Kelly’s eyes, having gone distant like earlier, refocused. He fidgeted, cleared his throat, shrugged, and finally spoke. “Fine, then. What’s this… this thing my Celeste is… what you said.”

Cian controlled a sudden urge to grin – the Croghan had used his mind-speech again to calm Celeste’s father’s worries.

Croghan sat once more. “Good decision.” He turned to Mrs. Kelly. “Are you also willing to listen?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice, Eileen Kelly.”

“Then wh- wait! How do you know my first name? I haven’t told you, and no one has called me by it!”

“Celesta told me.”

“You mean Celeste.”

“No, dear lady. I mean Celesta. She’s, well, more about her later.”

“I’m thirsty.” Celeste’s words were a whisper.

Cian saw her color was returning, but she still didn’t look well.

Eileen got up and went to the refrigerator. She returned a moment later with a frosty pitcher of something amber with ice cubes and leaves floating in it. After dropping a placemat on the table, she put the pitcher on it, and went to one of the cabinets. Removing five glasses, she put them on a tray and brought them over, placing one in front of each person. Cian murmured a thank-you, wondering what the leaves were.

“Thanks, Mom.” Celeste poured some for herself and took a long sip.

“Hope you all like minted ice tea.” Mrs. Kelly’s tone was curt. “Help yourselves.”

Mint leaves!

Mr. Kelly poured himself a glass, as did The Croghan, then Mrs. Kelly, and finally Cian. The situation was reminding him of something, a new memory that had slid into his mind mere seconds after putting the pitcher back down – his first encounter with The Croghan.

“If you will, I’ll start my explanation.” Croghan took a sip and his eyes lit up. “My goodness, madam, this is magical!”

Mrs. Kelly’s response was a tiny smile, but nothing else.

“So.” Croghan slid a finger down the side of his glass leaving a track in the condensation “As Cian said, he’s from ancient Donegal. To be specific, he was born in A.D. 527. His lineage goes back to the early days of the Druids in 500 B.C. or so. Because of his family’s history and association with the Drunes, an evil sect of the Druids, Cian was chosen to pass through Time itself with my help and that of an angel named Celesta.”

As The Croghan spoke, Cian began to observe the power of the bard’s voice beginning to take control of the atmosphere in the room – he was, after all, a man who knew how to captivate an audience through song and story. Even without his harp, his rich tones were soothing, his use of words captivating. He also suspected that Celeste’s parents had been influenced in a subtle way to listen despite any natural objections.

“Now Celesta is a being whose strength is her ability to play the Songs of Light. These were created to shield all that belong to the Light from the effects and powers of the Darkness. Even in your world their effect if felt – whenever you hear certain harmonies, regardless of their context, or a melody that makes you relax even if you can’t imagine why. Now when I’m not doing things here, my destiny requires my presence in a wondrous place called The Hub of Time.” He stopped to take another sip of his tea.

“Where is this Hub?” asked Celeste.

“Not on Earth, but connected to it by Doors.”

“Doors, you say.” Mr. Kelly shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m participating in this discussion, just so you understand. What kind of doors would lead to your Hub?”

“Not the kind you would know, sir. You see, they are hidden, located in the most ancient places on this world. They also contain Portals, both of which lead to pathways that, when followed, bring the person who has entered through them to the Hub.”

Mrs. Kelly sighed. “What I really don’t understand is why I haven’t called the police on you, or why I am curious to find out what any of this has to do with my daughter.”

“I doubt you’ll be calling the police once you’ve heard everything. Of course, much more must be told before you can begin to comprehend Celeste’s part. To begin, I must take you into Cian’s past.”

Celeste crossed her arms. “Will it explain my trances, or how I’m able to understand and speak Gaelic, even though I’d never learned it?”

“You what?!” Mr. Kelly sat straighter, his eyes wider, back stiffening as his head jerked sideways to stare at his daughter.

Shaking her head, she put a hand on her father’s, which was flat on the table. “Let him talk.”

Cian needed an answer to those questions, too. He’d been told the “Celeste” he sought would play the harp and have a connection with Celesta, but…

“Yes, child, it will explain everything.” Croghan turned to Mrs. Kelly. “I sense great fear rising in you, and as a mother, you should feel that way, but I hope my words can allay that fear. Now. Cian MacDara – his ancestor was a priest of the anti-Druidic sect called the Drunes, as I said. They worshipped something they didn’t comprehend, but it’s thought that even if they did, they’d have worshipped it anyway. In their culture, this being went by the name ‘Crom-Cruach.’ In Eastern cultures, it had another name – Moloch.”

“I’ve heard of both,” said Mrs. Kelly. “People sacrificed their children to the second one. This is not helping.” She bit her lip.

Croghan shook his head. “Please, madam, not ‘he.’ ‘It’ – that monster does not deserve to be dignified with a gender.”

Mr. Kelly reached for the pitcher. “Well, I know the other name is that of an Irish god, and a horrid thing it is, too. People were sacrificed to it by being burned alive in a contraption called a Wicker Man.” He poured out some tea, his mouth twisted.

“Indeed,” Croghan said. “This being has also been called ‘the eater of children.’ Those who worshipped it as Moloch would sacrifice their children by tossing them alive into a fire burning within a head-shaped vessel with an open mouth, as well as in other ways.”

Celeste shivered. “That’s disgusting! How awful!”

“And Cian’s ancestor was a priest for those who practiced this religion?”

“He was, Mr. Kelly. But when he was asked to sacrifice his own child, he forsook his position and his faith. The other priests, of course, saw it as heresy and a betrayal of their god, a transgression punishable by a long, painful death. The man went to the Druids to speak with Amergin, a bard greatly loved and respected, whose words had weight among the people. Upon hearing the man’s plight, he agreed to help.

“In the Boyne Valley are a number of structures that at the time were already so old that no one knew who had built them. They had becomes centers of worship for the Druids, and the largest was called Dún Fhearghusa. Today, it’s more commonly known as Newgrange.”

Mr. Kelly nodded. “I’ve been there. It’s a passage tomb, built some time before the pyramids. Looks brand new.” He gave a short laugh. “They really don’t make things like they used to, eh? But how is this place important? Why did Amergin, who I’ve also heard of, by the way, take the priest there?”

“The priest, his wife and child, to be exact. Newgrange is one of those ancient places of which I spoke. At the end of the passage, as you know if you’ve been inside, is what looks like nothing but a circular stone chamber, but the Druids knew it for what it was – a Door into the Hub of Time.”

“So when our tour group went in there, we were staring at this Door?”

“You were.”

Throughout the conversation, Cian had been observing everyone’s behavior. By this point, Mr. Kelly seemed to have forgotten he didn’t trust Croghan. Mrs. Kelly had put an elbow on the table, her face cupped in her hand, nodding as Croghan spoke. Celeste, too, stared at the bard, her complexion no longer ashen. The blue of her eyes… he considered the blue of her eyes. Dark blue, like stormy water on a lake…

A moment later, Cian realized his focus had shifted from the story to Celeste alone. What was it about her that caused him to struggle with breathing? Maybe he was getting sick, but this odd shortness of breath only seemed to happen when he was looking at her.

“… Cian comes in.”

Hearing his name, Cian blinked, dragged his gaze and thoughts from the lovely girl who had at that moment turned her head to stare back at him, blushing.

“Cian?” Mrs. Kelly tapped her fingernails on the table.

“I… I’m… ” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“You do know my daughter is only sixteen, young man, yes?”

Uh-oh. Mr. Kelly was glaring once more – at Cian. “Yes, sir.”

“And you’re, what, fifteen hundred years old?”

Croghan chuckled. “He’s seventeen, Mr. Kelly. He’s merely living in a different time than the one into which he was born.”

“Dad! Please don’t go all lock-up-the-women-and-hide-the-silverware on me.”

Mr. Kelly stared at Celeste, pursing his lips. “Mm-hmm. So tell me, Celeste, what is your view on all these things we’re hearing?”

“I believe it.”

“Do you, now!”

“Yes. You haven’t been in class and seen what I have.” She took a deep breath and sat straighter. “Look – too many odd things have happened within the past few days, some even before that, and what Mr. Croghan is telling us is answering a lot of questions that have bothered me since, like, forever, and especially since Thursday.” She shifted to look more directly at her father. “Maybe Mom never told you, but I have these crazy trances once in a while. Did you know that? I couldn’t tell you what I see when I’m in that state, but almost every time I snap out of it, if that’s the right term, I suddenly know stuff I didn’t, or that I couldn’t. Like what happened Thursday – Cian said something in Gaelic, and Dad, I understood every word! Not only that, but I answered him in Gaelic! Tell me you can explain that!”

Mr. Kelly opened his mouth to reply, but she raised a finger, stopping him.

“Another thing. I know how to play the harp, even though I’ve never touched one before. Ask Mom.”

Her father shook his head. “No one tells me anything around here. But… all right, what about him? You were saying something about school?”

Celeste folded her hands on the table and took a quick breath through her nose. “Yes. There’s a bunch of stuff he doesn’t know about, like laser pointers, ‘Back To The Future,’ and… well, some of the things I’ve heard him say in class that he was obviously not doing on purpose, like saying ‘Germany’ as if he’d never used that word himself, or, uh, what was that other thing... oh, yeah. He called Donegal by another name, and when he was talking about his people, said something like ‘you call them’ instead of ‘they were called.’ See what I mean?”

Croghan sat forward and before her parents could respond, said, “Celeste, eist liom – Tá sé ceart go leor. An dtuigeann tú Gaelige?”

“Tá Gaelige agus Béarla agam...Ó, ar fheabhas!” She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Nábac leis,” said Mr. Croghan in a gentle voice, adding in English, “I understand your fear and frustration.”

Mrs. Kelly put a hand on Celeste’s arm. “It’s okay, Celeste.” She shook her head and glared around. “I have no idea what all of this means, so someone had better tell me what’s going on!” She turned to Cian. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what she said?”

“Of course. The Croghan said, ‘Listen to me, it’s all right. Do you speak Gaelic?’ and Celeste said, ‘I speak Gaelic and English… oh, excellent!’ So he said, ‘Never mind,’ or ‘don’t worry about it’ – it sort of means both. Anyway, that was all.”

“That’s all?” Mr. Kelly’s voice started rising. “I heard my daughter carry on a conversation in a language she doesn’t know and you say, ‘that’s all’?! And by the way, my wife may not have understood what they said, but I did – I speak that language too, even if the dialect is somewhat... odd.”

Celeste gaped. “You do? Why didn’t you ever say anything about it?”

“Why should I? We live in America, girl. What would I or any of us do with the Irish language here?”

“Nothing, I guess. It would’ve been cool to know about, though.”

Someone knocked on the side door.

“Katie! I forgot!” Jumping up, Celeste ran down the short hallway off the kitchen. A moment later she was back with her friend in tow.

“You know, Celeste, this really isn’t the best time,” her mother said.

“I disagree. I think she’s the perfect person to have here right now. Besides, she knows about some of this stuff, too, like the trances and me speaking Gaelic, so she should probably be a part of it.” She returned to her chair.

“A part of what?” Katie pulled out the chair next to Cian and sat, then pointed to Croghan. “Who’s that?”

“This is my new harp teacher, Mr. Croghan.”

“So what’s going on? Hey, so Cian – looks like you made it. But why is everyone so tense?”

“Cian?” Croghan raised an eyebrow.

With a slow shake of his head, Cian sat back. “You’re the harper, Croghan. You can tell the story better than anyone.”

Mr. Kelly thrust out his jaw and nodded at Croghan. “What year do you claim to have been born in?”

“Well, let’s say it was quite a while before Cian.”

“No kidding,” Katie said. “Cian’s a teenager, and you’re – no offense, sir – you’re older than… ” She paused, giving Croghan a closer look. “Huh. I can’t tell. Well, lots older than Cian, anyway.” She looked back at Cian. “I wanted to talk to you yesterday and get some answers, but we couldn’t find you at school, and then you said you were going to come over here, so I figured I’d ask you now. But dude, I never expected anything like this. What’s going on? And what story? You all look ready to explode.”

Mr. Croghan smiled. “I like you, young lady. What was your name?”

“Katie, and it still is.”

He chuckled, nodding. “All right. The story.” He turned to Cian. “Do you want me to tell them?”

“Yes. My memories are starting to come back, but I seem to have forgotten a great deal more than I remember.”

“Ah. You make a good point. Mind you, now, this no mere story, but the truth, and it begins around 500 B.C.” He poured himself another glass of tea and took a hefty gulp. Putting the glass down, he turned to Mrs. Kelly. “I’m afraid I’ve finished your tea, and without asking Katie if she wanted some.”

“Mm-hmm.” She stood and picked up the pitcher.

With the sounds of Mrs. Kelly busy at the sink and stove, Croghan continued. “I’ll backtrack a bit for Katie so your wife doesn’t miss anything, Mr. Kelly.” He explained once more about Cian’s ancestor and the god he worshipped.

“As I told the Kellys, this god was called Crom-Cruach in Ireland, who was worshipped by the Drunes I spoke of earlier.”

Katie held up a hand. “Wait – what are droons?”

“An evil sect of the Druids, Ireland’s ruling class at that time.”

“I’ve heard of those guys, at least. We were talking about them in class the other day.”

“Well the members of the Drunish sect had a priesthood, and among them was a man who denied his faith in protest because of a law he didn’t like. As a consequence, he and his family were in danger of execution by these Drunes… ” Croghan spelled it. “So he went to the Druids for protection, speaking with a man named Amergin. The former priest and his family were brought to a place where a Door into the Hub of Time was being guarded by the Druids, and that, I believe, brings us all to the same place in the story.”

“Hold on, harp teacher. What’s the Hub of Time? I mean… is this serious, or are you just telling some weird fake story?”

“Serious? Oh, yes, Katie. There’s nothing ‘fake’ about any of this.”

“Katie, chill.” Celeste shook her head at her friend. “This is probably what Cian was going to explain to us yesterday. I have a feeling it’s all going to make sense soon.”

Mrs. Kelly returned, the pitcher full once more, and put a glass in front of Katie as she set the tea on the table. “Okay. Let’s hear the rest.” She sat, casting a quick glance at Cian. Arms crossed, she switched her attention to Croghan, her eyes narrowing.

Looks like she’s decided not to believe him. That’s not good. Cian wondered if he should try to reassure her.

Before he could speak, Celeste put both elbows on the table, propping her chin on crossed fingers. “Tell us about Amergin.”

Cian smiled at her eagerness. She, at least, wasn’t objecting to the account. But did she believe it?

“Ah, Amergin!” Croghan gave her a big smile. “He was a man loved by all who followed the Druids, a bard of rare ability, knowledge and kindness who had a firm grasp on what they called magic. Of course, much of that is what we now know as science.

“But I must continue. Once through the Door, Amergin brought the man and his family down the Halls of Time to the Hub, a hill at the very center of all the pathways. There it was that I met him and learned of his plight. I called upon an angel named Celesta to help.”

Katie snorted. “An angel. Really? How do you ‘call upon’ an angel?”

Croghan raised a brow. “Yes, Katie. An angel. And to call her to me, I need only play a specific chord on my harp and sing out her name.”

“And what – she poofs onto your hill thingy?”

Croghan developed a look that Cian had never seen on his face before. A second later, he burst into gales of laughter. “Oh, my!” Gasping, he regained control. “Oh, Katie, what a mind you have! No, there’s no, er, poofing.” He gave another short laugh. “What happens, is that the air in front of me crystallizes into droplets of glimmering, sparkling silver, dazzling the eyes with shimmering radiance. The cascade of luminosity is formed in part by joy. When it fades, the angel is standing there, so beautiful that the average human would find it hard to breathe at the sight of her.”

I wonder if that makes Celeste an angel… Cian told himself to stop it, and pulled his gaze from Celeste’s eyes to Croghan’s face.

“Mind you,” the harper was saying, “angels don’t look a thing like what you’ve seen in paintings and such. For one thing, they’re much larger than we are, and for another, the majority of them have no wings, nor do any of them have halos.”

“All right, but why did you need to call on her in the first place?” Mr. Kelly, too, Cian saw, was behaving as if none of what was going on was unusual. Not at the moment. That, he knew, could change.

“Because the Hub grants access to every moment and every place in the history of the universe. The Darkness cannot gain access to the Hub, or its creatures would be free to travel back in Time and create chaos. It never ceases to try, of course, and sometimes one or another of the dark beings will almost break through one of the Portals. The only way to chase them back and keep them from getting all the way inside is to play the Songs of Light. The melodies are more powerful than any dark being could hope to be.”

Mrs. Kelly poured herself another glass, moving the pitcher closer to Katie when she was done. “I would like to hear the part that includes Celeste.”

“And so you shall, madam.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

TWELVE

 

“Wait! Hold on a second!” Celeste, feeling the blood drain from her face, her stare riveted on Gerald Croghan, gripped the edge of the table with an unexpected realization. “I remember! It was you! You were the one on the hill in my dream last night – the one who told me to… to play always… to keep… keep away the darkness… warning me!”

A slow smile curved the Croghan’s lips, and he nodded at Mrs. Kelly. “As promised.” Then he turned to Celeste, his smile wider. “Yes child, it was.”

A tear spilled down Celeste’s pale cheek. “I don’t understand.”

“Your visions,” said Katie. “This is part of it all, right?” She looked at the Croghan. “Did you give them to her?”

“No, Celesta did that.”

“Why?”

“To prepare her for... this.” He spread his hands to include all of them. “And most of all, him.” He nodded toward Cian.

Now Celeste frowned, sniffling. “So… what you said to my Mom… you knew I would realize all that, right at this exact moment?”

“More or less.”

Gaping, Eileen squeezed Celeste’s hand between her own and cleared her throat. “How do you do something like that? How did you know she’d remember?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been around a long time. I think the expression Katie had been about to use is ‘older than dirt.’”

Katie giggled.

“Now if you like, I’ll continue so you may get some more answers.” He looked around the table.

“I would definitely like some more answers,” said Celeste, allowing herself a brief glance at Cian. The way he’d been staring at her before, while somewhat disconcerting, was also pleasant in a way she doubted she could explain. Her father’s reaction, however, left no doubt it would be a bad idea to make a lot more eye contact with her enigmatic new classmate.

“Very well. Now – ”

“Mom, it’s really cold outside and w- … um, what’s going on?”

Celeste started, having forgotten all about her sister. Tara, her nose and cheeks reddened by the cold, had burst into the kitchen through the back door. “What were you doing out there all this time?”

Tara opened her mouth, but paused, frowning. “I… I don’t know. I mean, I thought someone told me to go out and call my friends over to hang out with me, but… Mom? Did you tell me that?”

Eileen’s look of surprised morphed into a glower that she aimed at Mr. Croghan. “I don’t suppose you…”

“You suppose correctly. She’s too young, and it was necessary.”

“Hey! Tara here. I can hear you. What’s happening?”

“We’re just having a discussion about Celeste’s new friend,” Donal told her.

“Oh, yeah. Him.” She smiled at Cian, the redness in her cheeks deepening.

Cian, Celeste noticed, offered Tara a smile in return, but looked down at the table right after. How… odd.

“Wait a minute.” Eileen tilted her head. “You invited someone over?”

“Stacy and Nadine.” Tara had answered her mother in a dreamy voice, her eyes still on Cian.

“Tara!”

She jumped but stopped staring. “Mom!”

“Look, why don’t you get your friends – I can’t believe you left them out there in the cold. Anyway, bring them upstairs; just don’t make a big mess in your room.”

“And stay out of Celeste’s.” Katie waggled a finger at Tara.

“Fine. But why does everyone look so freaked out?”

“Maybe because we are.” Celeste wanted to get back to the story and was getting frustrated by all the interruptions. “Please shut up and go away, Tara. Just this once.”

Sticking out her tongue, Tara went to the back door. “Fine.” She opened the door and yelled, “Hey, guys! Come inside – we’ll hang out in my room!”

A second later, two girls came bundling in through the door and rushed through the kitchen in Tara’s wake, flashing Eileen and Donal a quick wave as they passed.

      “You’ve quite a household,” said the Croghan. “But to continue...”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“I explained to Celesta that I had to escort the man and his family to a new time, told her why, and asked if she would play back the Darkness in my absence. She agreed, told Amergin he was free to return to his people and time, and produced her harp.”

“Why couldn’t she use yours?”

“Well, as I mentioned, Katie, angels are much bigger than we are, at least that kind. My harp would have been like a toy in her hands.”

Katie nodded. “Makes sense. Sorry.”

“That’s all right – it was a good question. So! Once Amergin had left, Celesta said I should take as long as I needed; I knew that if she grew lonesome, she could find someone with whom she could talk.

“Now by ‘talk,’ I mean something different than what humans mean. As an angel, Celesta can search out specific minds, merge her own with them, and allow them to see things in their thoughts that she has seen or is seeing. In this way, Celesta can encourage them, or if necessary, suggest certain ideas that they may or may not choose to carry out. She cannot read minds, but when she discovers someone with the potential to benefit mankind if properly prepared and taught, she goes to the Creator, Who tells her what she needs to know and no more. Thus she knows what to show them.

“And yes, Celeste, she did seek you out; the Darkness learned of my absence, and became more persistent than usual, giving Celesta no respite. To ease her labors, she sought a companion with whom she could share some of the beauty she’d known as a celestial being, which is what her name means. You were the one she chose while I was away helping that man and his family to find a safe haven. He had to be moved about often, since Moloch would occasionally make a massive effort to locate and destroy him.”

“That’s the other name for the Irish god creep, right?”

“Yes, Katie. And the term ‘creep’ is beyond kind. Now eventually, I settled the family in a little village on Donegal Bay about two hundred years before Cian would be born. There, they were left alone by that evil one, and there they prospered.

“When I returned, Celesta told me what the Great Magistrate – also known as The Creator – had asked her to do with my help. Moloch had been overstepping its bounds with its pursuit of Cian’s ancestor, and needed to be punished. As an eternal creature, it can’t be killed, but it can be contained in a place called The Outer Darkness, a kind of prison for rogue spirits. Only, no human had the skill or legal right to send it there at that point. Thus we were tasked with finding and training someone with all the right characteristics to face Moloch in battle and defeat it.

“As you have probably surmised, that person would be a descendant of the priest – Cian. He was to be given instruction in the use of the weapons that would prepare him to wield the only thing able to stop that evil creature – the Sword of Light.

“Celesta told me this boy would have inherited a characteristic from the maternal side. ‘His great-great grandmother,’ she said, ‘will join with a human male of unusual beauty. Because of this, some will even call him a god. Their sons and daughters will also be beautiful, and through the loveliest of them, this boy’s genetics will blend to create a person of unparalleled magnificence. No one who sees him will be able to look away.’”

Cian shifted and Celeste allowed herself to look at him. He had closed his eyes, shaking his head. That embarrassed him! But why?

“I asked if it might not be better to have someone more normal-looking so he wouldn’t be so noticeable,” Croghan was saying, “but she explained that he must be immediately recognizable as one who has been chosen for a special purpose.”

Celeste realized she was still staring at Cian and quickly looked back at Croghan.

“I asked what else she saw about him that would make him the right one,“ Croghan continued. “She told me that in addition to physical strength, emotional determination, and the capacity for loving greatly, he would also have the right kind of intelligence to be taught how to fight the darkness.” He smiled at Celeste. “And then she said, ‘I have also found another – she can be his Celesta. How wonderful that her name will be Celeste! She will be possessed of a natural musical ability and great beauty.’”

Celeste felt the warmth of a blush ease up her throat and into her cheeks, and understood why Cian had looked so uncomfortable.

Eileen patted Celeste’s back. “She was right about that, too.”

“Mom – stop it!” Celeste hissed. Would anyone notice if she slid under the table and hung out there for a while?

“The next thing Celesta told me was that this young lady would be from neither the same place nor time as the priest’s descendant. Therefore, I was to return to Earth as Croghan the Bard and go to the boy’s cottage, which, having settled his ancestor there, I knew well. I would bring him into the Hub through the Door closest to Donegal, and from there, arrange for him to travel the pathways to various times that were future to his own so he could see the progress of mankind through the ages. Once this was accomplished, Cian would be brought to the same time as the girl and left there with those who know and help us, who would care for him until he was grown, continue his training, and make sure he never forgot his destiny.”

“Who are those who know and help you?” Katie poured more tea, brows raised.

“Another excellent question! Among every generation are those humans who are made aware of us. We call them Servant Helpers, and they volunteer to lend assistance if and when necessary in their time. They can enter a Door or Portal to escort someone to the Hub, or even to another Door in safety. Without their help, the Darkness that on rare occasions creeps about in the Halls and on the paths near these places of entrance will destroy any human caught there. Before you ask, it is possible to fall in through a Door or Portal by accident.”

“I’m getting a headache,” Donal muttered. Then louder, “This an awful lot to take in, Mr. Croghan.”

“I know, but you must be made to understand why I’m here, why Cian is here, and why we need Celeste’s help.”

Celeste had been contemplating these things while trying not to miss anything, but was coming up with more and more questions with each answer. “How does this Hub work, anyway?” she blurted out.

“All right. I use relative terms like ‘he will be’ or ‘there shall be’ only to help you maintain an order in the tale. At the Hub, Time stands still, you see, so while the former priest was coming through his Door onto one of the pathways with Amergin, his descendent, Cian, was already alive and thriving on the other side of another of the Doors. This is how the Glorious One can be with so many at once. He, too, exists outside the strictures of Time.”

From the other room came the sound of pounding footsteps, and a moment later Tara burst into the kitchen again. “Listen, Mom, I’m really sorry to interrupt, but we are soooo hungry! It’s way past lunch time, so can we please eat?”

Eileen looked up at Tara, gasping, and stood. “She’s right! Everybody out of my kitchen. Go sit in the family room while I make lunch – and no stories until after we eat,” she added, leveling a sharp look at Croghan.

      With a slight nod and a big grin, he got up, the others doing the same.

      Part of her mind still on the story, Celeste trailed out of the room behind the rest. She’d been chosen to be Cian’s helper… it was hard, but she managed to contain the sudden urge to execute a fist-pump and a loud, “Yessss!”

THIRTEEN

 

Georgia – One Year Earlier

 

“How in the world could you let this one fall through the cracks?” Mr. Bell, head of the Foster Care Department, ran a hand through his hair. “And for six years! I mean, what are the chances we’ll find him, or that he’s all right?”

Fuming, Felicity Markwood got up from her chair and crossed her arms. “Okay, look. Get something straight, sir. I was not even employed by this agency back then, so don’t you dare point your finger at me and accuse me of ‘letting’ anyone ‘fall through the cracks’! Second, I was the social worker who found the discrepancy and reported it, so if anything, you ought to be saying, ‘Thank you, Miss Markwood – if it hadn’t been for your efforts, no one would even know this child was missing from the system.’ And third, the whole reason this happened, which I just discovered, was because the boy’s case worker was killed in a freak accident on her way back from dropping him off with his new foster-family!”

“I heard about that, too.” Mr. Bell nodded. “A tree limb broke and went through the roof of her convertible, killing her instantly. Weird.”

“Yes, it was.” Felicity sat back down behind her desk. “And because of that, we got no report on what these people were like or even where the boy had been taken since for some reason, she never entered their information in the system. Had our new Director not given me authority to search, this boy’s existence would still be unknown. However, I was able to access the holding room of the Police Department in the County where the accident occurred and find the woman’s papers – my own idea, I might add.”

Spring had finally come to Atlanta after a harsh winter, and the office windows had been opened that morning. An early mosquito buzzed in, its tiny racket distracting Felicity enough that she glanced out at the silver-green of new leaves brightening Peachtree Street. Already the air was filling with the lovely fragrances that marked the demise of winter and she took in a deep breath through her nose.

“It certainly is nice,” remarked Mr. Bell, his tone dry.

She turned back to him with a sour smile. “Yeah. Anyway, what exactly are you here for, besides yelling at me?”

“I didn’t yell, but I’m deeply disturbed by what our research on this case has turned up.”

“Your research? Excuse me, but I believe all of that research is nothing more than copies of what I sent to you. So I know what’s in it, and believe me, I’m more upset and disturbed about this than you could possibly know.”

One eyebrow shot upward toward the man’s receding hairline. “And why is that, Miss Markwood?”

Her shoulders dropped in exasperation. “Look at the extent of all the mistakes! First, the foster father was the one who took all the required classes, not the mother – she never showed up at all, yet there was no investigation. Second, the home he showed us wasn’t even theirs, but belonged to some friend of his in Albany, but nobody double-checked the address until recently! And third, when he died under suspicious circumstances, his wife never contacted us, so we had no idea where they really lived, or that he had died. That was another new revelation! For some reason I can’t fathom, no one looked into any of this, a fact that cost the last Director and his staff their jobs!”

“Worse than that,” Bell added, “the boy had been staying at the home of a woman who worked at the Center for Resources and Support, one of our main divisions, until she and her husband were brutally murdered. The boy should have remained here until the investigation ended, but instead, the case worker left with him the next day – ”

“And placed him with the new foster family, driving him to a house she never had a chance to register, out in the middle of nowhere, um, in…” She leafed through a stack of papers in front of her until she found the one she wanted, ran her finger part-way down the page, and stopped, jabbing an index finger at the paper. “Shady Dale, or a little way outside of it.”

“Where’s that? I’ve heard the name, something to do with the Pony Express, I believe, but I don’t know where it is.”

“Like I said, in the middle of nowhere – Jasper County. The town only has a population of about two hundred and fifty or so and it’s historic, but this place isn’t even in town. It’s a little southwest of there, off Highway Eighty-Five, almost in Macon. And by the way, there’s no record of him ever having attended school there, either. The only reason I have any of this information is because the social worker’s papers were located in a kind of lost-and-found at the hospital where she was taken after the accident.”

Mr. Bell shook his head. “Incredible. So where is Jasper County?”

“The closest bigger city is Monticello. In fact, if I remember the map, it’s almost exactly in a straight line between Monticello and Madison.”

“Okay. Heard of those. So how did he end up there?”

“I told you. He was living in the home of a CRS worker –”

“Think I’d like to have a chat with the CRS. Want to go?”

That surprised her. “Why’re you asking me?”

“Because.” He shrugged, giving her the first genuine smile she’d seen since he’d entered her office. “I believe you really care about this case, and it might help if you got involved in rescuing the kid – assuming, of course, that what we’ve heard is accurate and he needs rescuing.”

“Thank you.” Her voice and pulse returned to their usual calm state. “I would sincerely like to do that.”

“Excellent! Shall we?”

Felicity nodded, grabbed the file from the desk, her jacket from the back of her chair, and joined him. “We shall.”

“Oh – what’s the address for the CRS anyway?”

She opened the case folder and leafed through the papers again. “Uh... here it is – right here in Atlanta, um, Suite One-forty... it’s on North Druid Hills Road.”

 

*********

 

Cian made himself as small as possible, curling up at the end of his mattress where the shadows were deepest. Four days had passed since he’d heard any activity upstairs. His foster mother had locked him in the basement with the promise that he would never get out again, but now strange people had come into the house. Cian was sure they were not the family. The footsteps sounded different, slow, and no one was speaking.

On that day two years earlier when he’d come home from the hospital, things had taken a bizarre and terrible turn. The beatings with the electrical wire had stopped, but the woman’s cruelty had found new avenues, ones that were in their own way much worse. Dr. Lee had seemed to believe him about what she’d done, but the day after their talk the doctor had been in a car accident and a day after that, had died from his injuries.

Cian learned of this while still in the hospital, and he’d mourned the man who had been so kind to him despite having to deal with his ugliness. After being released from the hospital a week later, he noticed that Buddy wasn’t saying much, and at sporadic moments throughout the next several weeks, he would run upstairs to his room, tears coursing down his face. He never asked why, but didn’t think it had anything to do with Dr. Lee who – as far as Cian knew – Buddy had never met. So what was his foster brother so upset about?

So many things about this family made no sense, like when he’d first come to live with them. On his third day there, he’d heard strange voices through the flooring overhead, followed by the sound of Buddy and Retta crying hysterically. Later that day, the sobs were replaced by a deep silence, which he interpreted as the absence of his foster family. By the next morning, everything was back to normal. He didn’t understand it all back then, since no one had told him until several years later that here had been a foster father and what had happened to him.

The morning he’d left the hospital, Letitia made a snide remark about the doctor’s death, something about “comeuppance.” Buddy’s strange behavior and Letitia’s attitude were making no more sense than the other bizarre things that characterized life with the Pettijohns, but he had little time to think about his. After dropping him off, Letitia had gone out, returning a short while later with a tape recorder.

“This is for you, Unacceptable – and believe me, you’re going to wish you’d kept your ugly mouth shut in that hospital!” She had taken the recorder into the shed out back, and begun screaming words Cian couldn't make out from the basement.

When she was finished, she’d entered the basement and plugged the recorder in next to his mattress. He was still in a lot of discomfort from the beating, and had been told to stay on bed rest for another week. That didn’t happen.

Letitia had made him sit up with his back pressed painfully against the wall, and then tied his hands in front with an old clothes line. She’d then attached the ends of the rope to the crank that once opened the window above his pathetic excuse for a bed, raising his arms at an uncomfortable angle. She’d gone to the far side of the basement to fetch a jar, which she opened and placed on the windowsill, winding part of the rope around it.

“That’s sulfuric acid, boy. You try to stand up to get yourself loose, or raise or lower your arms, and it’ll fall right on your head. And if you think you’re ugly now, you should see what that stuff’ll do to you! It can eat right through your flesh, muscle and bone.”

She’d bent down and turned on the tape recorder, raising the volume to its highest setting, and Cian finally knew why and what she’d been screaming out in the shed. Up close, her yelling was almost deafening, but her words were far worse than the sound level. Every minute of a thirty-minute tape had been filled with a non-stop, earsplitting diatribe of hatred. Almost as soon as it was over, it would replay from the beginning, and because Cian couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it, and couldn’t cover his ears for the next two days and nights, he was all but destroyed by the time she’d finally returned and switched it off. He had carefully shifted sideways to rest his arms against the wall, but was still in the same basic position in which she’d left him, his eyes swollen from crying, and he’d messed himself several times.

“You stink.” Wrinkling her nose, she’d removed the jar and untied the rope.

He had promptly collapsed sideways, rolled over, and thrown up, then lay in his vomit and stared at nothing, not moving, scarcely breathing.

“I’m going upstairs. If you aren’t cleaned up by the time I get back in 20 minutes, I’ll play the tape again. You got that, mister?”

He hadn't answered, so she’d muttered, “Whatever,” and picked up the tape recorder.

Cian had heard her go upstairs and lock the door. Still groggy, he’d acknowledged that he couldn't handle more of that tape, so he’d forced himself to sit up, despite being thirsty, starving, and exhausted from his nearly three-day ordeal. The healing wounds had pulled tight when he moved, and his arms – his whole body – were sore from lack of mobility, his head pounding.

But she was going to be back in 20 minutes and would turn that horrid tape on again if he didn't get up. In a desperate effort that brought a throbbing, stinging pain caught as a sob in his dry throat, he had stood. Stumbling and gasping, he had made his way into the dank bathroom where he’d used water from the toilet to wash himself after peeling off his soiled clothes. Then, naked and shivering, he’d gone back out to the dryer, hoping there would be something clean in it for him to wear, but had found it empty.

Returning to the bathroom, he had picked up the clothing, took it to the washer, added more items from the laundry basket with some detergent, and started the machine. The effort had been expensive, costing him almost all the energy he had left, and between the agony of movement and the throbbing headache, he almost hadn’t made it back to the mattress.

No sooner had he started to lie down, than he’d realized it was every bit as fouled as his clothes and body had been, the odor overpowering. At first, he hadn't known what to do, because the ability to think was nearly out of his reach at that moment. Then he’d pulled himself together and removed the pine-scented cleaning liquid and a scrub brush from the cabinet above the washer. Jaw clenched with pain, he had retrieved a bucket from under the stairs, poured out a bit of the cleaner, and then opened the washer. It was still filling up, so he had been able to get some of the water into the bucket.

After setting this on the floor, he had scooped out several mouthfuls of water from the washer with his hands, nearly weeping with relief as the cool liquid slid down his throat.

A box of old rags sat next to the bathroom door, and gagging from the stench, he’d used one to wipe the vomit from his mattress. That done, he’d dipped the brush into the bucket to get it soapy, and scoured the surface. He finished before his foster mother returned, and propped it up on its side under the window to dry, using more rags to clean the mess that had been sloughed onto the floor.

The key had turned in the lock at the top of the stairs, and the boy had grabbed another rag from the box and tried to cover himself.

“What in the name of blue buttermilk are you doing, boy?” the woman had asked, peering into the gloom at him as she’d come down the steps.

“C-c-cleaning up,” he’d said, hoarse, finding it difficult to speak. In addition to the dehydration, his throat was raw from yelling, which had been the only way he’d been able to block out some of the horrors on the tape.

“Where are your clothes?”

“In the-the washer,” he’d croaked, eyes wide with fear.

“You put anything else in there, or are you wasting a whole wash load on one outfit?”

“I – I put other things in there t-too.” I’m stuttering! What’s wrong with me? This realization had been yet another blow.

She had nodded and stepped closer. After peering up at him for a moment, jaw set, she’d lashed out and backhanded him across the face. “You’re disgusting.”

“Y-y-y-yes, m-m-ma’am.

She’d stepped back, hands on her hips, and regarded as he stood shivering and crying noiselessly before her. “Well, I’ll be,” she had said softly. “It’s about time.” And then she’d thrown back her head and let out a loud, ugly laugh. “I finally broke you, didn’t I!”

He’d been looking at his feet, his usual stance to keep his face from being seen, and at this, had lowered his head further and nodded. He’d known she was right. He had nothing left inside with which to defy her.

“You pathetic asshole – my poor little moron. Huh…”

Leave me alone!

“Know what? You’re even too stupid to know that you ought to kill yourself. Maybe I should keep reminding you.” She’d turned and gone back upstairs.

Sobbing, the boy had fallen to his knees, knowing what she was going to do. She was going to get the tape recorder. He couldn’t handle it again so soon. Death had begun to look like a welcome option.

When the washing machine had stopped, the silence hadn’t register for several minutes. When it did, he’d gotten up and put the clothes into the dryer as he’d wondered why he bothered. He’d thought about the mattress, his clothes, the reason they needed to be cleaned, added to the humiliation that he had stood before her stark naked except for a pathetic square of cloth and the bandages covering his back, and realized he had no dignity left. She’d taken that, too. He’d leaned against the machine throughout the drying cycle, and tried not to think any more, allowing the deep soreness to pulse through him to the rhythm of the dryer motor. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He’d dressed when the machine stopped, and then checked the mattress, but found it still damp. The air in the basement was cold and humid, so he’d have to wait a while before using it again.

The lock had turned in the door again and he’d crouched down beside the mattress, covering his head with his arms.

“What’s your problem?” Buddy had come into the basement this time.

Cian had refused to move.

“Hey, stupid! Unacceptable! Donkey-ass face!” Buddy had reached down and shaken the boy by his shoulder. “I got some food for you.”

Cian had heard a plate being set on the floor, but wouldn’t move.

“Ha! Guess Ma was right.” He’d uttered a short laugh. “You gonna do everything you’re told from now on, right?”

Cian had always done what was demanded of him, but he nodded.

“Thought so. Get up, fool, and don’t look at me.”

He’d stood despite his pain and stared obediently at the floor.

“Hop on one foot.”

He’d bit his lip, but obeyed, wincing.

Buddy had laughed. “This is great! Okay, okay… uh, get down on all fours and snort like a pig.”

Beginning to cry again, the boy had done as he was told, the pain in his back increasing.

“Yeah! Now eat your food off the plate like a pig eating his slop.”

Hungrier than he’d ever been in his life, Cian nevertheless found himself unable to eat.

“Do it, moron! Do it, or I’ll call my Ma down here with that tape recorder!”

He’d swallowed his tears, bent down over the plate and ate without recognizing what was on it, struggling to keep it down.

“Aw, come on – make more pig noises!”

Compliance with this one had almost choked him but he did it – anything was better than that cursed tape.

Buddy had crowed with delight and clapped his hands. “I love this! You know, I didn’t want to bring you your damned supper, but from now on, I’ll be bringing every meal, every day, and trust me, brain-dead boy, I’ll make your meals real interesting.” So saying, he’d gone back upstairs, laughing the whole way.

Cian had sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth with the back of one arm, realized that he had entered a deeper level of hell, and that the only way out was to die. He’d considered the various ways of committing suicide, but none were appealing because all of them would be slow and painful. He would have to deal with it somehow – or maybe he would drink the sulfuric acid.

During the next two years of listening to the tapes – she’d had her son and daughter each make one, too, and they were every bit as awful as hers – he’d become more and more convinced that he would be doing the world a favor if he ended his life, and had nearly succeeded twice. The first time he’d tried, he had slit his wrists with a nail, but Buddy had found him bleeding on the floor and they’d patched him up. Retta had used rubbing alcohol as a disinfectant and a regular needle and thread to sew up the wounds, watching and giggling as he bit his lower lip in pain until that was bleeding, too.

They had then subjected him to an hour of the three of them screaming horrendous profanities in his ears. A few weeks later he’d tried to hang himself, but his foster mother had stopped him before he could kick away the stool on which he’d stood with the rope slung over one of the pipes in the ceiling.

After that, they’d kept his hands and feet tied, unless they had him doing chores, or Buddy needed to use him as a punching bag for boxing practice. Sometimes the woman and her daughter would sit on the stairs and watch until Buddy was done and the boy lay senseless, bruised, and bleeding on the floor. Then they’d tie him up and dump him on the mattress.

This time, however, he had been sent back to the basement alone after bringing in the laundry, and leaving him untied, his foster mother had screeched through the door that he’d never be allowed out again. He’d had no idea why.

An hour or so later, the front door had slammed, and he’d heard nothing more for four whole days.

At first he’d been so relieved they had gone out, the usual thoughts of killing himself had faded. Instead, he’d taken out his sword and tried exercising muscles that were long-neglected, but the current set of bruises left by Buddy’s fists had made it too painful. So instead, he’d closed his eyes and remembered the movements; when he was better able, he could get back to it.

At first, he’d simply imagined the different kinds of arm motions and footwork but then, unbidden, he had pictured himself using Buddy as a target. Then his foster mother. Then Retta. And it had given him a feeling of deep satisfaction for a while. Something in him felt that they were the ones who should be killing themselves, not him, but he’d silenced that voice whenever it surfaced, afraid of the implications.

Even though he’d hurt a little less the next day where his foster-brother had punched him, his ability to move was still restricted. He had tried again on the third day, but had felt weak, and put away the sword, sat down on his mattress, and wondered how long it would take to starve to death, certain now that this was why he’d been left there.

By the morning of the fourth day, he was unable to do much more than go to the bathroom, put on some clothes, and lay down again. But on this day, the agony of hunger had surpassed the soreness of his injuries.

It was a little after noontime when he heard the front door open. Naturally, he thought it was his foster-family returning, but then footsteps crossed from the hallway into the kitchen, and he knew they were different. The sounds of movement upstairs continued. He was so weak at this point, he didn’t think he could run or defend himself if anyone tried to hurt him. All he could do was curl up into the corner of the mattress, as far from the light as he could get.

Someone rattled the knob on the basement door. He heard a man’s voice, a second or two of silence, and then a startling crash as the door was kicked open. He flinched, pulled himself in tighter, and began to shake.

Don’tseemedon’tseemedon’tseeme…

Several sets of footfalls separating to look into other parts of the basement, one heading toward him... and stopping at the side of the mattress. A rustle of clothing as the person crouched down...

“Hello?” A hand reached out, tapping Cian on the side. “Are you okay?” It was a man’s voice. “I found him,” he called. “Looks like he’s alive.”

Lighter footsteps approached, stopped. A woman’s voice said, “Hey. You okay?” Cian felt her kneel on the mattress; she pulled his arms down from over his face and then she and the man got him up into a sitting position.

He turned away, afraid to let them see his features, but the woman took his chin in her hand and made him face her.

            “Sweet mother of God,” she breathed. Then stared, eyes wide, unable it seemed, to say another word.

FOURTEEN

 

Connecticut – Present Day

 

Eileen came to the door of the family room. She’d heard no one speak the entire time they’d been waiting, and she almost laughed at the gloomy looks they were giving each other and now her – with the exception of Tara’s friends, who were staring with unmistakable adoration at Cian. “Lunch is almost ready, so go wash up.” She went back into the kitchen to finish setting the table.

She could hear Donal telling Cian and Mr. Croghan to use the small bathroom off the front hall, and Katie and Celeste running upstairs. An angry, “Hey!” from Tara suggested her sister had beaten her to the bathroom.

“Another typical moment of drama,” she murmured, grinning. But a second later the grin became a frown as she surveyed the table.

Beautifully set, but something was still missing. An oval silver platter piled high with a pyramid of crustless crabmeat salad sandwiches dominated the center, while two crystal serving plates sat on either side of it, one holding a variety of cheese cubes, the other a mass of tiny strawberries. A crystal pitcher of sparkling mineral water glistened at her husbands end, a silver bucket of crushed ice at hers.

“That should be everything, so why – ah!” Her expression cleared; from the refrigerator she took a huge crystal bowl of colorful red and white cabbage salad which she tossed several times and placed between the ice bucket and the cheese and fruit platters. Nine salad bowls were taken from the closet and placed beside each plate, the napkins atop these.

A moment later, the carpet-muted thunder of feet along the upper hall spilled down the stairs. As Tara and her friends nearly slid into the kitchen on top of each other, Eileen shot them a mild glare.

“Control yourselves, please.”

“Oh, wow!” Nadine exclaimed. “We never have lunch like this at my house!”

“And we usually don’t eat lunch this way here, either, but we seem to have accumulated a number of guests.” She nodded toward Cian and Mr. Croghan as they entered the kitchen, followed by Mr. Kelly, Celeste and Katie. Once everyone was seated, Donal told them to join hands so he could say Grace.

The prayer done, lunch began and the silence – except for the sound of concentrated chewing – gave Eileen a feeling of satisfaction.

“This is wonderful!” Mr. Croghan, after taking his last mouthful and downing the contents of his glass, gave Donal and Eileen a sigh and a smile.

“Well, my wife is dedicated to her cooking, as well as to her family and home.”

“You’re a blessed man, Donal Kelly.”

He nodded at Eileen with a broad grin. “Yes, sir, I am.” He raised his glass to her, and she echoed the gesture.

Katie, who had long since finished, turned to Mr. Croghan. “So you can eat?”

“And why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I mean, I doubt you have restaurants at the Hub of – ”

“Not now, Katie,” Eileen said, darting raised-brow glances at Tara and her friends.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

The meal ended with the complete absence of food anywhere on the table. Celeste and Katie cleared everything away and loaded the dishwasher, telling Eileen to relax. A general chorus of appreciation was offered as Tara, Nadine and Stacy cast longing gazes at Cian as they left the room to go back upstairs.

Eileen removed the tablecloth and gave it a good shake out on the back porch. When she came back inside, she suggested that the story continue in the family room, pointing out that they’d be far more comfortable there.

“Good idea – I’ll start a fire,” Mr. Kelly said.

When flames were dancing in the large fieldstone hearth and everyone had found a place to settle, Katie repeated her question about Croghan’s ability to eat.

“When I’m in actual time, a specific place and time on earth, I’m every bit as normal and human as you, Katie,” he told her with a smile.

“So when you’re at the Hub, you’re not human and you don’t have to eat?”

“Well, I’m… human, but no, I don’t eat because time doesn’t move there.”

“Wow, that’s like, incredibly bizarre. And where is this Hub? You make it sound like it isn’t anywhere on earth.”

He sat back and crossed his legs, clasping his upper knee with folded hands. “It is and it isn’t, and I’m not trying to be enigmatic here. As I explained to the Kellys before you got here, the Doors connect it to this world, but the Hub itself exists outside of Time, and therefore isn’t part of the physical plane.”

“And that’s why angels can show up when you call them?” Celeste asked. “Because seriously, I kind of doubt I could play a note, sing out an angel’s name, and have her zap into my living room.”

Mr. Croghan laughed. “Probably not.”

“Yeah, but wait.” Katie frowned, sitting forward. “Doesn’t the Bible say something about ‘entertaining angels unawares?’ And every time one of those guys pops up, it looks like a person, right? So why couldn’t an angel like Celesta drop in for a visit?"

“You have a unique way of putting things, Katie.”

“Maybe, but I think my question is valid.”

“All right, it won’t happen, and I’ll tell you why. Angels are spirit beings, while we are flesh and blood. Those who appear on earth are given the outward form of humans so people don’t have heart attacks, and don’t go blind. You see, they are energy – light – and would be blinding in their natural state to you or I… even at the Hub, they must take on a human-like form for my benefit. Celesta, for instance, is gorgeous – more glorious that any mortal – but even she contains her light in a shape that we can recognize. She’s also not one of the angels who would be sent here unless something specific was needed. Understand?”

“Well, yeah. I read sci-fi stuff, so what you’re saying isn’t all that hard to imagine.” Katie shrugged.

Donal got up and gave the logs a jab with the poker. Amid orange sparks, the beautiful, mellow light from the flames flared for a moment, then settled into a steady, comfortable crackling.

Between a satisfying lunch and the peaceful warmth of the fire, Eileen began to relax. “Can you explains a little more about those Servant Helpers? And why are they called that?” Sitting beside her daughter, she placed one arm around the girl’s slender shoulders.

“It would be my pleasure.” The Keeper sat forward once more, his green eyes gleaming in the firelight. “First, the name is literal. We are the servants of the Great Magistrate, those of us chosen to serve at the Hub and elsewhere, both human and angel, and these people are our helpers. Which brings us to the part that involves Cian. Celesta told me where to find him, so I went through the Door into the boy’s time.”

“I’m not clear on all this Door and Portal stuff,” Eileen was beginning to understand her husband’s remark about an impending headache.

Forearms on his thighs, pursing his lips, Croghan stared into the fire. “There are twelve of these Doors on every continent on earth, yet only twelve altogether, which I doubt I could possibly explain right now. But,” he added, looking back at Eileen, “because of the way Time is divided into such small increments, each Door can be opened into a Portal, representing just one of an almost infinite number of moments along the timeline. Does that help?”

Eileen shrugged. It had, but like so much else this man was telling them, it also brought up new questions. “For now.”

“Good.” Croghan sat straighter. “So I entered a year when Cian was about eight, and began to make inquiries about his family. I had my other Harp, the one I take on journeys – the one in that box next to your chair, Mr. Kelly.”

“What? This is – was – is? Is yours?”

“No longer. It belongs to Celeste now. Had you looked a bit more deeply into its history, you would have discovered that its origins were all but unknown, its age extreme. I will tell you later how it came to be available to you.

“Well, I took on my old profession of bard and began traveling about, picking up tidbits of information here and there to make my songs and news current. Eventually I reached Donegal Bay, known as Tír Conaill back then, which I may have mentioned. Once in the area, I sought out one of our Servant Helpers who lived in what is present-day Letterkenny. I told him what was going on, and arranged to meet him later that night to let him know whether or not I’d found the boy Celesta had sent me to seek.

“Finding the lad’s home was easy enough, since there were few cottages about back then. When I knocked on the door, a stunning young woman opened it. She was holding a large spoon, her apron showing evidence of extensive food preparation. I introduced myself only as Croghan the Bard and asked if I might use her cottage as the gathering place to play for the village that evening.”

Cian, who was across from Eileen, gave a start. “You remember what my mother looked like?”

“I do, but this is something you and I will discuss later in private.”

“Why in private?”

“When I tell you, you’ll understand. For now, though, I must continue.”

Cian nodded, but Eileen thought he looked upset. Interesting… but Mr. Croghan had resumed his tale so she returned her attention to his narrative.

“She told me her name was Fianna, and that she’d have to ask her husband when he came back. In the meantime, she offered to let me in, asking if I was thirsty. As she was speaking, a little boy had come from behind her, and she put her hand on his head, tousling his dark hair. He looked up at me with eyes the color of granite at the bottom of a crystal pool and a face that rivaled those of the angels. The woman saw my reaction and smiled. ‘He is beautiful, is he not?’ she said, and I had to agree. I leaned down and asked him if he liked music and a good tale. He said he did, indeed, and looked sideways up at his mother, grinning.

“I asked him his name, and he told me it was Cian, son of Dara. I liked his forthrightness – cringing, shy children annoy me, I’m afraid.”

“You must not have ever had children, then,” Donal said.

“Alas, you’re correct, sir.” He paused, looking down for a moment, then got to his feet and went to stand by the fireplace. “I’m sorry if this is causing you pain, Cian, but it must be told. By the way, MacDara was not his surname as you use them today, but a respectful family identifier.

“So, now. The cottage was small but well kept, and unlike other cottages built in that era, this one had an inside hearth. Fianna told me her husband had seen them in Wales at some point before she married him, and wanted to make the cottage a special place for her.”

“Why would a hearth make it special?” Eileen asked.

“Because the alternative was a fire pit in the middle of the floor and a hole in the roof overhead. I’m sure you can appreciate how much cleaner it was with a hearth, Mrs. Kelly.”

She nodded.

“Cian’s father, as he said when this first started, was a weaver. He was also a sheep farmer and a swordsman, a skill his mother had as well.”

“My mother used… wait.” Cian closed his eyes, a crease appearing between his brows, but then he smiled. “I remember now. She was first to show me how to hold one, but it was made of wood… ash… huh.”

“That’s right,” Croghan said. “Cian, can you remember anything else about that day or about your parents?”

“I’m not sure.” He stared off for a few moments, but then blinked and stared up at Croghan. “My father didn’t own a horse or a wagon. He – he had to carry on his back the clothes he wove when he walked to the next village to sell them. When he returned, he would have things we needed that we couldn’t produce ourselves.” He nodded. “I do remember that. And that I helped him shear the sheep so my mother could spin the wool into threads for his weaving.” He put a hand to his head, rubbing one temple, and took a deep breath. “Wow. I can’t believe I’d forgotten all that.”

“With everything that’s happened to you since then, I’m not surprised, only glad it’s coming back.” Croghan turned to Eileen. “There’s not that much left to tell of this part, but I was wondering, dear lady, if I could trouble you for some water.”

She removed her arm from Celeste’s shoulders and got up. “I’m sorry. I should have thought of that.” All that talking, she realized, would make anyone thirsty, and she berated herself for being a poor hostess. “Be right back.”

As she filled a pitcher with fresh water, she could hear Cian ask Mr. Croghan something about his father.

“He was a strong-looking man,” Croghan said, his rich voice carrying farther than Cian’s despite being in the other room. “A lean, muscular fellow he was, with a face nearly as handsome as yours, boy. You know, seeing him and Fianna side by side, I could see why you turned out to be such a beautiful child. You seem to have gotten the best characteristics of both, with a little something extra from some ancestor – grey eyes, rather than blue like theirs.”

Eileen took a lemon from the refrigerator and cut it into wafer-thin slices, which she added to the water after putting in a handful of ice cubes. No one had said anything after Mr. Croghan’s description of Cian’s parents, so she hurried, guessing everyone would start getting impatient.

“Okay… tray… glasses. Good.” She came back into the family room where Donal jumped up and took the heavy tray from her, setting it on the coffee table.

After everyone had helped themselves, Croghan thanked Eileen with a short, formal bow, and returned to his story. “Like you, Mrs. Kelly, Fianna was most hospitable, and made us all a wonderful meal; shortly afterward, people began to gather at the door. I’d spread word of my presence as I’d walked through the village and surrounding areas, and since a traveling bard was their main source of news and entertainment, well, you can imagine how crowded things got! Those who couldn’t fit inside found places to sit right outside the open door, on the hillside beside the west wall of the cottage, and in the yard surrounding it within its enclosure.

“When I was done and everyone had gone home, I waited until the family was asleep and stepped outside to meet with the Servant Helper who would accompany us through the Door – he would be part of this, too, you see.”

Eileen was confused. “Who – the Servant Helper?”

“Exactly.”

“But what about his parents? Did they just let you take him away?” Celeste snuggled closer to Eileen. “You were the traveling media guy, but they didn’t really know you.”

“It seems you, too, have a way with words. And you’re right, but I was coming to that.”

Celeste stared for a moment. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem. Now about this Servant Helper – he was waiting at the end of the path, leaning against the gate and chewing on his long grey beard – I got the distinct impression he’d been waiting a long time. His name was Niall.”

The way he’d pronounced it – like the river Nile – prompted Eileen to ask him how the name was spelled.

“N-i-a-l-l. He was a local judge, a Breslin or Brehon in our tongue. I greeted him and apologized for making him wait.

“He was not at all happy with me, I must say, claiming his feet were growing roots from him standing there for so long.” Croghan chuckled. “Niall’s sense of humor is… unique. Anyhow, I told him Cian was the lad we were seeking, but he wasn’t convinced, even when I told him the boy looked as if he could be Celesta’s son.

“Not until the cottage door opened and a small blue shadow emerged, which became defined by the moonlight when he got close enough for its light to illuminate his features, did Niall agree that this could certainly be the boy Celesta meant. And then, when Cian showed only friendly curiosity, good manners, and a sense of humor in the course of a short discussion with the Breslin, he was convinced.

“After Cian went back inside, we discussed the situation – Niall had reservations about taking a child from his family, even though he knew why we were doing this. I, too, was starting to regret what had to be done. The love that family had… well, I came up with another solution. I told Niall we would be taking the parents with us, at least as far as the Hub. Of course, Niall being Niall, he demanded to know if I’d lost my mind, pointing out that bringing his parents had not been part of Celesta’s instructions. But I was adamant, and at last he stopped objecting.

“We soon bid each other good night, and I went back inside.”

FIFTEEN

 

Cian stood. “I’m sorry, but I – I need to… look, I’ve dreamed bits and pieces of all this over the last six and a half years, but it was only during the last two or so that I realized they were memories. I remembered various things my parents had said to me as a child, and the doctors helped me remember more recent things that I’d blocked out, but I’m afraid I also blocked out most of my past, and being reminded like this is… uncomfortable. Your words are bringing everything back. Would you mind, Croghan, if I went outside for a while? Perhaps some cold air would help.”

“Me, too.” Celeste jumped to her feet.

Katie got up, too. “Uh, hello – not without me.”

Mr. and Mrs. Kelly looked at each other and shrugged.

“Mr. Croghan?” Mrs. Kelly asked.

“Yes, I could use a break.” He gave Cian a wink.

Their reaction to his need for solitude surprised him. All he’d wanted was to get outside, alone. Sort out the clamoring, clanging thoughts. But solitude was no longer an option and the smile he gave the Croghan in response was weak.

Mrs. Kelly had also gotten up. “That’s fine. Donal?” She put a hand on his arm. “Let’s go wait in the kitchen until the kids get back – and don’t go too far,” she added, looking at Celeste.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I don’t think the neighborhood is ready for him yet. We’ll go hang out in the yard.”

“Good idea.” Donal rose and stretched. “By the way, young man, you aren’t going anywhere without a decent coat. Come with me, please.” He led Cian back to the front hall where he took a woolen coat and scarf from the closet. “Gloves?”

“No, but thank you. I really appreciate this.”

Mr. Kelly shook his head. “I can’t believe you came over here without a coat. Well, come on then.”

Such a kind man… Cian shrugged into the coat as they returned to the kitchen, encouraged. Things were beginning to feel right.

Katie and Celeste were bundled up in heavy coats and waiting by the back door by this time; Cian held it opened for them, following them out.

Four steps led down to a large yard. White stone benches sat in front of a tall hedge at one end, a pond a few feet in front of the benches. At the other end was an octagonal, wooden structure that Cian remembered being called a gazebo. His first foster parents had had one in their yard, too, but it was twice the size of this and painted white and lavender. He blinked, dispelling the memory, sadness piercing his heart with its sudden appearance.

Celeste and Katie hustled toward the gazebo, but he was in no hurry to join them. Taking his time, he crossed the patio, stepped out onto the lawn, stopped. The unwanted image of the patchy, untended yard in Georgia superimposed itself over this one. Another memory best left alone.

The girls had climbed the steps and were sitting at what Cian could see was a round table at it center. Not wanting them to be offended by his reticence, he took a deep breath and joined them. A curved wooden bench surrounded the table. He sat, shoving his hands into the coat pockets, and closed his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

What a sweet, gentle voice Celeste has… Opening his eyes again, he looked across at her. “Yes. Sorry. You know, I had planned to talk to you about all of this myself first, or as much as I could remember. I didn’t know the Croghan had found you already, though, or even that he had come here yet.”

“You knew he’d show up?” Katie sat opposite him, next to Celeste.

“Eventually, but I thought he’d seek me out before trying to find you. How odd this must seem to you.”

“Odd?” Katie snorted. “How about the fact that you claim to have been born in what, the end part of the Iron Age? Or was it the beginning of the medieval period? Whatever. It was long before now.”

“You have no idea.” Still reeling from the flood of memories that had assailed him since coming to Celeste’s house, still shocked at his unexpected reunion with The Croghan – yes. “Odd” was appropriate. “One day I’m going about my business like any normal eight-year-old of my time, learning to use a sword, shearing sheep with my father, sweeping the cottage floor, looking for plants to make dyes with for my mother, and the next, I’m on a strange journey, being led through a Door into this insane place that looks like nothing I’ve ever seen, and that goes on almost forever until we find ourselves at the base of a bloody hill in the middle of this... void, where an astounding, huge, beautiful creature is sitting and playing the most gorgeous music on a harp. She tells me I must be separated from my parents because I have a destiny, but does something to my mother by simply touching her that makes her peaceful about having to lose me. I ask her if I can have that kind of peace, too, but she only says ‘eventually but not yet,’ and then we’re being ushered about down more paths that look to be going nowhere, only to be brought through yet other Doors into places where the people speak different languages, dress in the strangest clothing, and rely more and more on things that I’m told are called ‘machines.’ And then I’m back at this Hub being schooled more fully in these languages, and – well, I think I understand all about what’s odd.”

“Wow,” Celeste breathed. “Sounds like you had one crazy journey.”

“Well put. There’s a whole lot more to the story, by the way.”

“We figured that much,” Katie said.

“Yes, well, I’m not so sure I want to tell this part – it’s unpleasant, to say the least.”

“Then don’t,” said Celeste.

“No, I think I have to. You, especially, have to know as much as possible, Celeste. A destiny awaits you, too.”

Before she could respond, Katie leaned forward. “What about me? Wherever she goes, I go.”

Cian raised an eyebrow. “Really... all right, but I’m not sure Celesta is going to approve – ”

“Celesta can go suck an egg.”

“I don’t think angels do…that.”

“Well maybe they just suck, then.”

Cian tried to picture this and failed.

“Not literally!” Celeste choked back a laugh. “She means maybe they’re... annoying.”

“And if she tries to separate me from my bff, I’ll smack her.”

What?! “One does not go about smacking angels, Katie. And…why must you talk in this absurd code? What on earth is a ‘bff’?”

“It means ‘best friend forever.’ It’s a kind of short-hand for when we t-m each other.”

Both eyebrows rose this time.

“Um, an abbreviation used when sending a message over the cell phone or when we IM someone online?”

He gave up.

“You’ll get it eventually.” Celeste grinned and blew on her gloved hands.

“You really don’t know about this stuff, do you,” Katie said.

“W-not about that text thing or the eye em whatever... stuff...”

Celeste got up and went to the railing, turning to face them, and leaned back. “What I don’t get is how you could have lived in this century for, is it six years?”

“Almost seven.”

“Right. Almost seven years, and not know about things like that.”

“Maybe because I spent most of it in a basement.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I wasn’t exactly given a choice.” He looked away, not yet ready to talk about this part of the story, and tried to think of a way to change the subject.

Before he could, Celeste added, “Another thing I don’t understand. Why did you forget in the first place? And why did you have doctors? Were you ill?”

And there it was. To answer that he would have to speak of those things that had almost destroyed him. Had, in fact, broken him for a while. That still tore at him. Again, the question – how could he change the subject?

A moment later, the subject was changed for him when Tara and her friends burst through the back door, thumped down the stairs, and headed for the gazebo. They were clumped together in a kind of moving huddle, giggling. What odd behavior!

Celeste turned to face them, groaning. “Oh, no. Not now...”

Katie stood and went to the top of the stairs, hands on her hips. “Stop right there,” she commanded when they were almost at the steps. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Whatever we want.” Tara lifted her chin in defiance. “And we want to sit in the gazebo like we were doing before.”

“Aw, Tara, please go away,” pleaded Celeste. “We’re talking, okay?”

“About what?”

“How to murder younger sisters without anyone finding out.”

“What?” Cian stood now and gaped at Celeste, horrified.

Three shrieks rang out, startling him. The younger girls were staring up at him, clutching at Tara’s from either side. Disconcerting.

“Are you famous?” one of them asked, blushing bright red. “I couldn’t ask you at lunch.”

Cian came closer to the top of the stairs, stared at the girl who had spoken – she looked feverish. “Are you feeling well?”

“Tara! Go away! Cian is our guest, and you are being incredibly rude!” Celeste had joined him and was glaring.

“Would you really kill your sister?” Cian whispered, looking sidelong at her.

Tara, meanwhile, had grabbed both of her friends by their arms and was propelling them back to the house, muttering furiously into their ears.

Celeste crossed her arms and leaned against the archway. “You were an only child, weren’t you.”

“Well, yes, but… not at first. Damnaigh sé!” A new and horrid recollection assaulted him.

“Wait – Celeste, what did he just say?” Katie frowned at him.

“He said ‘damn it.’ What happened, Cian? Did you just remember something else about your family?”

Nodding, he looked away. “My mother had three other children before me, but they died from a fever a few weeks before I turned eight. I got it, too, but somehow survived.” Why so many sad moments? Were there so few happy ones?

“I’m really sorry.” She put a hand on his arm. “It must have devastated your mother, too.”

“She… ” He closed his eyes, allowing more to come into focus. “She didn’t eat for nearly a week, but then my dad... ” He opened his eyes and gazed, unseeing, into a private distance he would rather had remained forgotten. “He left me at a neighboring farmstead for several days and, well, I’m not sure where he went or what he did to help her, but when they came back to fetch me home, his mood was lighter, and my mother was nearly herself again.”

“How could a fever kill them?” asked Katie, moving to his other side.

Cian shrugged. “Back then, there was no way to bring a fever down – we had no ice, and no medicines that worked quickly enough, only herbs and things like that. In fact, the way fevers were dealt with was to wrap people in blankets and put them near the fire to try and raise their temperature so the fever would break on its own.” He gave an unhappy laugh. “Didn’t work for my brothers. They simply stopped breathing, one after the other.”

“But it worked for you, obviously,” Celeste said.

He nodded. “It did. I’ve just remembered all that, and now wish I could forget it again.” He took a deep breath, forced a smile. “Well! Maybe we should be getting back.”

“Are you ready to do that?” Katie asked. “I mean, you, like, came out here to think or whatever, and all you did was talk to us and answer our questions – not to mention the whole Tara thing.”

“You know, I think that was exactly what I needed. I’m fine now.”

“Um, okay then, uh, let’s go!” Celeste left the gazebo, Katie following.

Cian started down the steps when a realization hit him, and he stopped. “Oh, no!”

The girls turned back and simultaneously said, “What is it?” then looked at each other and rolled their eyes at the same time.

Cian burst out laughing. “Have you any idea –”

“Yeah, we know.” Katie grinned.

“Anyway, I realized that I haven’t called work to let them know what’s going on. I left almost as soon as I got there, and I think I should at least tell my boss I probably won’t be back for a while.”

“You left work to come here?” asked Katie. “Wow. I guess that explains your hysterical phone calls.”

“I sounded hysterical?”

“Hmm. A bit.”

“Great,” he muttered, embarrassed.

“Well, it’s not like you didn’t have a reason to be.”

“Yeah. Thanks. But I still feel bad about waking you up.”

“Excuse me, but I’m freezing.” Celeste blew on her hands, shivering.

“I guess we should go back in for Round Two, then.” Katie turned. “You coming, Cian?”

Round two… I will eventually understand them. Eventually. “Er, sure,” he said aloud. “Right behind you.”

They hurried up the stairs and into the kitchen, Cian reveling in the sudden warmth.

“All set?” asked Donal, who was sitting at the table. “Cian, are you okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! Get your coats off and put away, and let’s get this done, then! Oh, and while you were outside, Celeste, your mother called Nadine’s and asked if the girls could play at her home for a while. Said we have a guest with whom we needed to speak without distractions.” He shrugged.

Celeste removed her coat. “And she was okay with that?”

“She was. She said she understood how disruptive three pre-teens could be.” A chuckle. “She got here a few minutes after they came back inside, which means we can continue with this, er, whatever this is without any more interruptions.”

Celeste smiled. “Thanks, you guys. Guess we should get our coats put away – Cian? Katie?”

He followed the girls out to the hallway to hang up his coat, then back into the family room. Sitting, he watched Donal added some wood to the fire, poking it back awake from its glowing slumber.

Like my memories, Cian thought, watching the fire catch. He leaned back, hoping that whatever else this telling was going to resurrect, it wouldn’t reduce him to emotional ashes.

SIXTEEN

 

Georgia – One Year Earlier

 

“How long have you been alone down here?” Mr. Bell put a hand under the boy’s elbow, helping him to stand.

“Four d-days.”

“Have you eaten anything?” Felicity also helped steady him as they went toward the stairs.

He shook his head, staring at the floor.

Mr. Bell looked at his watch. “And it’s lunch-time, too. Okay.” He smiled at the boy. “Looks like we’ll be stopping for some lunch!”

When there was no response, Felicity said, “You, er, will eat something, won’t you?”

“What... y-y-you mean I c-c-can, uh, m-may eat, too?”

Horrified, Mr. Bell stopped. “Why on earth would you think I’d tell you we were stopping for lunch if you weren’t included?”

The boy shook his head and looked down; a moment later tears splashed on the cold concrete floor.

“Oh, this was too much,” Felicity murmured. She put an arm around his waist and gave him a gentle squeeze. “You’re safe now. Everything will be all right. No one is going to harm you anymore.”

Mr. Bell stepped away long enough to tell the other agents still poking around in the basement to go back to the cars, that they’d catch up with them in a minute or so.

He came back in time to help Felicity get the boy up the stairs. The poor kid looked like he was about to collapse. “Steady, there, son. By the way, we know your name, but how in the world do you say it?”

The boy blinked away more fresh tears, sniffed, and pronounced it for him.

“Key-un?”

“Close e-e-n-nough.”

“Good. My name is Josiah Bell, and this is Felicity Markwood.”

“V-very nice to m-m-meet you.”

Once upstairs, they walked through the hallway from the kitchen into the front hall, where Mr. Bell went to a table near the door. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up a cheap tape recorder sitting there.

Cian stopped short and went into a crouch, covered his head with his arms, his eyes squeezed shut. “Please don’t t-t-turn it on, p-please d-d-don’t, I’ll d-do anyth-th-thing you ask... ”

Bell put the recorder back on the table and joined Miss Markwood, who was down on one knee in front of the boy. She tried to touch him, but he cringed further away.

“What the hell did they do to him?” Horrified, Mr. Bell bent down and took Cian by the shoulders; he started to shake uncontrollably, so Mr. Bell wrapped his arms around him and held him tight. “It’s all right!” he whispered. "We are not going to hurt you! Sshh! It’s okay, Cian, you really are safe now. Hush… ” He began rocking the boy as he looked up at Miss Markwood, nodding at the tape recorder.

Walking on the balls of her feet, she went to the table, picked up the recorder, and put it under her jacket.

After a few minutes, Cian relaxed enough for Mr. Bell to pull back and look at him. How could anyone harm such a beautiful young man so badly that he would be reduced to a cringing wreck at the mere sight of – of what? A tape recorder? He decided to listen to it as soon as he got back to the office and find out what on earth could be on that thing to cause such a violent reaction of fear.

And that stutter – another consequence of how he’d been treated? “We’re going to leave now,” he said, once he was sure Cian was calm enough to allow them to take him away.

Cian nodded and let Mr. Bell and Felicity help him to stand once more.

“Are you ready to leave this house forever? Because you won’t be coming back, I promise.” In the brighter surroundings, he could see the boy’s clothing hung on him as if they belonged to someone both wider and shorter, so he didn’t bother asking if had any to pack.

Cian gave Mr. Bell a quick nod, and they went outside. Two black SUVs were parked in the driveway; they helped Cian down the rickety steps and over the sparse lawn to the closer vehicle. Mr. Bell opened the back door and ushered the boy inside.

Felicity got into the front passenger seat as one of the other agents went around and got in behind the wheel.

“We’re going to be making a stop,” Mr. Bell called to the driver of the second SUV. “Just follow us.” He got in beside Cian and shut the door. “Do you know where your foster family might be?”

Cian had been struggling with his seat belt, and without looking up, said, “N-no. They… di-did-didn’t say.”

“All right – never mind.” The Pettijohns would have to come back at some point, though, and Mr. Bell was going to make sure they were dealt with as soon as they did.

 

*******

 

He was free. The realization exhilarated yet terrified him. Letitia, Retta, and Buddy wouldn’t be part of his life anymore, couldn’t hurt him now, but what of others? How could anyone tolerate his ugliness? The kindness of the people who had found him reminded him of someone else from long ago, but still… why weren’t they repulsed? Could they be pretending it didn’t bother them? He didn’t know. To spare them further distress he turned his head toward the window as soon as the seat belt was connected. The seat belt. Safety belt. Once, somewhere, some time in the past, he’d used, had been in a car. He must not have felt comfortable being in one then because he wasn’t comfortable now.

Cian didn’t realize the vehicle had started until he saw they were backing up. Letitia’s old car was noisy. Every time Buddy used it, the sound of the engine echoed into the basement. Not this one.

As soon as they pulled out onto the road, it occurred to Cian that anyone passing them would see him looking out the window, see his horrible face. He turned away and stared at his lap instead.

“Cian?” The woman – Felicity, she’d said – sounded like she must have turned around to face him. “Why won’t you look at us? Why do you keep turning away or looking down? Do we frighten you?”

“N-no, ma’am. I-I-I…” He stopped for a second. Tried again. Slower this time. “You’re b-both so kind, and I d-don’t want to d-d-disgust you w-with my m-mon- strously ug-ugly face.”

Several seconds of silence followed; Cian heard Mr. Bell shift. “Who on God’s green earth told you that you were ‘monstrously ugly’?”

“M-my f-f-foster mo-mother, and-and-and h-her ch-children.”

“Really. I see. Felicity, do you have a compact in your purse?”

“Sure – hold on… here you go. What are you going to do?”

“An experiment. Cian, I want you to take this and have a good, long look. I fail to understand how you could ever see your own face in a mirror and believe what you said about yourself.”

Cian shook his head and put up a hand. “N-no. I c-can’t. She t-took down all the mi-mi-mirrors right af-after I c-came to live there, a-and sa-sa-said I’m not… not al-allowed t-t-t-o ever loo-look in-in one.”

“Josiah, hold on,” said Miss Markwood. “I think you have the right idea, but we have to wait until we’re back at the office.”

“Fine. Here’s your compact. Listen, Cian. It’s going to be okay. And stop thinking of yourself as ugly, please, because you’re not.”

“Maybe a restaurant isn’t such a good idea. Besides, he’s going to need something light like soup if he hasn’t eaten in four days. We can buy him a nice, big steak later. Would you like that, Cian?”

He bobbed his head and murmured a thank-you. He heard her sigh, then a rustle. A moment later she spoke, but Cian had no idea who she was addressing this time. What she said couldn’t have been to the man driving. He glanced up and saw her holding something shiny and rectangular to her ear.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she was saying. “We found him – he’s, well, he’s alive but it’s clear he’s been through something terrible… no, he was there alone… on the house? Okay, I’ll tell – twenty-four/seven? Yes, Mr. C. I’ll let him know… thank you, sir.”

“What did he say?” asked Mr. Bell, leaning forward.

“He wants you to contact the FBI and arrange a stake-out on the house. If the woman returns, she’s to be arrested immediately.”

“My plan exactly. I’ll call them now. Did he say what the charge would be?”

“Fraud, child abuse, attempted murder, and murder.”

“Uh, I get the first three, but – ”

“That’s what he said.”

“I don’t get it. How does he even know what happened? Besides, he’s new at the Agency and maybe doesn’t… I mean, isn’t he being a bit too zealous about all this?”

“He sounded awfully sure.”

“Well, all right.” Mr. Bell sat back, taking a device from his pocket that was the same shape as the one into which Felicity had been speaking.

Cian hadn’t understood much of what they’d said, but he did get that his foster mother was finally going to have to give an account for what she’d done to him. Regardless of anything else that happened to him, Cian felt satisfaction that this, at least, was an injustice that was going to be corrected, and he allowed himself a tiny smile.

 

*******

 

Connecticut – Present Day

 

 

“Where was I? Ah!” Gerald Croghan nodded and stood, going to the fireplace and thrusting his hands into his pockets. “The morning after my meeting with Niall, I arose early, but not earlier than Fianna. The sun was barely up and she had already been to the nearby spring at least twice; three buckets full of fresh water were lined up under the table by the window and she was hefting the fourth to pour its contents into her cooking pot. I asked if I could help, but she shushed me with a smile and went about her work.

    “Soon after, Dara was up and getting dressed; Cian, I noticed, was still sound asleep despite the noises around him. I asked if I might have a word or two with them concerning their son. Fianna worried that he’d done something wrong, but I assured her this wasn’t the case. ‘It has to do with something else entirely,’ I said, adding that it was a matter of great importance.

    “Fianna insisted we eat first, so set about preparing the morning meal while Dara, a man of considerable strength, lifted the bench by the hearth and brought it to the table. Cian was awakened by all this activity. Now keep in mind that everyone slept on straw pallets on the floor back then, so after gathering up his, Cian placed the armful of straw against the wall by the rest. Then the industrious little fellow swept the floor, went outside, and came back in a few minutes later, his arms full of fresh rushes, which he spread around on the floor.”

Celeste turned to Cian. “Why did you do that?”

He gave a short laugh. “I didn’t remember any of those details, but now with the Croghan telling of it, I remember that the floor of the cottage was hard-packed earth. The rushes kept the dirt from being kicked up and getting into everything, and they made the room smell fresh.”

“And having done that, you put on fresh clothes and asked your mother if she needed any help.”

“I don’t remember that either.”

“Well, it was nothing anyone would make a point of remembering, eh?” Croghan had been watching Cian as he’d been speaking to see the young man’s reactions, hoping the things buried by nearly seven years of agony and sorrow were being exhumed in reasonable quantities. Too much too soon wouldn’t be good.

“So now Cian was dressed, and…?” Donald put his head to one side, brows up.

Croghan grinned. “Right. But I have to tell you, I was already regretting what I had to do next. They seemed such a happy, contented family, and here I was about to destroy it all with a few words.

“I started by asking Dara how much he knew of his ancestry. While he said hadn’t thought about any of that for a long time, it turned out he’d been told that his family’s founder had been a pagan priest of some sort who got in trouble with his sect, and had sought help from the great Amergin. The Druid had relocated his ancestor here, and that was all he knew. Naturally, he asked me why I’d asked.

“Dreading what was sure to come, I told him that I knew why that ancestor had come there from the region of Tara. That last bit was a detail he hadn’t mentioned and I could see him about to say something, but I cut him off and said that not only was I familiar with his family, but had been sent on a quest that involved his son. I offered to give them a nice, long tale without music to explain it all, but Dara wasn’t having it. He gave me fifteen minutes and no more.

    “I appreciated how he felt, and told him pretty much the same as I told you about the Drunes, their priest, how he had to flee with his family, and up to that point they were with me. You see, the old gods were still with them, and they believed in Dagda as much as they did this new God introduced by Christianity.

   “I see that look in your eye, Cian – you still pray to the old gods, too, don’t you... thought so. But to continue: as I said, up to that point they were with me. But after expounding upon the effect his ancestor’s actions would have on Time and the attack that could be made against the Light, I revealed that someone was needed to fight the oncoming Darkness, that it had to be a descendant of their family’s founder, and that one of the angels of heaven had chosen their son – with, of course, the approval of the Glorious Creator. Neither Dara nor his wife liked that part. In fact, if I could have left right then, I would have. The look on Dara’s face... well, I suddenly found myself remembering how he had picked up that heavy wooden bench as though it were made of straw, and pictured myself being knocked into another dimension. So I stood, took a few steps back, and said something like, ‘I am not asking you to relinquish your son based on my words alone.’ I believe that was when Dara told me I was insane and got to his feet.”

“I know how he felt,” Donal muttered.

“Yes, well, I told him that I could prove what I’d told him, but that they would have to come with me to the Hub of Time, and that I was its Keeper.

“When Dara asked who was ‘keeping’ an eye on things if I was in his house, I told him about Celesta. He asked if she was the one who thought it was a good idea that his eight-year-old son should fight for the Light I’d spoken of. And did both the angel and I imagine that one so young could do battle with beings much older and greater… he was furious, but I stood my ground. Told him that Cian would only be going through training at that point.

“Fianna wanted to know who would train him and with what kind of weapons. Not expecting them to know what I was talking about, I nonetheless described the Sword of Light, and how it represented Truth, Time and Power. I also admitted that for a number of reasons – including the obvious – Cian would not yet be expected to wield it and would train with weapons appropriate for his size.

    “Their answer was a stony silence, so I offered to introduce him to the Brehon who would be coming with us, and who they would be more likely to respect than me at that moment.

    “Dara was practically sneering now as he said my quarter of an hour was up, and that it would certainly take more than a few seconds to go fetch the Brehon. He went to push past me, but I put out a hand, begging him to wait for only those few seconds longer so I could call Niall to us.

“He asked me if I could really yell that loud.” Croghan chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t, you know. What I could do, though, was summon my friend much in the same way as I summon Celesta. Taking my harp from the place I’d put it the night before, I played a chord, sang out Niall’s name, and a second later, there was a knock at the door. When Fianna opened it, Niall stomped into the room and glared at me, hands on his hips. I was being glared at a lot that day.”

“I wonder why?” Katie gave him a wide-eyed stare, her mouth twisted.

“Why indeed. I’ve gotten used to it over the years, so it doesn’t bother me.”

Celeste giggled. “Sounds like you do this sort of thing a lot!”

“Not really.”

Now Eileen spoke. “Hold on. You say you summoned a human being with… with harp music?”

“Something like that.”

“That has to be terrifying! What did he say?”

“Ah, I suspect you don’t believe me, madam. No matter. He said, ‘In the name of all that’s green, what in blazes – good morning ma’am – am I doing here again?!’

“I apologized and asked if I’d interrupted anything important. 'Oh, no, no,’ said he. ‘Hauling up a bucket from the well is all,’ said he, ‘and now it’s probably spilt!’ He chewed on his beard for a few seconds while the family stared, their mouths hanging open. But at least they were no longer glaring at me.

“After that, he introduced himself to the family as the Breslin of Letterkenny, which was a social position they respected enough to calm them down. You see, they believed in the ancient magic as well, so all of this summoning was not as shocking as it would be today.

“I explained to Niall why I’d summoned him, and from there, he more or less took over, explaining about their son’s destiny and using the analogy of weaving with regard to the fabric of time, which was much easier to comprehend than the more abstract explanation I had been prepared to give.

“After that, there was nothing left but to prepare for the journey. I promised that they needn’t fear for their sheep or farmstead because I’d have the two of them back only minutes later than when we would be leaving. I daresay they accepted all of this because of the Brehon’s presence, and how he had gotten there. I took them to Tory Island directly north of Tír Conaill. Today, the distance between there and Donegal is a couple of hours’ ride, but we walked, which meant taking enough supplies and food for several days.

“Fianna put a brave face on things, but I could see her heart was breaking. She had accepted that her son was being taken from her for a worthy cause, but that didn’t make losing him any easier. And despite being allowed to travel with him for a good while yet, she knew the day would come when they would have to part, never to meet again.

“Katie, child, are you needing a tissue?”

“This is awful! That poor woman! Poor Cian!”

Eileen jumped up and grabbed a box of Kleenex from a small table against the wall, brought it back, and offered the whole box to Katie.

Croghan waited, having dealt with the entire range of human emotion throughout the millennia. Impatience would be of no help in the situation.

When Katie had blown her nose a few times, taken a deep, shaky breath, and sat back with a sigh, he continued. “I agree – it was an emotional time, and I don’t think I have ever felt any worse than I did right then. But there was something much bigger at stake, and I had no choice. And so it was that Cian Son of Dara, his mother and father, Niall and I, entered the Door that led directly from that time into the pathways leading to the Hub of Time.”

SEVENTEEN

 

Cian sat forward. “I – I had forgotten so much,” he murmured, staring into the flames. “The worst of it is that I can never go back, even though everything in me longs for it, for my beloved mother, my father who was so strong and good... and the clean, pure air of Tír Conaill... god!” He slammed a fist on the arm of the chair, jaw clenched. Control, Cian. Anger changes nothing. A sigh. He turned is gaze from the hearth and looked at the others. “I’m sorry. It’s not your problem.”

“Oh, you are not apologizing!” said Katie, sniffling again. “If I were you, I would be strangling this man right about now!” She turned to shoot a fiery glare at the Croghan.

“I agree, but there’s absolutely nothing I could have done about it then, or now.” The harper shrugged.

“Couldn’t you bring him back there, to his own time?” Celeste had tears in her eyes now, too.

“Sadly, no. He no longer has a place there. You can’t double up on your own timeline, you see.” The Croghan looked away toward the other side of the room for a moment. “I did send his parents back, however. I brought them to almost the exact moment after they had left.”

“And how did they manage, now that their only child was gone forever?” This was from Eileen, whose voice had taken on an edge Cian recognized as wrath.

“It seems this is what you do best,” Donal added. “Go to the homes of people who’ve been ‘chosen’ for your ‘greater purpose’ and destroy the family. That’s what you’re going to do to us, isn’t it.”

“No. And please get this straight – it isn’t my great purpose, Donal. I simply carry out my orders. Celeste does not have to travel the way Cian did. She will remain the same age and when she returns, it will be as though she’d never left.”

      “Returns from where?” asked Katie, frowning.

      “The Hub, Katie. The Hub.”

 

********

 

 

Georgia – One Year Earlier

 

A stack of popular magazines had been placed off to one side of the desk – widely read movie, television, popular icon magazines, and a few gossip rags. Felicity had told Cian to take his time, to look through each carefully, and pay special attention to all the famous men, young, old, and in between.

They had stopped at a restaurant after all, a small local one where they’d ordered him a bowl of tomato soup, buttered toast and a glass of water. Making sure he ate slowly, they continued to assure him that he was safe, that no one was going to hurt him or make him go back to his foster mother. By the time they’d gotten to the office, he was looking better, having recovered enough strength to remain steady on his feet. Now, hoping her experiment would work, Felicity was confident he’d be able to concentrate.

“These guys,” said Felicity, “are considered the most handsome men in the world. They are popular, well-known individuals who everyone – or most everyone – holds up as standards for male attractiveness. Keep that in mind while you’re looking through the magazines, and pay close attention to their features, okay?”

Cian nodded, but frowned.

Guessing why, Felicity smiled. “I’m not asking you to do this to make you feel worse about your looks. In fact, I’m attempting to do the opposite. Will you trust me on this?”

“Ye-yes, m-m-ma-am.” Taking the first magazine off the stack, he placed it before him on the desk and opened it.

“Now remember – don’t bother reading any of the captions or articles. Look at the pictures and nothing else, please.”

Nodding, he stared down at the glossy page.

A half hour or so later, Felicity looked up from her work to see how he was doing and caught him stifling a yawn. Suspecting that this was getting boring for him, she thought perhaps it was time to test out her theory. “Cian?”

He looked up, then away.

“Stop that, please. Look at me.”

He complied, but his eyes kept shifting away.

“Well, that’s better. Thank you. Now I want you to do something that will take a great deal of courage. You have to come with me, because there’s something you must see.” She stood, beckoning him to follow her, and led him out into the corridor.

He said nothing, and she wondered if it was because of the extreme stutter.

After going along a few hallways, Felicity led him into the men’s executive washroom – she’d already arranged for it to be empty. As soon as they entered, they were in a well-appointed antechamber with leather chairs, a long wooden table, and over this, a huge mirror. She took the boy’s arm, expecting him to bolt as soon as he realized he was looking at his reflection. She was partly correct.

As soon as Cian saw the mirror, he shut his eyes and flinched backwards, but didn’t run.

“No, Cian! Remember those photographs you’ve been looking at, and face yourself in the mirror.”

She pulled him closer to the glass with gentle tugs, and when they stopped…

 

*******

 

…Cian opened his eyes, wincing, expecting the worst, heartbeat hastened by fear.

The face looking back at him bore no resemblance to the one he’d been imagining for the last six years, the one Letitia had defined and made his. Not at all. Arranged in a way not too dissimilar to those he’d been looking at in the magazines, this face had no acne like Buddy had, but a smooth, perfect complexion. These eyes weren’t gummy and vague like Retta’s, but were clear, alert, a medium shade of grey, and spaced wide enough apart to make him look... honest? Pleasant? Innocent? He didn’t know. He kept looking.

His nose – not too long, too short, too narrow or too wide. It was… there, symmetrical, adding somehow to an overall agreeable appearance. His lips were full, unlike Letitia’s. Hers made him think of painted matchsticks. He had a firm chin, a well-defined jaw line, ears that didn’t stick out at the sides like Buddy’s...

Puzzled, astonished, he turned to face Felicity and whispered his shock. “I-I’m n-not hideous!”

“No, Cian. You’re not hideous even a little bit.” She smiled. “You see? It’s okay to look at people. In fact, I think you’ll find they enjoy looking at you.”

He nodded, almost speechless. All this time – all this time! “Wh-why did sh-sh-she do this to m-m-me?”

“I don’t know.” She took him by the arm again and led him back to the door. “We’re going to bring you to someone who can probably answer all the questions you must have, including the one you just asked. In time and with his help, you’ll also be able to get rid of that stutter, which I somehow doubt you've had your whole life. Am I correct?”

He nodded, overwhelmed. Her kindness, discovering he was decent-looking, made him think he might find a measure of confidence, peace, freedom, and the acceptance of others. One day.

As they neared Felicity’s office, Mr. Bell approached them from the other end of the corridor. He acknowledged Cian with a bright smile. “How’d we do?”

“It worked – he knows he’s not grotesque or ugly.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Bell raised an eyebrow at the boy.

Cian nodded. Look at him. Stop hiding. He was nearly as tall as Mr. Bell, and found satisfaction in the direct stare. Liberation. No more fear of negative reactions.

Mr. Bell clapped the boy on the shoulder, grinning. “That’s the best news I’ve heard today!”

Cian didn’t know what to make of that, how to respond, so he smiled back, the first shared smile in six years. How wonderful it felt!

Felicity gulped; curious, he turned to find her face turning pink. Retta had looked at him the same way that day two years before, the day he’d been beaten so badly for looking at her that he’d ended up in the hospital. What was that? What did that mean?

Mr. Bell cleared his throat, recapturing Cian’s attention. “Tell you what – why don’t you return to Miss Markwood’s office and look at some more magazines. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty, but I don’t know, some of those women in there are pretty easy on the eyes, eh?”

Cian’s blush broke eye contact for a reason that had nothing to do with his looks.

“Miss Markwood, while he’s doing that, I need you for a few minutes. Cian, we’ll see you a little later, okay?”

      Nodding, he entered the office, went back to the desk, and sat down, embarrassed. His back to them, he opened another magazine. This was the oddest day he remembered having, maybe ever. And maybe the best.

 

*******

 

“What is it?” Felicity asked as they headed back to Josiah’s office at the other end of the corridor.

“I listened to about thirty seconds of that tape. That’s all I could take.”

“Why? What was on it that was so bad?”

They had reached his door and he ushered her inside, waved toward the chair facing his desk, and turned the tape player to face her. “Listen for yourself.” He shut his door, came back to the desk, and pushed the “Play” button.

He waited, watching as Felicity withstood a minute and a half before she jabbed “Stop” with a trembling finger. “Oh my loving God,” she breathed. “What in the hell was that?”

“His foster mother, I believe.”

“Oh, Lordy, Josiah, I think I’m going to be sick.” She wasn’t exaggerating; her skin had gone dead white and waxy-looking, and tiny beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead. “That poor, poor child,” she moaned, clutching her stomach as she doubled over.

He rushed to her side and knelt beside her chair. “You want the trash can?” he offered, feeling helpless. He hadn’t expected a reaction like this.

She shook her head, closing her eyes. “I’ll be all right – gi – give me a minute, please.” She sat back, took slow, deep breaths, and little by little the color returned to her face. A minute or two later, unshed tears brightening her eyes, she stood up and left the office. Josiah didn’t follow, although he did hope she wasn’t going to do anything upsetting, like quit. A few minutes later, however, she was back, and the look on her face made him hope he wasn’t the source of what he saw there.

“I just spoke to Cian.”

He relaxed. “About the tape?”

“Yes. About the tape. When I told him you and I had listened to some of it, I thought he was going to lose it. But I had to know exactly what happened, so after I promised him he’d never have to hear that abominable filth again, I asked him how often and for how long he’d been forced to listen to it.” She took a deep breath and sat.

“Do you need a glass of water?”

“No. I need a stiff drink, Josiah. A real stiff drink. He said he’d had to hear that thing nearly every day for the past two years. He – I don’t know where he got the courage to even tell me this – he said the first time she made him listen, she’d made him sit on that mattress. He said she’d tied his hands in front of him, looped the rope around an open jar of sulfuric acid she’d put on the window sill, and tied the other end to the window crank.” She stopped, scowling.

Something told him not to push her, to wait, and a minute later she continued.

“That woman made him sit like that for nearly three whole days, Josiah – told him that if he moved, he’d knock the jar down and that acid would fall on him and eat away his… well, you know what sulfuric acid does.”

“And he had to listen to the tape the whole time?”

“He did. Apparently she had it on a loop so it kept repeating. He says his foster brother and sister made tapes, too, and he had to listen to them from time to time as well.” She uttered an ugly phrase Josiah would never have expected her to use.

“All right, look. I’m going make an appointment at the clinic for him to have a check-up today. I’ll see if I can get him in within the hour and take him myself. Have him ready in about fifteen minutes. You’re welcome to come with us.”

“No, I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same.” Miss Markwood sat back, closing her eyes for a few moments, then got up. “Come by my office when you’re ready to leave. I’ll explain to him what’s going to happen, and make arrangements for housing for the night.” She turned back at the door. “Thanks, Josiah. This was a good save.”

“I’m just glad we found him in time.”

She smiled and went out, and Josiah picked up the phone.

 

*******

 

“Are you ready to go, Cian?”

He got up and followed Mr. Bell out of the office, overwhelmed yet again. For six years, his entire world had existed within a house with dirty windows and no mirrors. The basement, backyard, and when cleaning or repairs were needed, the upper floors. Nothing else. Nowhere else. Now, in a single day, he’d been in a car, a restaurant, out on a busy city street, in an office. And Mr. Bell was taking him somewhere else.

Felicity had told him the clinic was only a couple of doors down, so he and Mr. Bell would be walking. So… more new things to see. He’d seen his reflection. Sufficient for him. Not enough for them – he needed to see a doctor, too. Why? Miss Markwood had said something about why, but weariness had deafened his comprehension.

As they left the office building, Cian stuttered and stammered at Mr. Bell to say that he had only seen one other doctor, that he had been a kind man.

“I’m relieved to hear that, Cian. The last thing I want is to take you somewhere that will upset you.”

Getting to the clinic took only a few minutes, but Cian, embraced by fresh air, was reluctant to go inside. The day was soft, warm, fragrant. The perfect accompaniment to spring’s pastels and new leaves, trees surrounded by flowers, the city’s tidy landscaping. He was reluctant, but had learned obedience.

White-walled and cool, the clinic’s interior was pleasant enough. They had entered a room with soft, powder blue carpet, white wicker chairs and sofas with blue-and-rose-patterned chintz cushions, recessed lighting and white shutters on the windows. A sad memory intruded: a house, decorated in similar, luxurious comfort, owned by two wonderful... he shut the memory out with a quick shake of his head, unable to think about that right then.

Mr. Bell had gone to a counter on the other side of the room behind which sat a woman in light blue. He spoke with her for a few moments. When he was heading back, Cian stared at her, curious, but she gasped, causing him to look away in alarm. His first thought was his default - that he was ugly, and the poor woman was horrified. As Mr. Bell sat beside him, Cian ducked his head and buried his gaze in the floor.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Bell murmured out of the side of his mouth.

“She – I-I-I’m upsetting her...”

“Who? The receptionist? You don’t get it, do you. She’s looking at you like that because quite frankly, kid, you’re what they call ‘drop-dead gorgeous.’ In a masculine way, of course.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to think about the “drop dead” part, but it hadn’t sounded like a bad thing the way Mr. Bell said it. He looked up again, but wouldn’t meet the woman’s continued stare. “Th-this is, um, embar-barassing,” he whispered.

“You’d better learn to deal with it, son. It’ll be happening a lot.”

Cian closed his eyes, muttered a word in the language he’d brought with him from that other place, the long ago place in dreams that weren’t dreams. Memories. Too many memories.

“What did you say?”

“I said... oh. S-sorry. That w-was Ga-Gaelic. It meant s-som- something like ‘d-damn’ in this lan-language.”

“How on earth have you remembered your native tongue after all these years?”

“You know w-where I’m fr-fr-from?”

Before Mr. Bell could answer, someone called, “Cian MacDara? Please come this way.”

Standing beside the woman seated at the counter, a middle-aged woman pointed at a door to their left, not looking at them, but at something in her hands.

“Let’s go.” Mr. Bell stood, nodding for Cian to go first.

On the other side of the door, the woman asked how they were doing, but she was still staring down at what Cian recognized from the hospital as a chart. They had entered a narrow hallway with doors on either side. The woman stopped three quarters of the way down, opened a door on their left, and turned, looking up. Her eyes widened, her smile becoming a gape, and she blushed.

Why do they look at me like that? He slid past her, disconcerted, almost fearful.

Once they were in the room, the woman, who had followed them inside, continued to stare at Cian, silent.

Mr. Bell cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”

“Huh?”

He shook his head and sat on the only chair in the room.

“Uh, uh, Mr. Uh – ˝ She looked down at the chart. “Mr. MacDara, is it? Um, please remove your, well, everything except your underwear - ” Her blush got deeper. “There’s a hospital robe on the table; it closes in the back.” She gave him a horrifying grin and went out, the squeak of her shoes describing a rapid dash down the hall.

“What w-w-was wrong w-w-with her?”

Mr. Bell shook his head, smiling. “If you ever figure out what you have… listen, it’s nothing you need to worry about right now, okay?’

He nodded. “Um, wh-why do I hav-ave to get un-undressed?”

“So the doctor can give you a physical examination. He’ll be checking your heartbeat, your lungs, ears, eyes, that sort of thing. Believe me, it’s completely normal – pretty much everyone does this at least once a year and many problems are caught early and cured because of it.”

“Oh.” Cian didn’t understand, but he accepted it and pulled off his T-shirt, turning away from Mr. Bell to pick up the robe draped across the end of the table.

 

********

 

Josiah was still trying to get over the reactions he’d been witnessing from both young girls and older women – that nurse who had just left couldn’t have been less than forty – so it took a few seconds for his mind acknowledge what his eyes were seeing.

Over the years, Josiah had seen many youngsters who had been physically abused – he’d witnessed deep bruising, bloody abrasions, cigarette burns – but nothing, absolutely nothing like what he found himself staring at in mounting horror. Cian’s back, sides and arms were a crisscrossing mass of long, red scars, some of which had had to have been deep. Others were fainter, either because they were much older or because they hadn’t been as deep. There wasn’t an inch of his back that hadn’t been damaged, not a single patch of untouched skin.

Underlying this grotesque tapestry, a series of roundish, fading black-and-blue marks, each the size of a large fist, were visible. Many of these had started to turn yellow and purple, indicating the boy had been struck at different times in the recent past.

Holding up the examination robe, Cian turned to face him, revealing more of the scabbed bruises all over his chest, arms, and abdomen. “H-how do I p-put th-th-this on?” he asked, staring at the shoulder snaps and strings, scowling.

Josiah raised his eyes from the boy’s torso. “How in the world did you survive?” he asked, thankful that Felicity wasn’t here to see this.

“I d-don’t underst-stand - ?”

Josiah felt gut-punched. “Here – let me help you with that.” He got up and covered the scars with the robe, pulling it shut and tying it for him in the back while trying not to look at what was under his hands. “Don’t forget to take off your jeans.”

Cian complied, pulling off his worn-out shoes and socks, too. Then he sat on the edge of the table, regarding the man through a frown. A few minutes later, he said, “Is-is it the-the scars? I’ve ne-ne-never s-s-s-een them mu-myself, of c-c-ourse, bu-but I’ve s-s-seen some of-of the ones on the b-backs of m-my arms and s-sides, and I ca-can guess, uh, wha-what my ba-back mu-must loo-look like.”

Josiah nodded, not trusting his voice. He’d never seen anything so awful, and felt himself close to tears. What strength the boy must have! And to get through it all without turning into some kind of psycho –

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” A round-faced man had come into the room. “I’m Dr. Wallace Overton.” He glanced down at a chart he was holding, looked up, and nodded at Mr. Bell with a smile. When he turned to Cian, the smile twitched. “I believe you’re the patient?”

Cian nodded.

“Good. Let’s see how healthy you are, shall we?” He placed the chart on the counter near the door and told Cian to sit up on the padded examination table. Unlooping the stethoscope from around his neck, he put the plugs into his ears and pressed it against the boy’s chest.

Cian flinched.

“Is it cold? Sorry about that. Okay – take a nice, deep breath, and release it slowly. Then repeat that about three times for me, okay?”

Everything went well until Dr. Overton said he wanted to listen to Cian’s lungs from the other side and untied the back of the robe. He took a quick step back from the table. “What in holy hell!!??”

“Didn’t my assistant give you his background?” asked Josiah, alarmed; the doctor’s loud reaction could have caused an even more violent reaction from his patient. Cian, however, sat quiet, head bowed.

“Y-yes, but she never said anything about this, or explained how extreme it was!”

“That’s because she didn’t know. In fact, I didn’t know either until a few minutes ago. Sorry.”

Overton shook his head and returned his attention to Cian. “We’re going to take care of this, young man. Does any of it hurt right now?”

“J-just the – the – wh-where Buddy h-h-hit me the la-last time.”

“Where was that?”

“All over.”

After a momentary hesitation, the doctor pulled the robe off Cian’s shoulders and down to his waist, then stared at the scars and bruises covering every part of the boy’s torso and upper arms. “I promise you as does Mr. Bell, I’m sure, that no one – no one – is ever going to hurt you like this again.”

EIGHTEEN

 

Connecticut – Present Day

 

Within the silence following Croghan’s explanation of Celeste’s involvement, Cian got up to join him at the fireplace. “I’ll take the story from here, if it’s all right with you.”

Elements of his journey from Tír Conaill to Connecticut had been lost one by one along the way as he had traveled through time to this place. But as the Croghan had told his tale, most of those long-forgotten details had returned. Steady streams of flashing images blossomed into full-blown recollections until Cian was back to himself at last.

Croghan shrugged. “Very well. I assume you’ve remembered some more?”

“A lot more. Almost all of it.”

“Good! I think I need a little rest anyway.” He smiled, taking the chair Cian had vacated.

Cian took a quick, deep breath and began. “As the Croghan stated, we crossed Ireland from Tír Conaill to the northern shore across from Tory Island near sunset many days later. I was familiar only with the calmer waters of Donegal Bay – we never went there during storms, of course – but here the sea was different and I was awed by the size and beauty of it. The island was a daunting distance from the shore, the waters between wild and full of rocks and foam. A small boat could cross, but it looked to be a dangerous trip. My mother asked the Croghan how he proposed we get over there. I remember her having to raise her voice to be heard over the sound of the waves.

“Croghan took out his harp and said he was going to take us to the Island with music. Before anyone could ask how, he played several chords, and then sang out a melody with no words, or at least I don’t recall any. I do remember feeling as though the wind had gathered itself into a gigantic hand that swept us up into its palm, closed around us like a fist, and before we could take another breath, opened again to leave us on the shores of Tory. It was... it was amazing.

“Tory Island mustn’t be large, even though as a child I saw it as huge. Before long we had rounded one side of it and were looking out at a rock formation that made me think of a gigantic comb, its teeth pointed upward. I guess to others it resembled a key, because I’m told it was called a jetty, and in some later age became known as The Key, but I don’t know who told me. Niall, maybe. The Croghan led us out onto this insane-looking thing, telling us – unnecessarily, I might add – to take care to watch our footing. By the time we got to the end, the sun was all but gone, but a few last rays were shining gold on one face of the crag directly before us. To this, the Croghan made his way and raised his hands with Niall standing beside him while we waited a few feet back.

“He began to sing, but without the harp, and within seconds the rock dissolved. I can’t think of any other description. It… disintegrated into a curtain of golden mist, and it was beautiful. I don’t know if I was, uh, ‘freaked out’ by what was happening, but I’m sure I was elated, you know, the way children are who have never had reason to fear anything and are having a sudden grand adventure.

“I don’t know how to describe what I was looking at once we passed through the curtain except… imagine being woven into a massive cocoon, maybe. All was soft and grey, and at our feet was a pathway that looked like ash. There was no sound, only a sense of vastness.

“I looked up to see the ceiling –common sense was telling me we were inside this bloody great rock formation, so there would have to be one, right? Well, there wasn’t. The greyness darkened into nothing overhead. And instead of walls of stone, what looked like high, grey curtains were all that defined both sides of the pathway. Ahead, the distance was also greyness. I looked at my parents to see if they had become that same color, too.” The memory came with a grin. “They were normal, much to my relief, but I couldn’t say what light made it possible for us to see at all, never mind colors.

“We followed the Keeper and Niall, on and on through this bizarre place. I’ve no idea how long we traveled, but I never felt tired, hungry or thirsty. Still, it seemed longer than our journey from Tír Conaill. But at last, in the distance was something gleaming and green. As we got closer, I saw a hill, and on top something white and blue shimmered. The hill was only about twelve feet at its highest point, and its sides had a gradual slope.

“Since the hill had come into view I’d been hearing music unlike any I’d heard before. Because bards were common in our land, I recognized the sounds as coming from a harp, but this music made me feel as if I could walk on a cloud.

“The Croghan brought us to the top, but as we approached the harper, we became overwhelmed by her size and beauty. My parents fell to their knees, bowing their heads. I remember staring up at her – even seated, she was much taller than any of us – and asking her what she was.

“‘I am the angel Celesta,’ she told me, and smiled, and I thought my heart would burst with joy. Then she said something I vowed at the time that I’d never forget. She said, ‘I found you, dearest Cian, and chose you to be the Sword-Wielder of the Light, the Defender of the Balance – our Time Warrior.’” He shook his head. “What glorious words those were to a little boy, but I didn’t remember them until now.” He paused, his mind’s eye filling with the long-forgotten scene. Celesta – he could see her exquisite features still, but those of his parents? Lost. Nothing.

“Cian?”

He took a quick breath, refocusing, and realized Celeste had spoken. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Are you all right? You look so… so sad.”

“I am a little, but it’s okay.” He smiled, grateful for her concern.

Croghan stretched and crossed one leg over the other. “After this, I do believe Celesta explained to Cian’s parents our plan for training him and why he had been chosen. She said the boy would have to go on a quest even as he was learning the ways of the sword, and that this quest would take Cian beyond their lifetimes.”

“An angel’s touch is an amazing thing,” Cian added. “My mother was, as you can imagine, more upset about this than ever, but Celesta called her forward and took her hand, and I saw my mother, I don’t know, relax. A moment before, she’d looked as if fury would overwhelm her awe, but the next she was at ease, smiling. I can’t explain it better than that. After a few minutes, Celesta promised that my mother’s sadness would be taken away, as would my father’s, and they would be given peace.

“I asked if I would have that, too. Celesta told me I had to find my own peace, but that when I did, it would be complete, and no more sadness would darken my soul, or some such words.”

“Well that doesn’t seem fair!” Katie crossed her arms, glowering.

“I suppose I’ll find out.” He stared over everyone’s head for a moment, pulling together the rest of what he remembered. “My parents were told they could stay with me for the first part of the quest, and that made me glad, but The Croghan, said he had other matters to see to, so the Breslin would be our guide, something else Servant Helpers do. Before he left us, Croghan told me that at the end of my first journey through the Doors – I remember going through several – I was to seek someone named Celeste, that I would recognize her because she would know things she shouldn’t, and be able to play the harp, which he would have taught her himself. She would be the final step toward my destiny, and I was to befriend her. I’d forgotten all about that until shortly before moving into the Connecticut foster home, and even then only part of it.”

“Wait – ” Celeste put her head to one side. “So that ‘know things she shouldn’t’ bit refers to my trances?”

“It does.”

“Okay; sorry.”

Tearing his gaze away from her was becoming difficult. What did that mean? Cian! Finish the account of what brought you here – you can think about your feelings later. A blink, a shift of focus to the far wall. “Niall brought us down a pathway once the Croghan was gone, and stopped at a place where the grey was almost black. He muttered something and another curtain of golden light appeared. When we stepped through, we were in a cave with a sandy floor, light at the far end, and the sound of the ocean loud in our ears.

“Once outside, we followed the Breslin along the shore to an upward path that ended at a barren stretch of land. I don’t remember a lot more about it, only that we soon came to a wooden structure resembling a cottage, but taller. Walls within made separate interior spaces. Ours had been a cottage with one large room, two windows and one door. This place had windows on every side, a door in front where we entered, another in back, and wooden steps leading up into some mysterious area overhead. When I asked where they led, Niall’s answer was my introduction to the concept of bedrooms. My father, I think, had seen bigger homes than ours, but this one was like nothing in Ireland, and I said so.

“I was right – Niall told us we were in Cornwall, in a part that would become known as Land’s End. I’d never heard of Cornwall, but somehow it didn’t sound like the name of a town. As for the house, Niall told us another of his kind, a Servant Helper, who was away for bit helping someone else, owned it.

“My guess that Cornwall was a place like Ireland was confirmed when he explained that here our native Gaelic was not spoken. This, he said, would be the first part of my quest. I had to learn the tongue of the English. That wasn’t the word he used for them, nor was their language the same English as we speak now. Come to think of it, Cornish has a lot of the Celtic in it, Cornwall being a Celtic community, and little of what eventually became English. Still, it was a useful language, which I later found had influenced many of the tongues I would learn, like Saxon, the language of the Picts, even Latin and, eventually, English.” He shrugged.

“You learned all those?” asked Katie.

“I did, but I’m not sure I can speak them all now. So. The next few weeks were spent mostly in this house, where Niall began tutoring me in the Cornish tongue. Naturally, my parents had begun to learn as well, and when we were able to formulate short sentences, Niall took us into the nearby village. He had provided us with new clothing, but while my mother’s garb was not unlike what she already had, my father and I were given items that looked and felt like nothing we had worn before. Instead of a comfortable, simple tunic, I was given what he called a ‘shirt.’ And instead of leggings, I had to wear ‘britches.’ I, uh, don’t think, well, I won’t go into why they were so uncomfortable at the outset. Um, I eventually got used to them, of course.

“Right.” He felt a blush rise and cleared his throat. “I’ll stop embarrassing myself now. Well, we found ourselves in a place that was more populated than the villages back home. The people were using items and implements we’d never seen before, and when we asked Niall about it, he explained that we had not only come to a different place, but a different time as well – over two hundred years later, in fact, making it around 750 A.D.

“We traveled a lot over the next two years, visiting other continents altogether, including Asia. In China I learned some things about the sword that were different from anything I’d learned elsewhere. The language, too, was difficult and strange sounding, but I had to understand what I was being taught about swordplay. I returned to the Hub several times to be instructed in these new tongues because it would have taken too long in real time.

“As I was learning to use a sword, my parents learned new ways of doing old things. My mother, I think… yes. She was delighted with the progress of making dyes, while my father learned some new methods of weaving and sheep farming. At one point, my father and Niall negotiated – I’ve no idea with what – to have a small, iron sword forged for me by a smith in one of the towns. He let me watch him at his work, explaining everything he was doing, even letting me do some of it.

“Later, I would be given short swords made of steel, the forging of which was somewhat different. By the time I was ten, I had become proficient with these, especially after the trip to China, and while I still spoke Gaelic with my parents and Niall, we used English more and more. As we continued going forward in time, we were introduced to various machines that did the work of many. And then we came to America. I’m sorry to have rushed through all that, but honestly, most of it is still hazy. I probably remember that first place in more detail because it was part of the whole trauma of leaving Ireland the way we did.

“By the time we got here again – we’d been to America twice before during earlier times – my English was nearly perfect. In fact, the only thing that gave away my origins was my accent. I still haven’t completely lost the sound of it, but the influence of being in the South has affected… well, you hear how I talk. We got here through a Door that led out into Elberton, Georgia. When we passed through the gold curtain, we were not in one of the ancient places, like a cave or tomb as we usually found ourselves, but standing in front of a stone structure on top of a low hill. Niall told us this was of fairly recent construction, unlike the others, which were older than written history. He said the local people called this the ‘Georgia Guide Stones’ but didn’t give any details about them. By the way he was shaking his head as he said their name, I got the impression he was disgusted about them for some reason.

“Wait a second,” Katie interrupted. “Sorry, but may I ask about a few things?”

“Of course.”

“Cool. Okay, working backward, if you don’t mind – did Niall still have that crazy long beard when you guys got to this time period?”

“What?” Cian stared for a second, then laughed. “I really didn’t think Niall’s beard... well, yes, he did.”

“Didn’t he, like, look kinda out of place?”

“To be honest, he looked a little insane.”

She grinned. “Thought so. And what about transportation? When was the first time you saw a car?”

He frowned. “I believe it was in the beginning of the 1900s, in England.”

“That must’ve been cool.”

“No, Katie, it wasn’t cool at all. In fact, it was – it was frightening.”

“Why?”

“Remember,” said Mr. Kelly, “you grew up around cars and buses and airplanes and all that. Apparently – if I believe all this nonsense – your friend here only knew about sheep.”

Croghan uncrossed his legs and stood. “Celeste, hand me the Harp, will you please?”

“Are you going to sing?”

Cian sat, suspecting what his mentor was about to do.

“Oh, no, not... well, not a song.” He turned to Mr. Kelly. “Tell me, Donal, how would you feel about meeting Niall? The Servant Helpers from this time were murdered, and so far we’ve not replaced them. I have the freedom, therefore, to summon any of the others I choose – and since you’ve been hearing about the Brehon throughout this tale, it would make sense to call him here, yes?”

Mr. Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. And how far in advance did you and this Niall set up your little trick? You know, you almost had me.”

“Trick, is it?” The Keeper took the Harp from Celeste. “Look well to this room, Mr. Kelly. Be sure all the doors and windows are locked, the shadows uninhabited. Look behind the chairs, and close the door between this room and the kitchen.”

Frowning, Mr. Kelly got up and shut the sliding door between rooms, went out to the foyer where Cian could hear him rattling the front door, followed by several clicking sounds. When he returned, he headed back to his seat.

“Wait. Stand beside me, Donal,” Croghan instructed. When Mr. Kelly had joined him, the harper stroked the gleaming strings and sang out the name of the Brehon.

No one moved, but Cian could see they were trying to look everywhere at once. A moment later, the only place to look was about five feet in front of the Croghan, between the sofa and the loveseat. A shower of brilliant blue-green specks appeared, faded, and resolved into a familiar man in a coarse robe tied at the waist with rope, wearing leggings and sandals, a full water bucket in one hand. He glared from under shaggy grey brows that matched the beard flowing over his chest.

“Will ye stop that, ye mad Croghan!” he exclaimed, his Irish brogue thick. “I’m done with bein’ yanked away from me well and me wife! Someone needs to take that harp away from ye and slap ye’r wrists, for ye’r a dangerous man with the bloody thing in ye’r hands!” He thumped the bucket onto the floor, sloshing some of its contents on the carpet, and crossed his arms over his beard.

Everyone except Cian and Croghan stared, bug-eyed.

Katie shrieked.

“What the hell?” The Brehon jumped and spun to face her.

“Oh my God! You’re real! Oh my God!”

Niall put his head to one side, regarding for a moment, then glanced up at the Croghan. “And who, exactly, is this young... young person?”

“Allow me to introduce everyone, and by the way, sorry about pulling you out of Time like this.”

“Crazy Croghan,” Niall mumbled. “Well, fine – I’m sure ye had a good reason as always.”

“How did you know to speak English?” Katie asked before Croghan could respond.

Niall pointed at her, eyes narrowed. “Better watch this one. She’s sharper than a wolf’s tooth. And to answer ye’r question,” he went on, “I knew where this lunatic has been.” He nodded sideways at Croghan, “So what other language would I be speakin’ now, eh?”

“Okay. Fair enough.” She sat back.

“Hmph. So who are these people, Keeper?”

“Katie you’ve met. She’s good friends with this young lady, whose name should be familiar to you – this is Celeste.”

The Brehon’s beard split with his smile. “Ah, now, and every bit as lovely as she should be. Do ye play the harp, lass?”

“N-not really. I – ”

“She can play the things Celesta put into her head and hands, and because there’s a strong natural talent there, I’ve a feeling it won’t take long at all to teach her the rest.”

“Incredible,” Donal murmured.

“Ah, and this is the young lady’s father – Donal Kelly. And her mother, Eileen.” He put the harp on the floor beside Mr. Kelly’s chair and waved a hand at Cian. “And this is someone I believe you know, even if it has been a while.”

Cian stood, glad to see his former guide, and gave the Brehon a bow. “Good to be with you again, sir.”

Niall stared for a few seconds. “By all the saints. Would ye look at yerself! And – and so tall, too! Like yer father, ye are!” He broke into a hearty laugh, clapped Cian on the shoulder and pumped his hand in a vigorous shake. “Ye’r all grown, aren’t ye, boy. It certainly is a pleasure to see ye lookin’ so well.”

“Thank you. I hope you’ve been well, too?”

“Fine – until I got yanked into the future, that is.” Another glare was aimed at Croghan.

“Cian was in the middle of telling us the story of his journey,” Croghan said, “and I believe we were coming to the part where the two of you and his parents parted company.”

“Ah. I’d be interested in hearin’ this part to be sure.” He looked over at Eileen. “Might I sit down, good lady?”

“Uh, sure – but if you don’t mind, please… put that bucket somewhere out of the way.”

NINETEEN

 

Georgia – One Year Earlier

 

Letitia Pettijohn checked her purse again. Where were those stupid keys? She had separated them so Buddy could drive the car, and thrown the house keys into her purse. She dug around the bottom of the garish yellow bag, and this time felt their shape through the imitation silk lining. “Well, dang,” she muttered. “Must have a hole somewheres.”

“Hurry up, Ma, we’re hungry,” Retta complained next to her in the back seat.

They were parked in the driveway in the mid-afternoon silence. Two weeks was certainly long enough for that infuriating boy to have starved to death, Letitia figured, unless he’d been eating cockroaches. She found the tear in the lining, put in two fingers, and snagged the keys. “Okay, got ‘em. Let’s go.”

“Who’s gonna check the basement, Ma?” Buddy, arms crossed over his chest, looked up into the rear view mirror and raised thick eyebrows at her.

Letitia glared at the back of his head, then into the mirror to see him gazing at her with a challenge in his eyes. “Oh, fine. We’ll all go.”

“Not me,” said Retta.

Letitia sighed. “Get out of the car.” Shaking her head, she opened the driver’s side back door. The cool, fragrant air was lovely, and she began thinking it would be a good time to open all the windows in the house. She unlocked the front door, and they stepped inside.

Silence. No feeling of life, no hint that their presence had been noticed by anyone or anything, but no smell of death, either. “Well, come on, you two – we’re gonna do this together or I’ll make you sorry we didn’t.”

Her children shuffled after her to the kitchen. When she got to the basement door, she stopped, stunned. Already open, the wood around the lock was splintered, but since it opened inward to the basement, she knew the boy couldn’t have done this from his side. Someone else had to have been in the house and kicked it open.

“Hey!” she called into the darkness below. “You down there, stupid?” Nothing. “Doggone it!” She stomped down the stairs, slapping at the light switch on the way, hearing Retta right behind her, but not Buddy. What was that boy doing?

The mattress was unoccupied. Next she checked the bathroom – empty. Retta looked in the other parts of the basement and found no one.

“How in the world did he get out? Who would’ve come in here? It isn’t like we got anything worth stealing...”

“Ma!!”

Letitia hurried upstairs. “What is it, Buddy? You find him?”

Her son was standing next to the small table by the front door. “No, Ma, but where is the tape recorder?”

“What? Why’re you asking a dumb question like that?”

“It’s not dumb, Ma. You left the recorder right here on this table when we left. If he took it with him, he coulda given it to the police or something...”

“Aw, crap!” Buddy was right – she’d put the recorder there herself, and the tape was still in it, a tape that could get her arrested for child abuse. Unless she could convince the authorities that it had been used for something else…

Footsteps sounded on the front porch, followed by a loud knock.

Oh, now what? Adjusting her tight yellow skirt and composing her features to appear nonchalant, Letitia opened the door.

“Mrs. Pettijohn?” A large man stared down at her, looking uncomfortable in his dark suit.

“Yes, sir,” she answered with manufactured sweetness. “What can I do for you?”

“FBI.” He held up a leather cardholder, which he flipped open to reveal his official I.D. “You’re under arrest, ma’am. Please turn around and put your hands on the back of your head.”

“Hey!” yelled Buddy. “Why are you arresting her?”

“For the same reason we’re arresting you, Buddy Pettijohn. Uh, Retta? You, too, sweetheart.”

By this time, he had been joined by four other massive officers who cuffed them, then read each of the Pettijohns their rights as they were pulled out of the house and into the vehicles that had been driven onto the lawn.

“What the hell are you arresting us for?” the woman demanded, no longer caring about being polite.

“Child abuse, battery on a minor, conspiracy to commit murder, and murder in the first degree, ma’am.”

“What?! I never killed nobody! And I never laid a hand on that boy!”

“Yeah? What did you hit him with?” The FBI agent glared at her. “I’ve seen your foster son’s file, ma’am, which includes clear photos of his scars and bruises.”

“Nothing – he, he hurt hisself!”

“Still sticking with that one, are you?”

She shut her mouth, furious, scared, and totally unable to come up with an answer, with any words at all.

Except one – “comeuppance.”

 

*******

 

“Why do you think you stammer?” A nice-looking man in his early fifties, Dr. Libman, the head psychiatrist for Georgia’s Marcus Institute, had been introduced to Cian that morning.

The room in which they sat, with its muted colors and comfortable furniture, had large windows covered by sheer white drapes that filled it with a diffused, calming bath of sunlight. Under other circumstances, Cian thought, he might have found this place pleasant, relaxing. Not these circumstances. While better by far than his previous situation, this one was presenting new issues. Gratitude and relief had settled in, leaving the door open for other things. Confusion about what all of this meant. Uncertainty about what was expected. No, he was not relaxed.

Why am I talking to this man? Can he really help me? Do I have to tell him the whole six years of my experience? I certainly can’t tell him where I’m from… He pulled his mind back to the question. Why, indeed, did he stammer? He’d been asking himself that since the day it had started.

“Take your time, Cian. We’re in no rush.”

“Th-thank you.” He bit his lower lip, remembering the first time he’d been forced to listen to the tape. His silence continued, but not because the doctor had told him they weren’t in a hurry. He simply didn’t know where, or how, to start.

“May I ask you something?”

“Y-yes.”

“When, exactly, did your stammer first begin?”

“The t-t-tape. A-after the fi-first time sh-sh-sh-she ma-m-ma...”

“Cian, listen. She’ll never hurt you again. Neither will her son or daughter. You must allow your mind and heart to rest on this issue, to be at ease. You’re safe. Please believe that.”

Cian nodded, but couldn’t help believing he’d wake up in the basement, and none of this would have happened. “Where... a-are they n-n-now?”

Dr. Libman stood and went to his desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a manila envelope, which he handed to Cian before returning to his seat. “They were arrested a couple of weeks after you were rescued from that house. This is a police report as well as the follow-up. Read it, please.”

Cian opened it and slid out several sheets of paper. After a quick glance at the doctor, who nodded, he sat straighter and began reading.

 

*******

 

Dr. Libman sat back, watching, and tried to interpret Cian’s reactions, his body language and the subtle expressions in his eyes. He had read through the report several times himself, and knew that Letitia had been charged with several murders – two social workers in Atlanta, a doctor in her local hospital, and her own husband. The only one she’d been foolish enough to admit outright as having done by her own hands was her husband’s.

The investigator suspected that the social workers and the doctor had been killed on her orders but carried out by two other people: her husband in the case of the social workers, and her son, who had caused the doctor’s death. When asked if this were the case, Letitia’s silence and refusal to look up from her lap was close enough to an admission to warrant a hearing.

Before the month was out, she would face a judge. Buddy, who was no longer a minor, was facing the possibility of life imprisonment with no chance for parole. Retta, on the other hand, had been remanded to a psychiatric institution for observation and treatment, having neither committed nor been implicit in any crime other than abuse, but questions had been raised about her behavior being the result of her mother’s direct influence.

As for the horrible abuse meted out to Cian, this would be factored in if the case went to trial – something Dr. Libman believed was a foregone conclusion at this point. In the report he’d given Cian, the investigators and law enforcement officials were pressing charges based on overwhelming evidence, not the least of which was Cian’s physical condition and mental state. And then there was the recording…

As Cian read the report, he gave away little of what he was feeling, much to the doctor’s surprise. But when he was done, he slid the pages back into the envelope, let it fall to the floor, and sat back, eyes closed. A moment later, tears began sparkling under his closed lids, made their way through his lashes and down his face, to fall, finally, in long splashes on his shirt.

The tears continued silently for a few more minutes, and then, doubling over, Cian began to sob.

 

*******

 

Cian finished reading, his mind numb. Like an automaton, he put the pages back in the envelope, dropped it on the floor. Closed his eyes. Let the feelings burst through. Like a dam unable to remain intact once cracks had formed, came the flood of pain and sorrow that had begun the first night he’d entered that house. He bent forward, burying his face in his arms crossed over his lap, and sobbed. Deep, painful spasms as he mourned the loss of family, homeland and childhood, the lives lost on his behalf. Simultaneous relief, sorrow, rage, grief, and elation tore at his soul, scouring his psyche.

The report had answered questions he’d made himself forget because they touched things too painful to think about: that couple in the beautiful house where he’d first gone to stay and where his parents and a man who had come with them – the name was gone from his memory – had eventually left him to continue his quest alone; those two people who, with their soft speech and kind ways, had eased the loss of his family and taught him so many things that would help him... how had they ended up dying in such a violent, horrible way? Now he knew. That disgusting woman, the one who had the nerve to call him her foster son, had been responsible for their brutal deaths.

But why? What had they done to Letitia to make them a target like that? Their relationship with him? And Dr. Lee – was it because he believed him? Had he told Letitia he knew she had administered the slashes on Cian’s back? Perhaps by telling him what had really happened, he had caused the man’s death himself. No, no, I won’t blame myself – telling him wouldn’t have caused his murder if she weren’t so evil!

Reconciliation of the conflicting emotions brought a new pain as the broken places in his heart started knitting back into wholeness, jagged, angry edges forced together by a relief he’d believed would never come. Pain that hurt almost more than he could handle. Yet he knew pain, had learned to accept it. But this?

Sometimes Letitia would lock him out of the house in winter, forcing to sleep on the frozen lawn. The pain of near-frozen hands and feet thawing in warm water the next morning was much like this inner mending. The beatings that lacerated his back were almost pleasant by comparison.

He heard Dr. Libman come to the chair and lean down, one arm across Cian’s shoulders. Thank you for your concern. He couldn’t say that yet, couldn’t stop sobbing. Cian lost track of how long he sat that way, letting all of it out. But at last the wracking gasps began to subside, the soreness in his ribs a small price for release.

Sitting straight, head throbbing, he took an offered tissue from Dr. Libman and blew his nose. Head back, he closed his eyes, drained, unable to move for a few seconds. “S-Sorry,” he whispered.

“No need to apologize, Cian. That was something you needed to do.”

He nodded and opened his eyes, blinked a few times against a threat of new tears, and took a deep, shaky breath. “I h-hope they die. Es-especially h-her.”

The doctor went back to his chair, looked at Cian with his head to one side for a moment. “What would you do if they didn’t?”

A faint recollection about childhood in the 6th Century whispered, “Kill them yourself.” That was the right thing to do back then, perhaps. But his century had changed, had changed him. In this less direct, more “civilized” society, he knew he could do nothing without getting into a whole lot of trouble. So he met the doctor’s gaze with a modified version of his instincts. “Hope that f-fate would c-c-catch up w-with them so-some day.”

“That was a good answer, Cian. I trust you meant it.”

That made him curious. “Wh-what would you have d-d-done ha-had I said I wanted to, uh, would k-kill them?”

“I would have worked with you until I was convinced that you saw how wrong that would be.”

Cian shook his head. “Y-you don’t be-believe that.”

The man’s eyes widened and his head jerked back a fraction. “Well! I suppose you’re right. But as much as I think Letitia Pettijohn should receive the ultimate punishment, I would not want you to carry out the sentence. Murder is murder, Cian, and if you were to take their lives, the law would require yours, or at the very least, considering the extent of the provocation, put you away for most or all of the rest of it.”

Cian frowned at yet another odd term. “P-put me, where wo-would they put me?”

“In prison, son. Where else?”

“Oh.” I really am stupid, aren’t I.

“You know what I think?” The doctor stood and smiled. “I think we still have a lot of work to do. But at least we made a break-through, and that usually takes weeks. You’ve been holding so much pain inside, it didn’t take much for it to come out.”

Cian nodded. Makes sense. And after all this, he wanted nothing but to be alone to think and then, if possible, sleep.

TWENTY

 

Connecticut – Present Day

 

The shock was wearing off; Niall had settled himself on the loveseat next to Katie which he didn’t mind at all, but was glad his wife was elsewhere at the moment. He stared across at Celeste, admiring her delicate Irish looks while at the same time unable to ignore the attractiveness of her mother. Mrs. Kelly had one arm around her daughter, keeping her close.

“Before he starts again,” Donal said, staring at Niall through narrowed eyes, “how is it you know English at all? I mean, if you’re from the 6th Century, well, I don’t believe English was even a language yet.”

“Not as ye know it, no. But since me job involves dragging various and sundry all over the Hub from one time to another, or welcoming people from different times and places, I was required to learn as many languages as I could. And let me tell you,” he added, shaking his head, “English was by far the hardest. I don’t much care for it, to tell you the truth.”

Mr. Kelly sighed, puffing out his cheeks. “I still can’t get my mind around the idea that you’re from another century and was summoned by a harper by way of some magical music into my home in Connecticut. But I also can’t deny your presence or how you seem to have gotten here.” He looked at Cian. “Furthermore, I’ve been unable to find any discrepancies between Mr. Croghan’s story and Cian’s, which certainly would have occurred at least once had all of this been fabricated.” He put up his hands and rubbed his temples. “All right. Let’s let the boy continue his tale.”

Cian, who had been silent during this strange intermission, sat forward and continued.

 

*******

 

“I believe I was saying how we’d gotten to Georgia,” he started. “I’m pretty sure no one saw us come out of the stones – I learned these Georgia Guide Stones are an attraction of some sort and people came from all over to see them. I have no idea why. In any event, all we got were a few stares, probably because we hadn’t been there one moment, and the next we were. Not to mention the Brehon’s outrageous beard. So – you can yell at me later, Niall – we went down the slight rise and walked until we came to a street where a lot of cars were parked, including a line of yellow ones. I recognized them from other trips as taxicabs, and knew that you paid the driver to take you where you wanted to go. In our case, it was Atlanta.

“Niall kept a leather bag slung across his chest in which were numbered pockets where he collected coins and bills from the different places he’d been, so he’d always have whatever currency we’d need to pay for things. He also had a section with gold and gems that he would use to trade for money if he happened to be in a place or time he’d not visited before.

“I slept for most of the taxi ride, mainly because these motor vehicles still scared me. I’d closed my eyes to avoid seeing how fast we were going and dozed off. It was hard to shake the belief that these machines were somehow magical, even though on our last visit in the previous century, a kind gentleman had drawn me diagrams and explained how they worked.

“When my mother woke me, we were in Atlanta, the first big, modern city I’d been in thus far. The driver said we were at the requested address on North Druid Hills Road. Later, I asked about the street name, and whether or not it had anything to do with us, and Niall told me that it did, that there had to be some way to find the Servant Helpers in each time period, especially one like this when there were so many more people and buildings than when and where we came from.

“Every Door we’d entered had brought us closer to this one, and in each place a Servant Helper would meet us with a change of clothing appropriate for the location and time period. We normally didn’t appear in a place where others would be likely to see us, but since we had just come from only a few decades earlier, we didn’t have to change our outfits this time.

The building, which we entered through a kind of courtyard, was not one of the tall ones, having only two floors, I think. It was sort of whitish, uh, cement? Concrete? Anyhow, we went in through a glass door under a big brown sign that told us it was the Georgia... Georgia Center for…”

“The Georgia Center for Resources and Support,” Croghan supplied.

“Sorry, some things haven’t stayed too well in my memory, probably because so much happened between then and now. But... never mind. We – ”

Cian’s narrative was interrupted by the sound of his cell phone going off in his back pocket. At first, the faint chiming confused him, but then he remembered the device, stood up, and took it out.

It was the mall’s Maintenance Office. He muttered a word only Mrs. Kelly and Katie didn’t understand and pressed the Talk button. “Hello?”

“Ah, you’re alive!”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Halloran. I completely forgot to call you. I mean, I did remember earlier, but then things got... involved again, and – ”

“Never mind, Cian. I had a feeling from the way you lit out of here that I probably wouldn’t be seeing you for the rest of the day, so I got Matt to cover your shift. Please tell me you’re okay and I’ll be fine with it.”

“I am, sir, thank you.”

“Uh-huh. And things are okay at the foster home?”

“The – oh! Yes, that’s not even a part of it, well, not really. But no – I mean yes, everything’s okay there. In fact,” he added, disgusted with himself for not taking this into consideration, “I’m going to call them as soon as I get done speaking with you, sir.”

“Okay. But listen, when you come back on Monday evening, will you at least give me an idea what all of this was about? I normally don’t like it when my employees rush off like you did, with no explanation or anything, but because you’ve been reliable so far I’m letting it slide. Just give me some kind of reason, okay?”

“I will, Mr. Halloran. I promise. And thank you for being so understanding.”

“No problem. Take care, Cian – see you Monday.”

“Yes, sir.” He hung up, gave everyone a sheepish grin, and said, “Uh, one more call.” He sat down again and called Mr. Geller’s cell.

“Geller.”

“This is Cian, sir.”

“I know - is everything okay?”

“Yes, but I’m not at work.”

“Really? What happened? You weren’t fired were you?” The man’s voice had risen.

“No, nothing like that, sir. I just, uh, had to take care of something important and needed to go to a classmate’s house.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Cian repeated, at a loss. How was he supposed to answer that? “I – uh, I – it’s really hard to explain – ” Before he could continue, Niall got up quickly and took the phone.

“Niall Breslin here. I’m a friend of the lad’s family from Ireland.”

Because Niall was holding the device nearly half an inch from his ear, Cian could make out Geller’s words. “Are you? Cian never mentioned you before.”

“Ah, now, I’m not surprised to hear that. It’s been over six years since I saw the lad. In fact, last time I was with him he was bein’ dropped off at this great big house in Georgia where some people were supposed to be takin’ care of him.” He kept going up and down on his toes as he spoke, the hand not holding the phone jammed into his rope belt.

“I see,” Mr. Geller said, “but what does that have to do with one of his classmates?”

“Well it seems that this classmate hired a harp teacher, who also happens to be an old friend of mine. I’m guessin’ the boy found out I was here and he was hopin’ I’d have news of his family back in Ireland.”

A few seconds of silence ensued. Then, “I thought Cian’s parents were dead.”

“Wh-they are – they are indeed. I said his family, sir, not his parents.”

“Uh-huh. I didn’t know he had any family left.”

“Oh, he does, very distant relatives, however, but still I’m knowin’ them, and like anyone who’s been away from their native land for any amount of time, the boy probably was anxious to hear how things were goin’ there, see?”

“Not really. May I speak with him, please?”

Cian didn’t like the way Mr. Geller sounded, and suspected he didn’t believe any of it. Neither he nor the Georgia Department of Families and Children had ever said anything at all about distant relatives in Ireland or a Mr. Breslin.

Hoping to keep this from becoming a big problem, Cian took the phone back. “Mr. Geller?”

“So Cian, what’s this I’m hearing about distant relatives? I thought you were completely alone in the world.”

“Are you angry, sir?”

“Let’s say I’m perturbed.”

Cian thought about this for a few seconds. “Sir, if you look at my records, you’ll find a Mr. Breslin listed as the one who contacted the Center in Atlanta where we met my first foster parents. Two people, relatives with the same last name as me, accompanied him. He’s not lying, sir, and neither am I.” Somewhere along the pathways in the Hub was a Door, behind which his parents would still, in fact, be alive, and Niall had the ability to see them. No lie there.

“Hold on.” There was a light clunk, the sound of a drawer being opened, followed by the rustling of papers.

Another minute passed, during which Niall explained to the Kellys and Katie that the person Cian was speaking with didn’t seem convinced about what he’d been told.

Cian lowered his phone. “And I’m still in foster care, by the way. I was placed in a group home for teens who are preparing for independent living.”

“Cian – you there?”

He put the phone back to is ear. “Yes, sir.”

“All right. It seems I was mistaken; I found this, uh, Niall Breslin – ” he pronounced it “Nee-all” but Cian didn’t correct him – “and a, uh Fianna and... Dara MacDara? Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. Names work a little differently in Ireland.”

Cian heard the man expel a long breath. “Fine. But next time, please give me some advanced warning; and by the way, what time are you coming home?”

“What’s the latest I can be?”

Fingernails thrumming on a desktop. “No later than nine o’clock. Can you get a ride?”

“Hold on, please.” Cian looked at Croghan. “Might I get a ride home later?”

“Certainly. What time are you expected?”

“No later than nine.”

“No problem. Tell him it’s arranged.”

“Um, I’m good for a ride, Mr. Geller. Thank you.”

“Communication, Cian. Try to remember it, okay?”

“Okay. And thanks again.” He sat back down, relieved, stuffing the phone into a front pocket. “Sorry about all that.”

Celeste leaned forward, turning sideways to look at Cian with a puzzled tilt to her head. “You live in a group foster home? How in the world did you end up in one of those? I knew you were an orphan, but I guess it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder about where you lived.”

“That’s the part of the story I was coming to before the phone... rang? Why do you use that term? It didn’t ‘ring,’ it sort of, I don’t know, chimed.”

“When phones were first invented,” Mr. Kelly replied, stretching a bit in his chair, “the recipient of a call was notified by an actual bell in the device. You see, cell technology is relatively new. Phones used to be these big, clunky things attached to the wall by an electrical wire – what is it?”

Cian felt the blood drain from his face, and he clutched the arms of the chair so hard it felt as though his fingers would go through the upholstery. He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and fast, assaulted by the memory of his foster mother…

 

*******

 

…as she grabbed his arm and pulled him into the kitchen where she told him to drop the laundry basket and remove his shirt.

      Cian obeyed, showing no emotion. He knew what he was in for – or thought he did –when she went to the utility closet on the other side of the stove and pulled out a familiar length of electrical wire.

      “Go on. Turn around and grab the back of that chair. You’re in for one hell of a whuppin’, boy.” This time she didn’t need to tell him why. He had been stupid enough to look directly at her daughter.

      He looked down, closing his eyes as he waited. Why did she always make him wait?

But then it began. As always, he remained silent during the beating, but this time it went on longer than usual.

      Letitia grunted and finally stopped. “You ain’t human,” she muttered. “But dammit, I’m gonna get a response out of you yet!”

      Because she hadn’t told him to go, he stayed put, gripping the back of the kitchen chair with white knuckles, teeth clenched, tears splashing down onto the seat joining splatters of blood. He knew if he tried to stand straight, he would fall down. The pain was more intense than ever before, and it was all he could do to keep from sobbing. Not human?!

      Through the familiar ringing in his ears, he heard her rummaging around in one cabinet, then another, finally coming back to the center of the room. He hadn’t heard her put the wire back, and wondered what he was in for now. A small pool of his blood had collected on and around his feet, and he felt it oozing down his back. She would make him clean it all up when she was finished with him. He wondered how he would be able to do that this time.

      “Okay, you manure-faced son of a bitch,” she growled. “How’s this?” She applied to something to his back that at first felt like a water-soaked piece of cloth – only he hadn’t heard her run any water in the sink. A second later, the open wounds began to sting, then seemed to catch fire.

      He gasped, barely able to breath the pain became so extreme.

      “Lemon juice and salt, in case you’re wonderin’,” she told him in a horrible, sweet voice. “It’s a great germ-killer, and we wouldn’t want you getting all infected and whatnot.” And began to scrub it across his back with the same vigor she had made him apply to her dirty pots and pans.

      His knees buckled, and he almost collapsed from the agony, but she put an arm around him and hoisted him back up.

      “Why don’t you yell?!”

He couldn’t. The pain tore at him with such ferocity, it was all he could do to breathe. And then, mercy. The room greyed, the ringing in his ears grew more high-pitched, followed by total darkness…

 

*******

 

Forcing himself to breathe more slowly, he regained control and opened his eyes to find everyone staring at him. He took long, deep breath. “I-I’m all right. It’s just… soon enough I’ll be getting to that part of things.”

“Can I get you anything?” Eileen asked, half-rising from the sofa.

“You’re very kind. But please, I’m okay.”

She sat down again, shaking her head. “I don’t think so, but if you insist.”

“I do. And if I may, I’d like to continue. This is the most difficult part to tell and I’d like to get it over and done.”

With that, he sat forward once more to tell the balance of his story.

TWENTY-ONE

 

Georgia – One Year Earlier

 

Dr. Libman sat back in the uncomfortable office chair, legs crossed, and fiddled with his pen with one hand, tapping the armrest with the other. Mr. Bell faced the doctor from behind his cluttered desk, phone pressed to his ear.

“They need to do something about their staffing,” muttered Bell. “This has to be the hundredth time I’ve been put on hold today.”

Tinny notes of the on-hold music were making their way past the man’s ear and out into the office; the doctor shook his head, understanding Bell’s frustration.

“Ah! Yes! Josiah Bell, here... oh, you were to-... okay. Well, we have an unusual situation. One of our foster kids, uh, what’s that? Oh! They told you already? That’s good – saves me some time having to explain it all... you will... wonderful. I’ll let Dr. Libman know. He’s – right.” He hung up, shaking his head. “They keep you on hold forever like you have nothing better to do, then rush you off like you’d been keeping them waiting. Anyway, it’s all set. They’ll sign him in as a resident until they think he’s well enough to matriculate back into society.”

“They” were Libman’s employers, the Marcus Institute in Atlanta, a part of Georgia’s Mental Health Services. The Institute dealt with difficult situations like Cian MacDara’s, and Libman had recommended in-patient status, knowing the chance that the boy would recover enough to live a normal life seemed slim at this point. Even so, he’d sensed a strength there, a determination he believed the doctors could work with.

“I really hope they can help. God knows I did as much I could.” The doctor returned his pen to his front jacket pocket. “I’m inclined to think, though, that the damage may be too extensive. And that tape! My God, for that alone the woman should fry!” After listening to it several days after his first meeting with Cian, Libman had an even deeper respect for the boy’s resiliency.

“Agent Markwood almost lost her lunch after only a minute or so listening to it.” Josiah leaned back, his eyes stormy. “I can’t even imagine what it took not to move for that long or not even nod off.”

Libman gave him a crooked smile. “I could give you the psychology behind it, but you’d probably fall asleep. Even so – ” the smile faded – “I can’t picture myself surviving such a thing. Ten minutes. That’s it.”

“Know what you mean. I mean, that first time was bad enough, but having to listen to it at least once almost every day for two whole years along with similar ones his foster-siblings made? And they tied him up like that with the sulfuric acid every time.”

The doctor shared an unhappy silence with Bell for a few moments before getting up. “Well, I have to get back to the office. Let me know if I can do anything else for the boy, okay?

When he reached the door, Josiah said, “Hey, think they’ll be able to help him lose the stutter?”

“Maybe. It’s severe, though – one of the worst cases I’ve seen. I don’t know.”

“Yeah. Thanks, doc.”

When Libman got back to his office, he went to the window and stared out at the bustle of Peachtree Street. Sometimes traffic sounds soothed him, and he needed to ease back on the anger he was feeling toward the monsters who had damaged Cian MacDara so badly. One of the most interesting and challenging cases he’d encountered, he had gone as far as he could with the young man.

A month of daily sessions with Cian had brought out more horrible information about his life over the past six years than had solved the problems he’d developed as a consequence. How could anyone get over losing one’s parents, then finding the bodies of that kind-hearted foster couple after they’d been viciously kicked and stabbed to death, finally ending up in the home of the evil witch who had ordered it – not to mention being beaten with an electrical wire, sometimes a heavy broom handle, smacked, punched, hit with chairs, used for a boxing target, and on top of all that, being the family’s slave, the whole time having to sleep on an old mattress in a filthy basement, inadequately fed... and why? Because he was unusually attractive?

What disturbed Libman every bit as much as the physical abuse, was that these bastards had convinced this beautiful, intelligent boy that he was monstrous to look at, stupid, and useless as a human being. What a horrendous existence! If only there were some way to erase all the memories for the boy, to bring him back from where his experiences had taken him so he could finally be the person he was meant to be: someone normal, secure and happy.

“Where’s the mind meld when you need it?” How helpful it would be if he could touch his patients’ temples and whisper, “Forget” to take away all the things that had destroyed him! Well, that was fantasy, and this was reality.

What had convinced the doctor that Cian needed more help than he alone could render was when, after being given a small dose of Sodium Pentothal to help him relax enough to open up about things, Cian had started talking about life on a medieval farm. He had claimed his father was a weaver and a warrior who had taught him how to shear the sheep and wield a sword. As odd as that was, he had also spoken of somehow being brought forward through time to find some girl who was supposed play the harp to help him hold back “the darkness” while he fought off evil with a special kind of sword – or something like that.

Had Cian been under hypnosis, such a tale could have been attributed to one of those past-life things, only he’d been fully awake and aware of what he was saying, even if he’d been unable to control his words. This bizarre reaction could have been the result of never having taken drugs of any kind before, but was disturbing, to say the least, displaying the possibility of a dissociative personality disorder, a fairly common condition among those who had experienced extreme child abuse.

Once the drug had worn off, he had had tried to discuss with Cian what was clearly a defensive fantasy, but the young man – who of course remembered everything he’d told the doctor – had retreated into himself. Almost literally. He had curled up on the chair, head covered by his arms, and refused to continue. Nothing the doctor said helped, and it wasn’t until he’d asked Josiah to come to the office and talk to the boy, after explaining what had occurred, that Cian had uncoiled from the chair, stood, and walked out of the office without even looking back.

None of that mattered now. He’d be going to the Institute where he’d be well treated and given the best of care, but where emotional attachments rarely occurred. The doctors and caseworkers knew better, and most of their patients were too self-absorbed. Yet sadly, that was probably the one thing this young man needed most – genuine, unconditional love. Emotional attachments of that kind would probably dissolve most of his problems.

A knock on the doorframe disturbed his musings, and he turned around to see Miss Markwood. She rarely came to his office, and he suspected this had to do with Cian. “Felicity? Everything okay?”

“I don’t know – maybe. You’re having Cian transferred to the Institute?”

“I am. After his last session with me, I had no choice.”

“I understand.” She came into the office crossed her arms. “But I’m wondering if it’s wise to put him in that kind of environment. It can be so impersonal.”

“That’s the idea. He’s got to get over a lot of fear and all those rotten beliefs they gave him about his looks and intelligence. And I don’t think that can happen unless he has virtually no distractions, emotional or otherwise. Well, at least for now.”

She pursed her lips for a moment, and then nodded. “You may have a point. When does he go?”

“They’ll call me this afternoon some time and let me know. Probably no later than tomorrow.”

“Should Mr. Bell and I drive him over there?”

“No. He’s going back into the unknown, and I think he’s had to say good-bye to people he trusted far too many times already.”

She sighed. “You’re right, of course. Thank you, Doctor. And now,” she added, smiling, “I have a lunch date with Josiah.”

“A date, you say! When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago.”

Libman nodded. “I’d always had a good feeling about you two.”

“You did not!” She laughed. “Well, I’d better go – don’t want to keep the dear man waiting.”

TWENTY-TWO

 

Connecticut – Present Day

 

“I believe,” Cian said, picking up the story, “I’d gotten to the part where we were going into the Center for Resources and Support, yes? An older woman met us when we went inside, and introduced herself as Olivia Bolton. She greeted Niall like an old friend, which surprised me at first until I realized what she was – this was the first time I’d met a Servant Helper who wasn’t fairly young, other than the Breslin himself. Niall told her who my parents were and why they’d come with us, and then she had stooped down and put her hands on either side of my face.

“‘My, my,’ she’d said. I think. Anyway, it was something like that, and she smiled. ‘Celesta was absolutely right,’ she told Niall, making me wonder when the angel had had the time to talk to all these people about me. She straightened and told him that everything had been arranged, that I would be living with her and her husband, and that she’d help me adjust to life in this century and decade. Once I got settled, I would be going to school near where they lived, and was expected to learn all the customs and such that would keep me from being even more noticeable. I had no idea what she meant by that, but now, of course, I do, even if I still don’t understand it… and I find it embarrassing, if you want to know the truth.

“At the end of the afternoon, she drove us to her home on a quiet side street in a part of the city she called Jonesboro. All of the houses there were large, but hers was gigantic and set far back from the road. It was white and had huge columns across the front with a porch that ran the entire width of the building. The windows went from about ankle-level to almost the height of the ceiling of the porch overhang, and there were chairs and tables arranged here and there down both sides.” Cian stopped, smiling at the memory, and sorry he’d forgotten this one for so long. “By this time, I’d been inside many houses and was used to the way they were constructed, but none had ever been so lovely and full of light.

“The double front doors opened onto a grand entrance – not unlike yours, Mrs. Kelly, but about five times larger. A wide staircase with outward-curving railings at the bottom ran up to the second floor. They had flowers and rich green plants inside, dark wood furniture that shone like the Croghan’s Harp, and floors that I later learned were made of marble tile in some rooms and oak in others.

“Mr. Bolton was sitting in a room to the left of the entrance hall when we came in; later, I learned this was the library. He was sitting by one of the windows in a big, cushiony chair and reading a small book. He looked up as we came into the room, smiled and stood. Mrs. Bolton went to him, and they hugged with the same look in their eyes my parents gave each other every day. I do remember that about my parents, as well as some of the advice they’d given me when I was a child, but not their faces.

“I knew right away that these people would be good to me and that my being with them was okay. That evening, after a big meal, Niall and my parents followed the Boltons and me upstairs to my new bedroom. My new foster parents and Niall said good night, and as he left the room, he promised he’d see me again some day.

“I – I remember my parents holding me for a long time, then putting me to bed. They told me to be brave; my father said I must never forget my training or my native language, that I had to be strong, and my mother told me she and my dad would be fine. She reminded me that Celesta had promised to take away the hurt of losing me, and said she was glad to know this was happening for such a good reason. I’m sure other things were said as well, only I can’t remember what they were any more. But I do know that as they went out, I acknowledged that when I awoke in the morning, they would never be a part of my life again.”

A loud sob filled the family room.

“Niall?” Cian stared at him, shocked.

“I’m so sorry,” he managed in a strangled voice. “I’d for-forgotten how sad that part was.” He dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve.

Mrs. Kelly, whose eyes Cian could see were bright with tears, got up and fetched the box of tissues again from the table by the far wall. She gave one to the Breslin, used one herself to wipe her tears and blow her nose, and started back to the sofa, but as she passed the loveseat, Katie snatched it from her hand.

“Sorry.” Snagging a tissue from the box, she handed it back.

Mrs. Kelly sat. “It’s all right, Katie. Cian, uh, is there a whole lot more to this? I mean, should I hang on to the tissues?”

“I would recommend it,” said Croghan. He turned to Niall. “No offense to the ladies present, but I’m used to women weeping over sad things, but you?” He chuckled and stood. “I think I need to take over in a few minutes to fill in the details about how I found Cian again, and considering how awful the whole episode was, I do expect a great deal of emotion.”

“Oh, dear.” Eileen put her arm around Celeste once more, snuggling her close, and handed her a tissue.

Croghan nodded at Cian. “Please continue.”

“Right. I was treated very well, as I expected; Mr. and Mrs. Bolton took a lot of time explaining things to me, talking about good manners and etiquette – a word I’d never heard before – and telling me that kindness would always win over a mean spirit. They knew I’d been trained to fight, and explained that while brutality had been considered normal in my own time, in this time period I would have to use my skills with great care.

“They enrolled me in a martial arts school, however, since it had been mandated that I continue my training with the sword, but in that environment, I would learn to use it as a defensive weapon only. I learned a lot of interesting methods in the brief time I was there, including self-discipline and control, and thoroughly enjoyed it, but the Boltons continued to remind me to banish any thoughts that might arise of using my ability against others.

“Considering I was only ten years old, it wasn’t too difficult. I mean, whom would I have attacked? One of her plants? But I’m sure they were preparing me for when I got older... they were such soft-spoken, loving people. I enjoyed talking with them, learning from them. At the school where they sent me, the other children were nice. They never made fun of my accent, which at that time was heavier than Niall’s, even though my English was fine.

“After nearly three months, the Irish sounds of my speech had begun to give way to the inflections of the South, and while I continued thinking and dreaming in Gaelic, I didn’t mind the new merge of accents. The Boltons only spoke English, but they had purchased several books for me in Gaelic. I’d learned to read during our journey through the various time periods, but had never read much in my native tongue, so it was a struggle to get through them. Eventually, though, I got the hang of it, as you say, and could read as easily as speak it.

“And then... then one day I came home from school... I don’t want to do this. I – I wish to God I didn’t remember... one day toward the end of the third month I came home from school and was surprised that Mr. Bolton wasn’t in his usual spot in the library – Mrs. Bolton was off that day, and I went into the kitchen, thinking she was busy in there or maybe hadn’t heard me come in. The house was too quiet, and too… still, and I suddenly got this horrible feeling that crept up my spine and made me want to run away.

“I didn’t, of course, because I was ten, and wanted to know what was going on and where my foster-parents were. I should have run.

“I found them in the dining room lying on the floor surrounded by pools of dark red blood. Mr. Bolton’s face – some of his features had been caved in and there was a knife sticking out of one eye. Mrs. Bolton’s mouth was open, and from it was still oozing a thick stream of blood, and her face had been stabbed… a lot. I couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. I stared and stared, and then something inside shook awake and I went to the phone in the hall leading from the dining room, called 911 like they’d taught me to do in case of an emergency, and then, I believe, I passed out.

“When I came around, there were police all over, and ambulance workers and such. A policewoman asked me what had happened, if I’d seen anything. I – I believe that while I was unconscious, a kind of defensive wall had gone up in my mind, because I had no idea what she was talking about, and asked her why the police were there. I asked for my foster-parents, but she shook her head. Instead of answering, she brought me upstairs, asked me which room was mine; I showed her, and after telling me the Boltons had gone away, helped me pack some clothes. She said she was taking me to see the lady who came to visit us from foster care every few weeks to see how I was getting along. I think I was compliant at that point, didn’t argue or question anything, and went with her.

“The next day, the case-worker took me for a long drive. She was cheerful all the way there, and we stopped once for lunch, and again in the afternoon for ice cream. I remember she had kind eyes, and that I liked her. By the time the sun was beginning to go down we had reached a part of Georgia that was more barren than what I was used to, everything separated by wide fields with scrubby patches of browned grass and weeds. Miles separated one house from the next, the road was bumpy and broken in places, and had only two lanes. It felt like the rest of the world had disappeared and we’d entered some forgotten spot on the planet. Finally, a wood-shingled, two-story house appeared on the right. The roof was green, the white paint on the shingles peeling everywhere. It had a front porch reached by stairs that looked like they’d fall in if used by anything heavier than a squirrel.

“As we pulled into the driveway, she murmured something like, ‘Some vacation home!’ We got out, made it up the stairs without them collapsing, and knocked on the door. A boy who looked a little older than I opened it, and we went inside. A bar of light was hanging from the ceiling that somehow made the hallway seem darker. The wallpaper might have been pretty at one time, but I couldn’t really tell what the pattern was, and in places it was curling down off the wall.

“A woman was standing there, hands on her hips, staring at me and looking surprised, but then her eyes grew cold. The caseworker introduced me to them, put my suitcase down and handed the woman some papers.

“None of them answered, not the children nor the woman. It was weird. Miss Hunt – the case- worker – gave me a quick hug and told me to be a good boy, the whole time looking a little frightened. I asked her not to leave me there, but she was saying something to the woman who she told me was my new foster mother, and didn’t hear me. And then she said goodbye and left.

“As soon as the door shut, the woman began to look angry, and I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. Her daughter said she didn’t like me, and the woman said I was ugly. Then she brought me down the hallway toward the kitchen, but instead of going into it, she opened a door on the left, switched on a light, and led me down into the basement. She showed me a mattress on the floor by a small window high up in the wall, told me this was where I’d be living and not to pee on her mattress.

“She’d already said since I’d probably eaten, she wasn’t going to waste her good food on me. I was starving, but she terrified me so I said nothing. She went back up the stairs, turned off the light, shut the door and locked it. And that was the beginning. Every day she and her children told me I was too ugly to look at, and insisted that I never look directly at any of them. She claimed to be unable to figure out the right pronunciation of my name but never asked me to say it. Instead, she gave me a new one: Unacceptable.

“She removed all the mirrors except the one in the upstairs bathroom – which I was never allowed to use – and put black paint on everything that had a shiny surface. She said it was for my own good, because if I ever saw my face, I’d lose my mind, or... have a stroke, I think she said. I was told that I was too stupid to be alive, and should be thankful that they were willing to put up with me. So I lived in the basement, washed myself with water from the toilet in the bathroom that was down there, did all the laundry, swept, scrubbed the floors and walls, did repairs – some of them were beyond me at my age, but she made me do them over and over until I got it right, like hammering new wood onto the front steps, things like that.

“She was never satisfied with anything I did, and started hitting me within the first week or so. She let her son hit me, too. So while Retta’s job seemed to be to insult me every chance she got, Buddy was allowed to take his anger out on me, which was most of the time. Then one day I accidentally dropped the basket of wet laundry onto a patch of dirt as I was carrying it out to the clothesline in the yard, and she got so furious that she dragged me inside into the kitchen, told me to take my shirt off and hold on to the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and used an old electrical wire that she folded in half on my back. When you mentioned the telephone wire, Mr. KelIy, had a kind of ‘flash-back.’ I used to get them all the time, but the doctors showed me how to get past them, how to breathe and such. They don’t last very long, but they’re pretty intense. That first time, when I saw the blood splashing onto the chair’s seat, I was reminded of something... I know now what it was. Back then, though, I still had no recollection of the Boltons or the way they had died, but things were starting to come back.

“I hated that woman, and had decided years before that no matter how hard she hit me, or how badly it hurt, I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of crying or screaming the way I wanted to. That was a bad judgment call. I think she might not have hit me as often if I had. It seemed to make her even angrier that I didn’t react, and she would make me clean up the blood on the floor and chairs when she was done. I had to clean off that damn wire, too.

“Starting with that first night there, I’d been having realistic dreams. At first, I thought they were only that – dreams. They were so strange, yet involved people who were somehow familiar. You see, along with all memory of my first foster-parents, I had also blocked out everything else dealing with the way in which I’d gotten to Georgia. At that point, had someone asked me what I was doing at the age of, say, five or six, I couldn’t have said, even though I could remember my mother’s words, or certain moments with her or my father. When I was awake, my mind was a total blank about the truth regarding how long ago I’d lived in Ireland.

“About four years later, I recognized that they were not dreams at all, but actual memories, and I began to let myself consider them as such. Right after that, my former foster mother became furious with me about something ridiculous – I accidentally looked directly at her daughter.

I’d been hit with that damn wire at least a hundred times or more during those four years, but this time it was different. The beating went on for so long that, um, well anyway, it was worse than any of the others and I eventually passed out. I ended up in the hospital. Dr. Lee, the one who spoke to me when I woke up, said that Letitia told him I was self-destructive and a lot of other garbage that I can’t remember word-for-word, but it made me angry and desperate, so I told him the truth. Two days later he was dead. She’d made Buddy cut the brake line on his car, I’ve been told, and he died from injuries he got when his car hit a tree.

“When I got home from the hospital about two weeks later, she decided that hitting me like that wasn’t such a great idea anymore, so instead, she made a tape. And I’m sorry, Croghan, but I absolutely refuse to talk about that. All I’ll say is that not long after that I started trying to kill myself. I cut my wrists, tried hanging myself, thought of drinking sulfuric acid – they stopped me each time, of course, because if I was dead, the DFC might find out, so even if she convinced them my death was an accident, she wouldn’t get any more money from the State, and would never be allowed to foster any more children.

“Which is why they killed the Boltons, and why they wanted to be foster-parents in the first place. For money. She killed her husband, too, incidentally, the day after he’d murdered Mr. and Mrs. Bolton. She was afraid he’d tell the police it was her idea, so she, uh, poisoned him. Well, that’s the more pleasant way to explain it.

“To keep me from successfully committing suicide, even though they kept telling me I should, they would tie me up in the basement when I wasn’t doing chores. A few times a week, Buddy would come down there and start hitting me. He never hit me anywhere that couldn’t be covered up with clothing. I guess they still thought someone might accidentally see me. He was on the boxing team at school by then, and his mother told him to use me for practice. He also did other things to humiliate me and at that point, I really didn’t care. I was terrified of every sound, every movement, and had developed a bad stutter. Even when I was doing absolutely nothing wrong, they would play those tapes, and I – I had to listen because... because if… I’m sorry. I can’t – I’m sorry.

“Um, a few weeks after I turned sixteen, the family put me in the basement without tying me up as usual. Instead, after telling me I’d never get out again, they locked the door and left. I was too afraid to try and escape at first, and after a few more days, too weak. Four days later, some people from the DFC found me. Apparently, my former foster mother had grown tired of me, figuring out that if no one had checked up on me in all that time, they weren’t going to, and decided to leave me there to starve to death.

“She’s currently in jail, as is her son. Retta, I was told, is in some kind of mental institution. The social workers helped me to realize that I wasn’t ugly or stupid, and I went through several months of physical and mental therapy until they concluded that I was as close to whole as I would ever be. I was staying at a place called the Marcus Institute, where they also helped me catch up on all the schoolwork I’d missed, or as much of it as possible. I was finally transferred to the group foster home here in Connecticut about a week after the trial – I had to testify, but because of the nature of my history with that family, the Judge told me to look only at him while I talked.

“When it was over, I was told that a place had opened up in a foster home up north and I was scheduled to move there soon after. I never found out why or how, but I suspected the Croghan had something to do with that. I was enrolled in school and got a job, the whole time wondering what I was doing here and if I’d ever be able to complete the quest I’d set off on all those years ago, despite not being sure what that quest was. I no longer had a sword with which to practice, since the wooden one I’d carved from a baseball bat was left in the basement in Georgia, but I continued the movements so I wouldn’t forget. I was given my own room in the foster home, and was getting used to being there, even though I no longer seemed to have a purpose.

“Then, on my first night working at the mall, I saw Celeste and Katie, and within twenty-four hours, everything changed.”

TWENTY-THREE

 

Georgia – One Year Earlier

 

“You must never again allow yourself to say or think that you’re ugly, Cian. We’ve been telling you this for a good three months now, and you’ve got to let that go. Your foster mother lied to you for six years. So did her children.”

“B-but why? Y-you nev-never really s-s-said.”

Dr. Janet Murphy, the psychologist assigned to his case, leaned back, her tone patient. “No, because you had enough to think about, what with adjusting to your new life here. But I think it’s time we discussed it. The reason they lied and hurt you was because they were jealous. I saw pictures of Buddy and Retta, and they are two of the least attractive youngsters I’ve seen in a long time. So their mother instantly hated you for – in her opinion – making her dear kids look like toads.”

“How did I d-do that?”

“Well, you didn’t. It was all in her mind.”

Puzzled, Cian tried to understand how his foster mother could have twisted reality so badly. The violent way he’d been convinced otherwise, the span of time over which everything, had cemented doubt into his thinking.

“Let’s try this,” Dr. Murphy said. “Have you ever had a pet?”

“A what?”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve never... have you ever owned an animal that you cared about a lot?”

We had sheep, but the last time I mentioned that, everyone decided I was crazy. “I, uh, no, n-not really.”

She tapped her notebook with the end of her pencil, chewing on her bottom lip. “How about a favorite toy – a stuffed animal, or maybe... maybe a doll of some kind?”

“A doll?” he asked, horrified.

“Okay, scratch that. Did you have any brothers or sisters? The report on you wasn’t clear about that, I’m afraid.”

His eyes clouded as something stirred, but then it was gone. He blinked. “I – I can’t… I d-don’t re-re-remem-member.” His stutter was improving, but was far from gone.

“Well, don’t worry about it.” She frowned. “Do you remember your parents at all?”

He shook his head. “Only… a f-few words. Thing-things they s-s-said.”

“All right, let’s say someone else’s parents had more money than yours. Every time they saw you, they would compare their parents with yours, making you feel as though your mom and dad weren’t as good as theirs. How would you react?”

What? “I wou-would never feel li-like that.”

“Maybe not, but pretend it hurt you to think someone else’s parents were better than yours.”

“B-but I ne-never said I wa-was better th-than Retta and B-Buddy.”

“Doesn’t matter. The woman’s mind is obviously not working right, and to her, your presence alone made her feel that not only were her children inadequate, but that because she gave birth to them, she was somehow inadequate, too.”

“So... you’re saying... forget it. I’m c-confused.”

“All right, let’s move on. I have another idea. Cian, I want you to make yourself comfortable, child. I’m going to tell you things you may not want to hear, but I think it’s high time you found out exactly what went on around you since that day you went home with Mr. and Mrs. Bolton, your first foster parents. Think you can handle that?”

Since coming to the Institute, he’d been dealing with people who were patient, somewhat unemotional, but always willing to help. He could take his time answering. Dr. Murphy was a kind woman, who he hoped would be capable of getting him past whatever this mental wall was that he’d run into with such force.

Among fragmented thoughts and dreams he’d had while living with the Pettijohns, the Boltons had been absent, blocked out with involuntary force. But when, a little over two years earlier, he’d reached a new understanding that his dreams had been reality trying to get back in, he had also remembered what happened to those wonderful people who’d taught him so much and eased loss of his parents.

Many other memories continued as fragments only, but Cian knew they’d all come back when he was ready. Dr. Libman’s report had only revealed details of the Boltons’ murder, and that Letitia was responsible. He had yet to learn why or how he’d gotten from there to the house in the middle of nowhere. Could he handle the answers? Maybe not, but ignorance would be worse. “O-okay. Go ahead.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Well, here we go. Seems the Boltons knew you were coming, and had already arranged to take care of you. The Pettijohns, meanwhile, had applied for foster children a few months before that. Bobby Lee Pettijohn worked in Atlanta at the time, and when he put in the application, he failed to mention that he and his wife, Letitia, had two natural children. Now, there are a lot of requirements for anyone wishing to foster a child in the State of Georgia – they have to be interviewed, take special classes, their financial situation is checked and confirmed, things like that. Both of them came to the interview, then two of our agents met them in what they claimed was their home in Albany. Turns out it wasn’t. As to why they were looking to take in a child, Mrs. Pettijohn said in her statement – ”

“W-what statement?”

“The one she gave in prison a few months ago. She admitted they only did it for the money had never intended to use any of it for whatever child they got. Because their real home was in an unincorporated rural area outside Shady Dale, they figured no one would ever find out what they were up to. And, if it looked like they could pull it off, they’d add a few more kids, take the money from them as well, and let all of them get by on little or nothing.

“They looked like decent people, at least according to the case worker, a woman who I’m afraid was a whole lot more optimistic about the human race than she should’ve been.”

“W-was? Wait - I think I remem-member her. She brought m-me there the day after the B-Boltons d-d-died.”

“That’s right. Biggest mistake the Department ever made, letting her convince them that the best way to help you over the trauma was to get you into another foster family as soon as possible. She died in a freak accident after dropping you off.”

“Oh, no...”

“Afraid so. The branch of a large tree broke right as she was driving under it and went through the roof of her car – she had a convertible – and killed her instantly. And I’m sorry, but that’s one of those things I knew you might not want to hear, so if you need to grieve, do it later. Right now, you have to listen.”

Her tone had been gentle but firm. Cian closed his eyes for a moment. The woman with the kind eyes had made a horrible mistake, and paid for it with her life... I’m not in the mood to continue with this any more, but Dr. Murphy is right. I have to face these things. He nodded. Opened his eyes. “Go on.”

“All right. Well, Miss Hunter – that was her name – had recommended the Pettijohns as foster parents before you and the Boltons came into the picture, and were eventually approved. The home in Albany was beautiful, neat, clean as a whistle from what I understand – and as I said, belonged to somebody else. Friends of Bobby Lee’s, I think, though no one knew this at the time. The police are investigating, but I heard the couple left the State a long time ago.

“Seems he and Letitia started getting impatient, and unknown to the proper authorities, only Bobby Lee went to the parenting classes – I’ve no idea where she was, only that she never showed up. By then, however, the wheels were in motion and no one ever followed up on that. About a month after their approval, you came along. At first, we were going to send you to them right away, but were told that the Bolton’s would be given custody. Mrs. Bolton worked at the Georgia Center for Resources and Support – it’s basically a library and resource center for the foster care system – and as I said before, she and her husband had already been approved as your foster parents. I had to piece a lot of information together, and what I’m telling you now is the sum and substance of all that.

“Getting back to what happened, we explained all this to Mr. Pettijohn, who was disappointed, but didn’t act crazy or angry about it. He said he’d tell his wife and they’d wait for another child to come along. Well, according to Mrs. P, she wasn’t having any of it, and told her husband to find out who these people were and where they lived. It took nearly three months to find the Boltons. After watching the house and figuring out the Boltons’ exact schedule, they hatched a plant to take you from them.

“At first, they were going to kidnap you, she said, but realized how stupid that was. So they devised something better, if you call murder ‘better.’ They decided to kill the Boltons, and then wait for the system to start looking for another home for you, knowing full well they were next on the list.

“So one afternoon – and this how Bobby Lee told it to Letitia, she said – when they knew the Boltons would both be there while you were at school, Bobby Lee snuck in through one of the back doors and surprised them at lunch. He grabbed Mr. Bolton first, knowing his wife wouldn’t have the strength to stop him, and threw him to the floor. Then he started kicking him. She was screaming, so he reached over to the table, picked up a glass, and threw it at her head, knocking her out long enough for him to grab a steak knife from the table and stab Mr. Bolton about twenty times in the chest and once through the eye. Then he pretty much did the same to her, kicking her in the ribs until every one of them was broken before stabbing her to death. And that, I believe, is how you found them when you got home that day, yes?”

He nodded, horror choking him as the full memory rose from somewhere deep and shrieked its grotesque wickedness in his face. Not realizing at first that he was doing so, he put his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, and rocked forward with the agony of that ten-year-old boy’s gruesome discovery. He now remembered being unable to move or make a sound for what felt like an hour – he’d stared instead, absorbing every sickening detail. When his mind had been unable to handle any more, it released him from the cruel paralysis long enough for him to get to the phone and call 911 before shutting him down again. Someone – he didn’t know who – had told he he’d been found unconscious in the hall leading from the kitchen, but that when they revived him, he couldn’t remember anything. After this, a woman had brought him upstairs to his room, helped him pack his things, and had driven him to the home of his caseworker…

“Cian?”

He stopped rocking and lowered his hands, sitting straight to look at Dr. Murphy through tears that burned his eyes. He couldn’t yet speak. Waved at her instead to continue.

She bit her lip. “I know this is rough, and if you hadn’t witnessed their bodies in that state, I probably wouldn’t have given you those details. But since you did, you needed to know how it happened.” She took a quick, deep breath. “So. Now as you know, the police asked you who you were, and you gave them your name, telling them the Boltons were your foster parents. You gave no indication that you knew what had happened to them, but it was plain by the condition they found you in that you’d seen them and had had the presence of mind to call for help. So the DFC was called, and you were brought to poor Melanie Hunt’s apartment for the night, and the next day she arranged for you to go and live with the Pettijohns.

“What I’ll never understand is why, when she called the Pettijohns that morning to say she’d be bringing you to them, she accepted Bobby Lee’s story about them having gone to stay that week in what he called their vacation home out near Shady Dale. I mean, people visit there on vacation because of its historic connections with the Pony Express, but it’s a small place that’s occupied only by those who live there year-round as far as I know. Of course, their house wasn’t anywhere near town. As you know only too well.”

He nodded, his voice still elsewhere.

“Well, that was the last we heard about you. Bobby Lee disappeared the same day you were driven to their house, and his body was found a day or so later on the side of one of the roads heading north. Mrs. P said in her statement that she’d convinced him to leave town so she could give him an alibi in case they traced the murders to him, but because she was afraid he’d break down and implicate her as well, she’d poured sulfuric acid into his mouthwash bottle while packing his suitcase that night.”

Cian shifted, closing his eyes for a second as he listened – he knew all about that sulfuric acid…

“Seems he was a bit obsessive about clean breath, and the next day as he was driving, he took a swig. The stuff immediately must have started eating through his throat, but he was somehow able to pull the car over and get out, choking on his own skin and blood. He died right there on the shoulder of the road, the motor still running. The acid ate through most of his face as well, making him unrecognizable, and since Letitia had also removed his I.D. from his wallet, they had to figure out who he was by tracing his license plate.

“When the police came to the house to tell his wife, she of course acted all shocked and devastated, and explained that he used the acid to clear clogged drains and must’ve left it in the upstairs bathroom last time he’d done that, then mistakenly grabbed it instead of his mouthwash. The kids went hysterical, she said, because they really did love their daddy. The police were a mite suspicious, but had no proof that she’d had anything to do with it, so no charges were ever filed against her.

“Meanwhile, Miss Hunt never made it back either, and when the local police found her, they failed to turn over her brief case that had all your information in it. We knew you’d been left with the Pettijohns, but what with the huge amount of work necessary to transfer all of Miss Hunt’s cases and records to a new social worker here, somehow you were forgotten, assumed to be all right, and no one heard another thing about you for the next six years.

“And then, when you were fourteen, you ended up in the hospital in Shady Dale. Their records say that according to the doctor’s notes, he was highly suspicious about the wounds on your back, arms and sides, and while Letitia’s assertion that you had thrown yourself into a barbed-wire fence because Retta didn’t want to, well, had spurned your advances, seemed to fit the extent of the cuts, it still didn’t explain the pattern, according to his recorded observations. He felt they were too even and consistent, which shouldn’t have been the case had it happened the way she’d said. He ended his prognosis with your claim that Mrs. Pettijohn had beaten you with an electrical wire, and wrote that he was going to go out to the house the next day to see if there really was a barbed wire fence since you had told him it didn’t exist.

“He never made it, though. Someone had cut the brake line on his car. He hit a tree and died the next day from extensive head injuries. That ‘someone,’ Letitia admitted, was Buddy, who had found out which car was the doctor’s from the parking valet. Apparently, the man had been reading a magazine and never looked up to see who was asking about the car, so he couldn’t identify the boy to the police.”

“W-why did she make Buddy k-kill him?” Voice back but hoarse.

“Well, a couple of reasons. She had told Buddy to go home from school and set up a roll of barbed wire she had in the shed, but so much of it had rusted away, he couldn’t do it. The doctor had told her, you see, what you had said about her, and she was trying to make you look like a liar. But mostly, she was afraid he’d contact the school to see if any abuse had been reported, which would open up a whole new can of worms, so to speak – you weren’t registered, the school didn’t even know the Pettijohns had a foster son, and an investigation would have been inevitable.

“That’s pretty much the long and short of her confession. Quite frankly, someone should have been out to check on you every month during the first year. That’s how it’s normally done. And no one even wondered why this family didn’t adopt you after the first four years or so. Finally, some of it came to light through the diligent work of Felicity Markwood who had located the lost briefcase with your history. Because of your case and about five others in which the kids had somehow slipped through the cracks of the system, the head of the DFC was fired and Mr. Croghan took over. He was – ”

“Croghan?! Are you s-sure?” Of all the things he’d forgotten, the name “Croghan” had not been one of them.

“Of course. And he had quite an interest in what had happened to you. Why the look of surprise? Do you know him?”

All the vile things he had learned in the last half hour, all he’d been reminded about that he’d shut out, dissolved. I should have known! Good lord! Cian started to laugh.

“You want to share the joke?”

“May I leave?” he choked, still laughing.

“And go where?”

“My – my room!”

Dr. Murphy got up with Cian, who was holding his stomach. “I’ll walk there with you.”

He continued chuckling and started to mutter something in Gaelic, bursting into sudden laughter again every few steps. He sounded completely mad, knew it, and didn’t care.

When they reached the ward where the private rooms were located, she followed him into his and pointed at the bed. “You go lay down, Cian – I’ll get a doctor.”

“Why? You’re a d-doctor, aren’t you?” And he laughed even harder.

Falling onto the bed, he rolled over, laughing into his pillow. He didn’t even hear her leave.

 

*******

 

Dr. Murphy gave Cian a last, horrified look, left his room, and pulled out her sat. phone. She had Dr. Bowden paged, the physician who had been giving the boy physical therapy to help him through the pain caused by muscle and nerve damage from years of being beaten so badly – some of the cuts on his back had even gone all the way through flesh, muscle and nerves to bone and organ tissue.

The deeper ones had healed, but the other tissue injuries required exercise and treatment by Dr. Bowden, who seemed to have earned the boy’s trust more than some of his other doctors had, so she decided he’d be the best choice to try and talk Cian down from whatever bizarre ledge he’d climbed onto. A minute later, her phone buzzed.

“Bowden.”

“It’s Dr. Murphy – do you have a moment? Cian… he’s either had a breakdown or a breakthrough. Either way, I can’t get any sense out of him. Can you speak with him? I know how he trusts you.”

A distant loudspeaker announcement echoed, other sounds of the ward where Dr. Bowden was. “Give me about five or six minutes. Where is he?”

“In his room.”

“All right – I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Thanking him, Dr. Murphy hung up and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. What in the world had happened? And what did the new Director have to do with Cian? Strange, even for this place, but all she could do was wait.

 

*******

 

Almost ten minutes had elapsed since Dr. Murphy had left him. Enough time to regain control, to understand what had happened to him during those first three days Letitia had played the tape. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window registering nothing that was beyond the glass.

Footsteps – two sets. He thought about Mr. Bell and Mrs. Markwood and smiled.

“Are you all right, son?”

Dr. Bowden – good. I like him. Cian turned to face the doctors, and smiled. Not his usual uncertain half-smile. This felt different. Familiar from a past life. Genuine, friendly, unencumbered. Even his eyes participated. “I’m fine. Sorry if I frightened you, Dr. Murphy. I had to deal with... with everything you told me, but in my own way. And now I have, and I’m fine.”

He’d spoken slowly, no trace of a stutter.

“Cian, did – did you hear yourself?” the psychologist asked, her voice hushed.

“Well, since my mouth isn’t all that far from my ears, yes. Why?”

She exchanged a glance with Dr. Bowden. “Cian, you’ve stopped stammering. No stutter, no hesitancy. How – ”

“If I take my time, think about what I’m going to say, the words don’t get the chance to trip all over each other. I can do that now because I don’t have other thoughts shoving themselves in between the sounds and words.”

She sat on the chair opposite the bed, gaping. “Is that what was happening?”

Cian nodded. “It was like a soundless voice telling me to be careful, ’cause with the next word I spoke, someone might hit me, or scream in my ears and tell me to kill myself, but since I couldn’t hear that voice, I didn’t know why I was stumbling so badly over every syllable.” He shrugged. “Now I do.”

“Whose voice was it?” asked Dr. Bowden.

Moloch’s. He wasn’t about to tell them that, or that he wasn’t sure how he knew this, or who this Moloch was, yet he knew it with utter certainty. “Probably my former foster mother’s.” Not a lie – I said “probably.”

Dr. Murphy nodded. “I believe you. In addition to taking control of your stammering, you used the word ‘former’ to describe your foster mother, something you’d never done before. I think, Cian, that you’ve crossed the chasm separating what was from what is, and can now concentrate on re-entering life in a relatively normal way.”

Optimism – something Cian liked about Dr. Murphy. So much more needed fixing, but he could rest, knowing his mentor and friend, the Croghan, had found him.

Another recollection – his first moments in that basement. Telling himself that no one would be coming to rescue him – ever. He’d been wrong. Thank the gods, old and new. Optimism shared.

TWENTY-FOUR

 

Some Time In the Past

 

Except for the gentle notes flitting out from under Celesta’s long, tapered fingers, the Hub was silent, its usual state, but every once in a while a disturbance would occur as the forces of darkness tried harder to make inroads through one of the nearly infinite time portals or deeper along a pathway. When that happened, Celesta would feel it like a tiny short-circuit someplace within her being, and would adjust her music in order to block their progress; if the attempted incursion was stronger than normal, she would sing. They hated that. The power of her voice was far too great for even the worst of the dark creatures to resist. In fact, they preferred dealing with the Keeper, if for no other reason than that they knew it took more effort on his part to stop them.

But at the moment – that eternal moment that never changed, measured only by the thoughts of whoever was keeping peace at the Hub – things were restful, quiet. The angel allowed her mind to drift along the pathways that led to other places, other minds, and the minds of those with whom she was permitted to communicate. She touched briefly the mind of the girl named Celeste, gave her a quick image of the place in Ireland where the Kelly family originated, then left her alone again.

Once in a while, she would feel the girl’s thoughts connect to her own through a note of music, or the sound of the Keeper’s native tongue, and at such times would ask her beloved Lord if she might speak with the sweet-faced mortal. This was not one of those once-in-a-whiles, however, so she rested back against the air and continued stroking the glittering strings.

Then something stirred. Nothing evil or dark – ah, the Keeper was returning. How long this time? He’d been going off a lot of late, not that she minded. Celesta was eternal, and therefore had no reason to miss being elsewhere.

She gave him a brilliant smile as he crested the hill and approached. He went down on one knee before her in greeting.

“How are things in the world, Keeper?” Laying aside the harp she stroked his dark hair with a finger.

“Well in some places, and not so well in others,” he replied, looking up into her eyes. “As always, your touch soothes the spots in my heart that have been scratched raw by the realities of mortal life.” He smiled.

“And what of the boy?”

The smile vanished. He looked down for a few seconds, brows drawing inward. When he raised his face, she pitied him for the look in his eyes. “He is lost. I cannot find him anywhere.”

Celesta rose to her majestic twelve-foot height. “Stand and tell me how such a thing could have happened.” She felt no anger, only disappointment.

The Keeper got to his feet. “I went to the exact time and place where he was supposed to be, only to find that the one pursuing his family had discovered his whereabouts, and by interfering with nature, made sure that it knew where the boy went, while we did not.”

“And did this evil one harm any of those associated with the boy?”

“Yes, Celesta. It must have spoken into the mind of someone who was weak to begin with, so that he killed our Servant Helpers. It managed to influence someone else after that, one who was naïve about evil, to take the boy away; then it manipulated nature to kill this poor woman.” He shook his head. “I should have expected something like this and been more diligent.”

“Yes, you should have. But nothing you’ve done wrong is unforgivable, my Croghan.” She favored him with a gentle smile. “And did you come back to ask me what to do?”

“I did.”

“Then I will tell you.” She sat again, indicating with a graceful wave of her hand that he should do the same.

He settled himself on the grass at her feet. “Whatever you tell me, I will do.”

“Good.” She closed her eyes and began to hum, a gentle, sleepy sound that resonated upward. She stopped a little while later by turning the final note into a sigh, and opened her eyes. “This is what you must do. Become an official in the time in which the boy is living, and take charge of the agency that is responsible for him there. Open a full investigation – I think you will discover several others who have also disappeared and are in need of finding, whose lives are, in their own way, as important as his. You will be appointed to a position recently vacated by the man who should have taken care of these children, but failed. This is how you will be able to search for them all.” She stood and turned away for a moment, then breathed over her shoulder, “Find him!”

The Keeper got up and went down the hill.

He hadn’t mentioned how long the boy had been missing, but Celesta knew. By human accounting, it had been nearly six years. Had the Keeper not allowed himself to get so distracted with other matters, other times and individuals, he would have known what was going on. Which was no excuse at all. Between each note of the melody she had hummed, she’d learned these things, the urgency of finding the boy imparted with her final sigh.

Cian MacDara was needed for a final battle with the one seeking vengeance against his family. In the process of Moloch’s search for descendants of the priest of Crom-Cruach, many people had been hurt, many lives disrupted, and the flow of time within its appointed channels almost compromised. So Cian had to be found, especially now that he was finally of age to carry out his purpose, and he had to be brought to the place where the girl lived, a young lady with a heart more golden than the strings of the Harp, the one Celesta had told Croghan to “plant” in a place and time where the right people would discover it.

Things were coming together nicely, like the beautifully woven fabrics of Tír Conaill, but the most important thread of the tapestry had disappeared. Without it, all else would unravel.

And all could be lost.

 

*******

 

“And here we are.” Croghan got to his feet and went to the fireplace once more. “But before we put a period at the end of this long sentence, I feel I must add a few things, some of which I know Cian has been wondering about, and which will fill in the gaps so you finally have the whole story.”

The flames were beginning to die down again, painting everyone with the same orange brush. As cozy as the firelight was, Katie realized it was the only light, and turned to look at the bank of windows behind them. “Wait a minute – what time is it?”

Donal looked at his watch, was unable to read it, and leaned closer to the flames, twisting his arm to catch the drowsy glow. “Lord, it’s almost five-thirty! Have we been sitting here for four and a half hours?”

“Apparently so.” Eileen jumped to her feet. “That’s way too long. I’m going to start supper – Celeste, please switch on some lights in here. The rest of you can go clean up and watch TV or something until the meal is ready.”

“That,” said Katie, “is the first normal thing anyone’s said today.”

Niall cleared his throat, staring at the Croghan.

“Yes, Niall?”

“I don’t suppose I might be allowed to go home to me wife? I’m sure she’s missin’ the bucket by now.”

The other man chuckled. “Only the bucket, old man?”

Niall regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Aye, the very one you’ll be wearin’ if I’m not sent back soon.”

Katie stood up from the love seat and looked down at the Breslin. “You might want to wait until after we eat.”

“And why’s that, child?”

“You’ve never tasted Mrs. Kelly’s cooking – I’m pretty sure you’ll agree it was worth the wait if you stay.”

“She’s right,” the Croghan agreed. “And besides, I could always send the bucket back by itself – ?”

Niall stuffed the end of his beard in his mouth and started to chew; he spat it out a moment later and got to his feet. “Ye’re a funny man, now, aren’t ye, Croghan.” He sounded aggrieved, but his eyes twinkled.

Eileen, who had been watching all this, grinned. “Can I assume you’re staying, then, Niall?”

“I am, dear lady, and thank ye for allowin’ me to stay.”

“Not at all.”

“Come on – let’s get some air.” Croghan headed for the front door.

“I would suggest the back yard, gentlemen... and coats.” Donal raised an eyebrow at Croghan. “The last thing I want to explain to my neighbors is a man in a shabby brown robe, animal pelts wrapped around his legs with leather strapping, and a wild beard reaching almost to his knees.”

Laughing, Eileen and Celeste went into the kitchen, leaving Katie with Cian. Taking the chair across from him, she studied his expression for a moment. “Are you okay? I mean, we had no idea your life had been so awful, and talking about it must have been really hard.”

He gave her a half smile. “Thank you. It means a lot to me when someone expresses genuine concern. But yes. I’m okay.”

She was silent for a moment, not sure how to phrase her next question. She didn’t want to pressure him or anything, but... “Cian, what – do you know what’s suppose to happen now? Like with Celeste and you and all that?”

“Not in any detail, no. I do know that she has to be taught the Songs of Light on the Harp, and that she must travel with us to the Hub. But what will be done after that, I have no idea.”

“Uh, is, um, any chance I might be allowed to go with you guys?”

“I’m sorry, Katie, but that’s not my decision to make. Of course, if the Keeper says you may go, I’ll be delighted to have you with us.”

“The Keeper… oh! You mean Mr. Croghan. I forgot that was his title thingy. So you’d be delighted? Really?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

She frowned, another thought demanding answers, and leaned forward. “Listen, not to be nosy or anything, but... how do you feel about Celeste?”

He frowned. “Not sure what you mean. Feel? In what way?”

“Do you, I mean, you like her of course, yes?”

“I like you both.”

“Well, no, I mean do you also like her maybe a little more than that?”

He ran a hand through his hair and sat back. “Well, I do like you, Katie, but you know you can be absolutely infuriating.” His pleasant smile made her think he’d have added “lol” had he texted his answer. Or even known how to do that.

“Yeah, I am. But what about Celeste?”

“Honestly, I haven’t had a whole lot of time to think about that. But, well, I’ve never really... I don’t know.”

“Oh, don’t look so tragic! I’m not going to burst into tears and run off into the night if it turns out you care more about her than me. Or even the other way around. I want to know, is all.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t answer.

“Cian, seriously. If Celeste is happy, I’m happy.” She got up and stretched. “I have to tell you, though, right after that whole weirdness outside school – you know, with her scaring the crap out of me by blurting out a sentence in Gaelic – we both were a little afraid of you. We couldn’t figure out who or what you are, and – Ha!” She plopped down again on the edge of the chair, pointing a finger at Cian. “She even said something about the possibility that you were a time traveler! How’s that for, whatever, being prophetic?”

“Uh, awesome?”

She laughed. “You’re really picking up the slang stuff!” She sat all the way back, sighed, and then leaned forward once more. “Let me ask you this. You mentioned how you saw me and Celeste at the mall, so like, what was your first impression? What were you thinking when you saw us?”

He crossed his arms and looked down. “Well,” he said after a moment or two, “I recall getting the feeling I was being stared at, and when I went toward the receptacle to take out the trash barrel, I glanced over at you, hoping you wouldn’t catch me looking. And I thought you were both very pretty and probably good friends.”

“Why’d you think that?”

“Because of the way you were talking to each other, I guess. Anyhow, you looked up at me, then away quickly, and I had a momentary... relapse, I guess, and thought you were revolted by what you saw. But then Celeste looked up and smiled and I tried smiling back.”

“What do you mean, ‘tried?’”

He looked away for a second, biting his lower lip.

That is so sexy!

He looked back and shrugged. “I was so – I – for some reason I’m not sure I understand, I suddenly couldn’t breathe. It’s kind of hard to smile when you’re trying to catch your breath.”

A slow grin spread across Katie’s face. I knew it! He likes her! Yesss! “You ever been in love?”

“Huh?”

“Right. Like when did you have a chance to get involved with anyone? Sorry. Do you even know what that is?”

“I know about love, but how can a person be ‘in’ it?”

She sighed, nodding. “Okay. I can see I have my work cut out. When a guy reaches a certain age,” she started, totally not believing she had to explain the birds and bees to this boy, “he finds himself attracted to girls – at least most of the time.”

“What else would he be attracted to?”

“Uh, you know what? Never mind – that’s a discussion for another day. Anyhow, you talked about the way your parents looked at each other, remember?”

He nodded.

“Well, they were in love!”

“They were – ”

“When you’re in love with a girl, you think about her all the time, and she’s the only person you ever want to spend time with. You even dream about her, and everything she says and does is magic. You, uh, you get protective and want to do everything for her, get her anything she desires, and swear you’d walk through fire for her. In fact, you’d gladly jump in front of traffic to keep her safe. Okay? That’s being in love.”

“Huh. Sounds dangerous.”

“Very funny. But for real, Cian, do you experience any of that with Celeste?”

“Like I said, I haven’t thought about it, probably because I was so busy trying to figure out if she was the person I was sent to find, and... blast it, Katie! Why did you have to make me start thinking about her like that?” He got up and began pacing.

She held back a giggle. “I only asked.”

Cian came to a sudden halt, glared at the floor, and then stalked into the kitchen. Katie followed on tiptoe.

Celeste was cutting tomatoes, the tip of her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. Cian waited until she was done and had wiped her hands on a kitchen towel tucked into the waistband of her jeans

“Excuse me, Celeste?”

She looked up and her eyes crinkled with her smile.

“Never mind.” His voice was tight, and Katie knew he’d been rendered breathless again.

Giggling, she went back to the family room, sat in the other part where the entertainment center was, and turned on the TV.

Cian walked in front of the set, blocking the screen.

“Uh, do you mind – ?”

“Does this ‘falling in love’ thing honestly involve an inability to breathe, something I believe I mentioned before?”

“It can.”

“But not all the time.”

“Right.”

“Only sometimes when the person looks at you a certain way, or, uh, whatever.”

“Exactly.”

He stood there for a moment, arms crossed, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Um, Cian?”

“What.”

“I can’t see through you.”

“I would hope not.”

“I mean, you aren’t made of glass.”

“What are you getting at?”

She thrummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, and then exploded. “Move!”

He took a step to one side, apologizing.

“Thank you.” She gave him a sweet smiled. “Ever watch reality shows?”

“Watch them do what?”

“Extreme stuff, usually.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Can you make a list of things like that for me, and explain what they all mean? And what do I do about Celeste?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know – next time you’re alone, tell her how you feel.”

“But what if – ”

“Cian!!! I’m trying to watch TV. Please go away.”

“Are you angry with me?”

She gave up and tore her gaze away from the screen. He looked miserable. “Of course not.” How could she ever be angry with him – he was so innocent about so many things, yet so hurt and... and so... so stunningly handsome... and from another century! He could even use a sword, for heaven’s sake! “Anyway,” she continued, this last thought having taken all of a tenth of a second, “you’re too cool.”

“Oh. I am?”

“You know what that means?”

“I do.”

“And you blush! I love it!” she crowed.

“Oh yeah? Well, well, so do you!”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do – you blushed in the mall that first night I saw you.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Celeste had come into the room, wiping her hands on a towel. “I heard a little of what you were saying, and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be alarmed.”

“Don’t worry,” Katie answered, grinning at Cian. “We’re being stupid. I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed him.”

“Over blushing?”

Katie stood up and gave her friend a hug. “What’s for dinner?”

     

*******

 

The meal over, Niall thanked Katie and Eileen, the one for convincing him to stay, the other for the incomparable food. He told them he had eaten chicken before, but never prepared like this.

“Thank you!” Eileen loved this recipe – a large, clove-studded lemon baked inside the cavity of a whole roaster, the chicken seasoned inside and out with sage, coriander, lime zest and sea salt, glazed with a pomegranate and mango reduction, and cooked to moist perfection. A savory spinach soufflé, a lightly-seasoned Irish colcannon, a salad of tomatoes, butter lettuce and dried cranberries with a simple balsamic and olive oil vinaigrette, thick slices of home-made bread spread with sweet butter, and mulled apple cider to drink. For dessert, she’d thrown together a scrumptious bread pudding made with heavy cream, caramelized pears, nutmeg and real vanilla seeds scraped from the pod.

“Mr. Kelly,” said Niall, patting his formerly lean middle – there was a noticeable bulge now – “ye’re a man to be envied.”

“That’s pretty much what I told him myself,” Croghan added.

Donal smiled and gave his wife a huge smile.

Once the table had been cleared, dishes and pots dispatched, no one, including Eileen, seemed to want to move.

“You know,” said the Croghan, “it’s nearly seven o’clock, and our young friend here – ” he nodded at Cian, “has to be home by nine. So I would suggest I get back to telling you the rest of this account as soon as possible so it’s over and done, and we can get on with things.”

Murmurs of assent followed his suggestion.

“We can sit right here for this part, I think.” Eileen raised an eyebrow, settling back in her chair.

No one disagreed, and Croghan sat straighter. “Well, I’d best get to it, then, before you all fall asleep!”

TWENTY-FIVE

 

“You’ve heard how things went once Niall took them from the Hub and they began their journey forward in time,” said Croghan. “This is what happened from my side of things. After leaving the boy and his family in the capable hands of our local Brehon, I returned to the Hub to have a further talk with Celesta. We had to plan this properly to avert disaster in the future for both his family and those they touched. We decided that my other Harp, the one I used on journeys in and out of time, should be put someplace where it would be found by the right individuals, the ones who would take care of it, keep it, and eventually make it available to Celeste.

“She searched the pathways with her mind until she found a British archaeologist whose son would eventually move to America and settle in this part of the country. His name was Harold Alwin, and he was doing a dig in the peat bogs of Ireland – how perfect! I promptly took my leave and entered the part of Ireland where he would be working, but about a hundred and fifty years earlier. Being careful to wrap it well so the wood remained uncompromised, I buried the Harp in the bog, but not too far down. And then – and this is the fun part of what I do – I went back through the Door from that time, found the portal that would place me in the same area one hundred and fifty years later, and got to the bog right around the time Dr. Alwin and his team were setting up camp not twenty-five feet from where the Harp lay buried.

“I introduced myself as a local expert and asked if I might join the dig. He naturally wanted to see papers, some proof of my credentials, so I provided them. The Servant Helper of that time had been notified of my plans, you see, and was waiting for me, papers in hand, when I arrived through the portal.

“I waited a day or so to see if anyone might discover the Harp, and to my delight, a young woman found it. This was her first dig, and I thought she’d explode with pride and excitement. I almost felt guilty; after all, to me, the Harp had been planted a scant three days earlier. As the local expert, I was asked by Dr. Alwin to evaluate the age and worth of the instrument, so I told him truthfully that it was easily a thousand years old, was worth a small fortune, and to please, please care for it well. I said that if he planned to keep and not sell it, then by all means have it put away in the most secure place he could find. He took my request to heart, and when it left Britain several decades later, it was still in perfect condition, its original cloth kept with it.

“His grandson, Percy Alwin, brought it to America and kept it safe as a family heirloom. Eventually, the last of the Alwins passed away – about two weeks ago, I believe. They announced an estate sale to be held this Tuesday last, because the final Alwin had managed to fritter away most of the family fortune – something Celesta had told me would happen – forcing their lawyer to sell everything to pay for funeral expenses, back taxes, that sort of thing.

“I attended the sale on the first day and noticed a set of new, unused golf clubs. Knowing this estate sale would happen much earlier than that, courtesy of Celesta and her, er, Connection, if you will, I had made the acquaintance of several of Mr. Kelly’s associates some years ago and discovered their various interests. One of them, Joel Feinberg, happened to be an avid weekend golfer. I made a flyer on my computer, putting the golf clubs as the first item listed, printed it out the day after the sale was announced…

“You looked surprised, Mr. Kelly. About what? That I have a computer and know how to use it?” He laughed. “One learns a great deal when one has unfettered access to every moment in history. So. I left this under the windshield-wiper of his car – I knew him well enough, you see, to have gone golfing with him on a few occasions.

“The car was parked in his driveway at the time, which is how he knew of the sale early enough in the day to run over to the Alwin house during lunch. I was there already, of course, and acted suitably surprised to see him. Once I got his mind off the clubs – which he pounced on immediately – I showed him the Harp. For a terrible moment I thought he was going to purchase it for himself, you know, as a collector’s item, but I reminded him that Donal had a musically-inclined daughter who would make better use of the thing, not to mention the appropriate ethnic background, and recommended he mention the sale when he got back to the office. He finally agreed, albeit reluctantly, but I did go on a bit about what a shame it would be for an instrument like that to stay locked in a case rather than be used for its intended purpose.

“And that, Mr. Kelly, is how you ended up at the estate sale and purchased the Harp. I had asked the lawyer to keep it aside for you, and put a down payment on it so he wouldn’t be tempted to sell it to anyone else. I gave him a good description of you, so that when you got there he could put it out where you’d see it – no, no. You’ll not be paying me back, sir. What use have I for your money? I’ve plenty of my own, thank you.

“So now, to other matters. Knowing where Celeste lived, I had to be sure Cian would be living somewhere nearby and be in a situation where I could introduce them. The original idea was for me to be back in the boy’s life much sooner than today, only things don’t always happen the way one plans them. You see, to put everything in motion, I had come to Connecticut about ten years ago and purchased a large house not too far from the High School. Then I presented myself to the State-run foster care agency as a benefactor, got myself elected to their local board of trustees, and eventually convinced them that they needed to establish a group home in the area. To that end, I offered my house, and when they accepted, made it an outright gift to be sure they’d use it.

“So now I had a place for Cian to stay that was near Celeste, but I wanted to have what you call a ‘back-up plan.’ I left that time period, and returned five years later. By then the mall had a management company that was involved with charity work, so I went to the owners and proposed a work program that would give employment opportunities to the youngsters in foster care who were near the age of emancipation. I donated a hefty amount to fund the project, it was set up that year, and they’ve been working with foster home parents and guardians in this area ever since.

“After that, I was called upon to help some people who’d been displaced by some evil influences; they were destined to live long enough to make a considerable impact on history in another part of the world, so believing all to be well with Cian, I not only brought these others through the Halls to a safer moment in time, but stayed with them to teach them to recognize danger. Unfortunately, I stayed longer than I needed to, and thereby brought harm where none should ever have been allowed. I cannot tell you how ashamed I feel about this, how sorrowful and heart-broken.

“I let you down, Cian. Had I been where I was supposed to be, had I been more diligent in carrying out my purpose, you never would have been taken from your first foster parents, and they would still be alive. Celesta told me that nothing I did was unforgivable, but... but I doubt I’ll ever forgive myself.

“When I finally went back to Atlanta to see how things were with you, it was too late. The Boltons had been dead for almost six years, you were gone, and no one seemed to know anything about it. So I returned to the Hub and told Celesta what had happened. I’m sure she already knew some of it, but because of certain laws that neither mortal nor spirit-being may bend, she had not been allowed to interfere in any way, nor was I allowed to go back and try to fix things – too much had happened, too many variables involved, and the disruption of past events in your case would have impacted the present and future in horrible ways. But I do believe, after hearing some of what you told us, that Celesta must have been the one giving you the dreams, especially the ones that were of some comfort to you. I also think she may have, in some way, kept the evil from influencing those people to do worse things to you than they did.

“But at the time I knew none of this, and so she presented another plan, one that would enable me to find you. I was to return to Atlanta and fill the position left vacant by the man who, like me, had allowed the loss of children who were supposed to have been safely within the system. He had been fired, and while every bit as unworthy as he, I managed to get myself appointed to his job. With a great deal of hard work, and the help of some good people, the other missing children were found, but I must tell you, I was furious – with myself and at the forces of evil that had done those dreadful things to harm you. And believe me, lad, they had every intention of killing you, but because Moloch had been made to search you out for so long, it was furious and wanted to see you suffer for a long time before you died. I’m sure the creature enjoyed every moment of your pain, too... I am so, so sorry, Cian.

“Well, once you were found, there was the job of helping you heal. Some of what I heard about your condition made me despair of that ever happening, but Celesta had been right – of course. You have an incredible inner strength and a good heart, and that, I believe, is what really saved you in the end. When you were well enough, I suggested that it might be good for your psychological health to leave Georgia altogether, and start over somewhere totally different. And since foster-care is a nationwide effort, I had no problem getting you transferred to Connecticut and into my former house. One of the first things the social worker running the foster home did was set up a job interview for you at the mall.

“In case you’re wondering how my being a harp teacher became known, Donal, I told your other associate, Mitch Lundgren, that I moonlighted as a music instructor and taught guitar and harp. He told you, as I knew he would, having been told by Joel about your purchase, and since he of course had my business card, well, you know the rest.

“And, as I said before, here we are.”

 

*******

 

Throughout the Keeper’s explanation of how he’d failed to protect him, Cian’s mind had been racing. All he’d suffered at the hands of his former foster-family, the loneliness, sorrow, pain, confusion. Eventually, the self-loathing. All had been preventable? Something about that bothered him. Something less obvious than the Croghan’s failure.

More thoughts cascaded downward, flowing into reason. Had the Boltons not died, how much happier his own life would have been… but at what price? They would have given him anything he wanted, showered him with affection and the best life had to offer. Possessions, education, social position. And if everything he was being told about his looks were true, he would have become well known, admired, and sought after by those who would enhance his life at every turn.

In this lay the cost. By this time he had read enough in books, in those Hollywood magazines, to know how twisted a person’s mind could become if given too much too quickly. To realize that under such perfect conditions, he would have grown up a monster. A selfish, egotistical, heartless, hedonistic little bastard who would use others as much as they used him.

Was that why he’d been chosen? Of course not! How could he do battle against the Darkness if he had become dark himself? Moloch had made a terrible mistake – if the Darkness had wanted to destroy him, it should have left him alone.

His deepest sorrow was that Olivia Bolton and her husband had lost their lives, and in such a brutal, horrible way. No one deserved that, especially such wonderful, loving people… preventable? Could have been, and shouldn’t have been. What was not had in reality been what was right.

Despite his musings, he was still listening to the Croghan. After having his say, the harper had been pacing by the head of the kitchen table. When he stopped, head bowed, Cian stood to face him. “Croghan.”

Croghan raised his head, eyes brimming. “What is it, Cian?”

Taking a deep breath, Cian went to him and put a hand on his arm. “Everything happened the way it was supposed to happen.”

The Keeper looked away. A moment later he stared back at Cian, and the tears spilled out, glittering as they paused before their descent down his face. “By God,” he whispered, grasping the boy by the shoulders, “you were chosen well.”

Cian shook his head. “I can only hope you’re right. I’m finally beginning to see how powerful that evil being really is. And... and I think I can appreciate Celesta’s power a lot more.”

The Croghan pulled Cian into a quick, ferocious hug, released him. “I’m humbled.”

Not understanding what the man meant, Cian turned away to indicate with a nod the silent group of people at the table. “What of them?”

“How do you mean?”

“Celeste and I are to travel with you to the Hub, I believe?”

“You are, yes.”

Cian walked around the table and stopped behind Katie’s chair. “I can think of no reason why she shouldn’t come with us, too.”

Croghan took a shaky breath, wiped his eyes with a hand, took out his handkerchief, and blew his nose. “Now, Cian, I like Katie – you’re a unique individual, lass, full of quick wit, humor and genuine kindness. But honestly, Cian, what can she do?” With a shrug he tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket.

Cian stared at nothing for a minute. He thrust out his jaw and nodded. “Katie, Celeste, what do you think about Tara joining us?”

“No way!” they said in perfect synchronicity, their expressions identical. They looked at each other in horror, then back at Cian, and at the same time said, “What are you smoking?”

“I wasn’t serious,” he told them. “You see, Keeper? They’re a part of each other.”

“It would so seem.” He nodded, giving the girls a brief smile. “But I have to ask you again – what can she do?”

“Be there for Celeste. Sit with her, keep her company while she plays back the evil for me. That is why Celeste was chosen, yes?”

The Keeper nodded. “Looks like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Niall, who had been silent throughout, stirred in his chair. “Me arse hurts. Can’t we get on with this? For heaven’s sake, Croghan, let the girl come.”

Eileen shook her head. “Not good. What about Katie’s mother?”

“Have you forgotten who I am?” asked the Keeper. “I can bring her back whenever you’d like – including a mere minute from when we leave.”

“So her family won’t miss her?”

“Not for a second.”

Like calibrated talking androids, Celeste and Katie gazed up at Mrs. Kelly and said, “Pleeeeeeze?”

Cian gave the Keeper a meaningful shrug.

“Actually,” the Croghan said, “I think Cian’s right.”

Eileen gave in. “Fine. I doubt any of you will stop nagging me until I say it’s okay so – fine. But – ” she raised a finger, “she’d better come back safe and sound, sir.”

“Anyone care what I think?” asked Donal.

Eileen reached across the table and grasped his hand. “Of course, love.”

“Well, I’m not so sure about all of this. First, I’ve no idea what kind of, of whatever it is you think my daughter can do; second, it seems to me you made a huge blunder where this poor young man is concerned and nearly got him killed. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, you know. And third, you’re dragging someone else into this who originally had nothing to do with it at all. So all I’m saying,” he finished, returning everyone’s stare, “is that I’d like to meet this so-called angel of yours before I give anyone permission to run off with my child.” He sat back and crossed his arms, his mouth a firm line.

“Very good, Mr. Kelly,” said the Croghan. “Please get your coat and come with me.”

“Now?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Uh, yes, but... well, I guess I didn’t expect you to take care of it so soon.”

Niall got up and stretched, yawned and said, “Come on, Mr. Kelly – ye can’t have it both ways now.”

Eileen also stood and went to her husband’s chair, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Where, exactly, are you taking my husband?”

“Through the Door and into the Hub!” The Keeper of the Doors smiled.

Her own smile was most noticeable by its complete absence. “And where is this Door?”

“Not too far from here. There’s more than one reason why the place is called ‘Mystic,’ you know.”

“The seaport?” Donal’s brows shot up.

“The same.”

“And by the way, in case ye had any doubt,” said Niall, “I’m goin’ wi’ ye.”

Cian suddenly remembered a promise. “What time is it? I said I’d be back home by nine o’clock.”

“You’re kidding!” said four voices at once – Niall, Croghan, Celeste and Katie – and he took a step back, startled, until he realized what they meant. “Sorry. I forgot.” Traveling with the Keeper of the Doors at the Hub of Time made the need to check one’s watch pointless.

“So, Donal Kelly,” said the Keeper, “are you ready?”

Mr. Kelly nodded, getting up, and everyone followed him to the front hall closet where he retrieved Gerald Croghan’s overcoat. “Here you go.” Reaching back in, he took out his own.

“How long will you be gone?” Eileen asked.

“Only as long as it takes.” Croghan was grinning again.

She shook her head and muttered, “Great.”

Behind her Katie softly sang, “Don’t fear the Keeper, da, da-dat, Dah!”

Donal snorted. “I’ll be fine, my love.” He pulled Eileen close and kissed her hair. “Stop fretting.”

She gave him a swift hug and turned away. “Well! Come on, kids – let’s find something to do; we don’t want Katie bursting into another corny rendition of some golden oldie, do we!”

Golden what? The context told Cian that the reference had something to do with the strange little melody Katie had sung but nothing else.

As everyone except Niall started heading back into the kitchen, Cian saw the Croghan pause in the middle of buttoning his coat.

“All right, old man,” he said. “Fetch your bucket and let’s go.”

 

*******

 

The ride to Mystic Seaport was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. For one thing, the Brehon’s silence was the result of his having fallen asleep in the back seat.

“So where in Mystic is this Door?” asked Donal when they’d been driving for close to twenty minutes.

“Inside the building housing the figureheads – the whole village, as you know, is a museum.” Anticipating Donal’s next question he added, “I have a key.”

“Really. And I suppose you’re the Curator or something like that?”

“No,” he said, chuckling. “That would be a good friend of mine.”

“Of course!”

They fell silent again. Not long after, Croghan pulled his Jaguar into one of the empty parking lots to the left of the museum buildings. As they stepped out into damp, salty air the sound of water slapping heavy against the docks greeted them. None of the ships were in the water at that time of year, some having been put inside their winter boathouses, others, mostly the larger ones, hanging from winches in dry-dock. The moon was up and full, the view of its reflected twin unobstructed by masts as it swam across the wind-stirred water.

Donal enjoyed the scene while Croghan took a lantern from the trunk, opened the back door and roused Niall. He’d never been here this late, but then, no one else had, either, as far as he knew, with the exception of the occasional time traveler and maybe the police... uh-oh. “Croghan!” he rasped, trying not to be too loud.

The harper had locked the car and was rummaging through his coat pockets. “What is it?”

“Your car! What if a patrol car comes by? The police will be all over us!”

“Well, unless – ah! Here it is! – Unless one was here forty-five minutes ago, there’s no danger of that happening.”

Donal started to question that weird statement, but changed his mind while Niall gave a grunt of agreement and indicated with a wave for Croghan to lead the way. “Never been through this Door,” the Brehon mumbled.

“All right, then, gentlemen,” the Keeper said, “let’s go visit an angel.”

TWENTY-SIX

 

Donal was awestruck. The passageways to the Hub, the Hub itself, were all exactly as the Keeper and Cian had described. And Celesta – never in his life or dreams had he seen or imagined anything like her. He was unable to stand in her scintillating presence, having lost all strength in his knees almost as soon as they’d crested the hill.

      “Ah!” she breathed, bending down until her exquisite face was close to his. “The father of my Celeste! The pleasure of meeting you is great, Donal Kelly. You are a good father and a good man.”

      He wanted to kiss her feet. He wanted to thank her for her kind words. But both motion and voice were beyond him, so he simply stared into her sapphire eyes and hoped she could read what was there.

      With a lovely smile, she touched his cheek with smooth, warm fingertips and said, “Your child will be safe here. She will be watched over, protected as much as possible. And yes, danger will come, but her champion will fight, and she will champion his efforts with her music, and together they shall keep each other safe until the battle is done, and for a while, mankind is spared That One’s evil. So be at ease, good sir, and be happy in your daughter, proud of her heart, for its benevolence and gentle kindness exists in part through you.”

      As she spoke, her graceful touch like a fragrant breath, Donal grew peaceful, his fears retreating, and was filled with acceptance and the assurance that all would be well. Any lingering doubts he’d had about the Keeper’s veracity or the existence of this place were long gone, and in their stead only amazement and gratitude that he had been allowed to come here, to have a share in what was happening.

      Celesta stood, extending her hand to help Donal back to his feet. In a state of wonder he took it and rose. Managing a smile, he found his voice. “Thank you.”

      She tilted her head to one side, considering something, and her blue-sparkled silver hair slid like a cascade of white-blue light over one shoulder. “I think,” she said, “that some day I would like to meet your love, Eileen. But for now,” and she sat once again on the stone and picked up her harp, “you must return to your family, and you, Brehon,” she added, her smile turning into an un-angel-like grin, “my beloved heathen, you must go and see to your well and your wife.”

      Niall cleared his throat, twisting the rope around his waist in a self-conscious gesture. “Er, yes I must, Celesta. Thank ye for rememberin’ me.”

      “As if I could forget when you’re standing right here?”

      “W – uh – I mean, no! Of course, not, but – ”

      She broke into peals of glorious laughter, its sound like a shower of glass bells. “Keeper,” she said, her voice infused with amusement, “please take your leave of this wonderful, magnificent old man so he can go home.”

      “Of course, Celesta,” he said through a smile. “Niall, old friend, I thank you for all of your help this day. Your Door awaits.” He swept one hand toward a pathway running straight back from the hill.

      With a bow that included the other three, Niall picked up his bucket, threw back his shoulders, took a deep breath, and made his way down the back of the hill with a great show of dignity.

      “Fare thee well, Donal Kelly,” the angel said when the Breslin was gone. “I may or may not see you again while you yet breathe, but I will see you again, and may, with my Lord’s permission, visit your mind from time to time with something to bless you. And Keeper, dear Keeper, you I shall see soon.”

      To seal her dismissal, she began running her fingers along the strings of the harp, a soft smile shaping her lips, and bowed her head to bring her ear closer to the sounds.

      At first, Donal couldn’t move, and the Keeper had to elbow him in the side to get his attention. But then, sighing, he looked at the Keeper, nodded, and they turned and went down the hill.

 

*******

 

“What a day this turned out to be!” Eileen exclaimed as they entered the kitchen. “Anyone want some hot cocoa?”

“You might want to wait until Mr. Kelly gets back,” Cian suggested, looking at the clock over the sink.

“Why?”

“So you’ll know how much to make – he and the Croghan may want some, too.” He shrugged.

Celeste frowned. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“Hm?”

“Mom can always put more milk on to heat when they get back, so why would you think – and why are you staring at that clock?”

He held up an index finger and said, “Wait.”

Celeste and Katie looked at each other, and Eileen leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, curious.

Cian lowered his hand, turned to face the doorway leading back to the front hall, and smiled as the door opened.

“We’re back,” called Donal, sounding unreasonably happy.

Eileen, Celeste and Katie whirled around to stare up at the clock before rushing past Cian into the front hall.

Eileen threw herself at her husband and gave him a huge hug. “You’ve only been gone five minutes!”

“Have you forgotten whom I was with and where we were going?” he asked.

“Don’t be a wise-guy.” She grinned and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “And by the way, the only reason I believe you went anywhere in such a short amount of time is because you look... I don’t know, different.”

“I’ve seen an angel, Eileen, and she wants to meet you, too.”

“A real one?”

“No, she was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Jennifer Lopez – of course she was real! I’ve never experienced anything like this! And that Hub – that’s real, too! My God, what a place! And the things she told me! Our Celeste will be safe, love. All will be well. This – this Hub is…”

As he continued talking, Croghan helped Donal to remove his coat and hung it in the closet for him.

“ – and then she said she wanted to meet you, too!” he finished, eyes glowing.

Eileen shook her head. “I hardly know what to say. You – you’re behaving like a little boy who just sat on Santa’s lap for the first time.”

Donal laughed and turned to Cian, his grin fading. “Son, I believe I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“I was very upset with you at first. I mean, you showed up on my doorstep asking for my sixteen-year-old daughter on a Saturday morning, a time when most decent families are home minding their own business; then you somehow knew our new harp teacher, and the two of you started talking about my Celeste in some strange code, or so it seemed, and I have to tell you, I wasn’t at all happy. Meanwhile, you look like – huh. Now that I think of it, you look like Celesta could’ve been your mother or something.”

Cian uttered a short laugh. “Not even close. But I do believe my real mother was quite pretty.”

“Well, then the Keeper here began a tale about time and Druids and such, and I thought the two of you had concocted some sort of hoax, but I couldn’t figure out why, and it was making me nervous as hell, to say the least. But when you started talking about your life in that ghastly foster-family, especially after seeing your extreme reaction to my reference to an electrical wire, I began to admit that even if the rest of it were nonsense, that part was most certainly real.

“And now, having actually seen... what I saw, I can’t deny any of it, and must admit I was wrong about both of you. So please accept my apology – you’re a special young man, I think, and now that I know what you’ve survived, I’m proud to know you.” He extended his hand, smiling, and Cian, speechless, took it.

“You-you’re so kind,” he said. “But you needn’t apologize; I think anyone would have felt the same at the outset – any good father, I mean. And ours is, to those who know nothing of who we are, a wild tale indeed.”

“So what now?” asked Eileen, stifling a yawn.

“Now,” said Gerald Croghan, “I think I should escort Mr. MacDara home and explain his tardiness to his social worker, Joel Geller, who must be more than a wee bit miffed about it. I could take him to the Hub and bring him home earlier, but quite honestly, I don’t feel like going all the way back to Mystic right now.”

Donal looked at his watch. “Ten thirty. That’s means… hm. Twenty minutes here… well, now! We did indeed get back only five minutes after we left! How does that work, anyway? Ha!”

“Guess we’ll see you at school on Monday?” Katie asked Cian.

Mr. Croghan answered. “You shall, but tomorrow afternoon I’ll be back to take Celeste to the Hub for her real harp lesson, and if she learns as quickly as I think she will, you’ll have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Kelly. I’ll make sure they’re returned in time, Katie first so her mother doesn’t know she’s been gone, then Celeste, so they’re all able to get a good night’s sleep.” He opened the door. “Cian, are you ready?”

He nodded, starting to leave.

“Wait,” said Donal. “You’re not going out into that cold night air without a coat, young man!” He took out the one he’d loaned the boy earlier in the day. “Do you have one of your own?”

“Yes, sir, but I left it at work in my rush to get here.”

“All right, then. You can bring this one back the next time you’re here, okay?”

“Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I will.”

Cian and The Croghan went out, followed by the sound of friendly goodbyes, and headed for the car.

Donal shut the door behind them, and Katie and Celeste, who had been whispering rapidly by the door to the family room, came up to him, looking exhausted but determined.

“Dad, may Katie spend the night? Mom?”

Eileen looked at husband, sharing a similar shrug. “I don’t see why not. Donal?”

“If it’s okay with Katie’s mom, I’ve no – hang on. What about Tara? Has anyone bothered to call Nadine’s poor mother to arrange for her to come home?”

Horrified, Eileen gasped, whirled around, and ran into the kitchen where she grabbed the phone and punched in Nadine’s home number. “Susan!” she exclaimed a few seconds later. “Oh, honey, I am so sorry I didn’t call you sooner! Please don’t be angry... what? She... really? Oh... well, sure! I mean, if it’s no bother… no, I will. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, but it wasn’t all that, um, interesting, just, er, necessary... sure… uh-huh. Yup… uh-huh… okay, uh-huh… thanks again, Susan – you’re a saint! Talk to you in the morning.” She hung up and sagged against the counter, blowing out a long breath of relief.

“What happened?” asked Donal, who had followed her into the kitchen.

“Oh, not much. The girls fell asleep over an hour ago, so Susan said Tara could spend the night as long as I promised to tell her what was going on here today.”

“And are you?”

Eileen put the palm of her hand to her husband’s forehead. “Are you feeling well? I mean, do you honestly think I’m going to tell her some guy from the Hub of Time showed up here disguised as a harp teacher, then – POOF! – produced some mad-looking, beard-chomping Irishman with a water bucket right in our family room, not to mention a kid who looks like God Himself had nothing better to do one day, so decided to make the most perfect-looking human being ever, and – ”

“All right! All right!” Donal put his hands up in surrender, laughing. “I admit that was a dumb question.”

“Thank you. Katie, call your mother, please.”

The girls had entered the kitchen a moment before, and had been staring, open-mouthed at her and Donal. Celeste started to giggle as Katie took out her cell phone, giving a snort of laughter.

Mrs. Grandol, Katie reported, had no objections to her daughter spending the night, as long as she checked in with her by ten o-clock the next morning. “She asked if I was going to go to church with you guys in the morning. I told her yes, just in case. I mean, I’m not Catholic, but it might be cool.”

Eileen nodded. “We’ll probably go to the eleven o’clock Mass.”

“We’d better get to bed, then,” suggested Celeste, giving Katie a look.

“Yup. Good night! See you in the morning!”

They took off up the stairs. “Like a pair of slightly impaired gazelles,” Eileen muttered, turning to her husband and returning the grin he was giving her. “I do believe the family room is now blissfully free of teenagers, outrageously handsome boys, Keepers, Brehons and water buckets.” She took her husband’s arm. “Let’s go unwind, shall we?”

As they headed for the sofa, however, she suddenly stopped, put her hands on her hips, and gave Donal a look of disbelief. “Hold on,” she said. “Jennifer Lopez?!”

TWENTY-SEVEN

 

“I’m worried.” Celeste closed the door and leaned back on it. “Now that Cian has remembered everything, he’s going to have to fight that demon thing, and after everything he’s been through, he might not be able to win.”

“You have a point.” Katie flopped down on the floor in her usual spot by the side of the bed. “But I don’t get why he’d be expected to do this if he’s in real danger.”

“Yeah, but I mean, hasn’t he been hurt enough?”

Katie frowned. “You know, I’m sure this Mol-whatever was counting on him being weakened by six years of, of torture – like, come on, what else would you call it, right? And that would make him weaker so he might not win this battle he’s destined to fight.”

Celeste shook her head. “No, we have to be wrong. I mean, I can’t believe they’d expose him to something he couldn’t overcome, not after what he’s had to go through already. That would be way too cruel. But as far as that evil spirit guy goes, I think you could be right. He… it… had to have found out about Cian’s destiny to fight him, and probably figured he would either die or be too weak to fight. Makes a horrible kind of sense, really.”

Katie nodded, and then grew still, resting her chin on her knees, hands clasped at her ankles.

Sensing her friend’s need to be left alone, Celeste went to her dresser and rummaged around for a nightshirt Katie might not feel too dorky wearing. It was one thing to have cutesy cartoon animals on your own stuff when no one but you and your family would ever see it, but to wear it in front of someone else – even a best friend – or expect that friend to put it on, was so wrong.

At the bottom of the folded pile of pajamas, she found what she was looking for: a plain, light-blue button-down nightshirt that went almost to the floor. She pulled this out, slung it over her shoulder, and opened the next drawer from which she took a pair of pink satin boxers with a matching chemise. She would have given this to Katie had her friend not had an almost violent aversion to pink.

When she turned around, Katie was watching her and yawning. She tossed her the shirt. “We have guest tooth brushes.” Normally, their sleepovers were planned and Katie had her own toiletries with her. “I’ll use the bathroom first while you’re changing and leave the brush on the sink for you.”

“Uh, how many guests have used it?”

“Katie! Don’t be a dweeb! It’s in an unopened package.”

Standing up, Katie stuck her tongue out through smiling lips.

“Dittoes.”

After they had traded places in the bathroom, Celeste got out her wide-tooth comb and sat on the bed to detangle her hair. Because she wore it up most of the time, she ended up with all kinds of snarls by the time she unpinned it at the end of the day. She removed all the clips, dropping them in a dish on her nightstand, and by the time Katie came out of the bathroom, she was working on her first knot. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back, reaching her waist, the part she had in her hands halfway up.

“Can I help?”

Celeste handed the comb over and scooted up further so Katie could sit behind her.

“Let me ask you something, Celeste.”

“Sure.”

“Truth?”

“Truth.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.” Katie ran the comb down the length of the strand she’d been working on. “That’s one knot down.” She did something with the comb, a sudden jerk indicating she’d found the next knot. “How do you feel about Cian?”

Celeste went still from within; seconds ticked by before she answered. “I – I really like him, Katie.”

“How much? I mean, anyone with eyes really likes him, too, if you know what I mean.”

“Like you do?”

Katie finished smoothing out the section of hair before answering. “I like him as a friend. I mean, sure, he’s gorgeous and all, and there’s definitely an element of lust going on here, but I don’t think I could date him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s too… intense.”

Celeste nodded, knowing exactly what Katie meant. However...

“Doesn’t that bother you, too?” continued Katie.

“No. In fact, it’s part of why I like him.”

“Think you guys will, like, get together or anything?”

Celeste’s Irish skin was a dead giveaway – she knew that even sitting behind her, Katie could see the blush heating her face, because it always reddened her scalp, too.

“I knew it!”

“Katie!”

“Aw, come on – admit it, Celeste, you really, really like him.”

“All right! I admit it! But what if he doesn’t like me the same way? What if he finds some other girl at school and decides to go out with her instead? What if what we have to go through together makes him tired of being around me, or – or gives him more bad memories, and – ”

“Stop that, or I’ll rip this knot out with my teeth!”

Celeste was silent for about a half-second, then burst out laughing. “You’d look like a monkey!” she choked out.

Katie started laughing, too, and because it was late, and because they were absolutely exhausted, and because they were sixteen, they laughed until tears flooded out of their eyes, and Celeste accidentally snorted, making them laugh even harder.

A knock sounded on the door. “Cut it out, you two!” Eileen called.

They stopped for a split second, and then burst once more into uncontrollable guffaws.

“Celeste! I said cut it out!”

Catching her breath, but only by a major effort, Celeste called back, “Sorry, Mom!”

Katie fell backward, perhaps planning to land on the pillow, but hit the wooden headboard, nearly knocking herself out. “Ooowwww!”

“Ohmygosh! Are you okay?”

Katie sat up again, rubbing the back of her head, looked at Celeste, and the laughter started all over again.

Since her mother didn’t come in to yell at them, Celeste figured – between gasps – that she had given up and gone back to bed.

The laughter gave way to giggles, which dwindled into snuffles, and eventually to the deep, slow breathing of innocent sleep.

 

*******

 

All the lights were out except the front porch sconces on either side of the door and ambient light visible through the library window.

“Stop worrying,” said the Croghan, following Cian up the steps.

“You keep saying that, but I’m the one who’s in trouble here.” He shoved his key into the lock and opened the door. “Plus, he had to stay up because of me, and I know he won’t be happy about that, either.”

“Stop worrying.”

The man’s imperturbable confidence gave Cian a scowl. Shaking his head he entered the library.

Mr. Geller sat at one of the desks, chin resting on his palm, thrumming his fingers on the wooden surface with the other hand. When Cian had been standing at the doorway for several seconds, Mr. Geller lowered his hand and stood up. “Nine o’clock, MacDara?”

“I know, sir. I’m sorry.”

Croghan stepped around Cian and into the yellow light. “It’s my fault, Joe. Please don’t blame him.”

“Gerald Croghan? What on earth - ?” Mr. Geller came closer, then broke into a smile. “My God, it’s good to see you!”

“You, too. How have things been going? I see you’re taking good care of my house.” The men exchanged a warm handshake.

Cian was outraged. “Uh, you could have told me you knew him,” he chided the Croghan. “I was all worried about getting kicked out, and the whole time you knew it’d be all right?”

“I told you to stop worrying, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you didn’t bother to tell me why.”

“Well, now, had you been listening to my part of the story, you’d have picked up the fact that I’ve known this man for quite a while. I know I mentioned his name at least once.”

Mr. Geller chuckled. “I should have known you’d never stay out like that without a damn good reason, MacDara. What has this wild man been doing?”

“Telling stories.” Cian shrugged, hoping he hadn’t sounded like he was pouting.

“Really? Where? At that student’s house? And what was all that with Mr., um, Mr. Breslin, was it?”

“Old friend of mine, too,” said Croghan.

Joe gave a friendly snort. “Is there anyone you don’t know?”

“The owner of the Pittsburgh Pirates.”

“Oh, you’re a piece of work.” Geller grinned. “MacDara, why don’t you get to bed? You’ve been vindicated.”

“Right.” Sigh. As he climbed the stairs, he felt the impact of the day begin to settle into his bones. In a way, he’d relived nearly his entire life in less than twenty-four hours.

By the time he reached the top step, his legs felt heavy. Like they’d been infused with lead. He struggled down the hall to his room. Strong emotions had made him tired before, but never to this extent. As he undressed in the dark, he tried to understand it. No good. Even thinking straight was somehow beyond him. He fell, exhausted, onto the bed, asleep before he could even pull up the covers.

And he dreamed.

The dark, ugly entrance hall of the foster home in the nowhere zone. Through the kitchen door at the end of the hallway, two people lay on the floor, their blood seeping over the acid-green linoleum, into the hall toward him.

He looked away, feeling sick, and there… a thick trickle of blood dripped and splashed down the stairs. Cian looked up. On the top step stood Dr. Lee. Blood poured from the side of his head and ear. One eye hung from its socket.

A movement from behind. Startled, he spun around to find his former foster mother sitting in an electric chair, her teeth bared in fury, hatred blazing from her eyes. Her hands, secured at the wrists by metal bands to the arms of the chair, gripped the ends of the armrests as she strained forward toward him.

“It was you!” she hissed. “They all died because of you! My Bobby Lee, those old people, the doctor, and soon, me! Why did you have to come here?!” The question had been a shriek. She stopped, inhaled a long, noisy breath that made her whole body inflate. On the breath of her exhale, she began to scream the words on the tape.

Cian froze. The diatribe continued for what felt like hours until… the part of his mind that had grown stronger over the past ten months began to fight back against her words, denying that they contained any truth. He could move again.

His hand closed over something that had materialized in it and he looked down. The ash-wood sword. “Be silent!” he bellowed in Gaelic, raising the weapon. “You have no power over me now, vile witch!”

Letitia shut her mouth, shrank back into the chair, eyes wide. Her mouth opened again, but no sound came out; instead, it got bigger and bigger until it engulfed her. The chair had disappeared, and in its place was a gigantic creature with a squat body, arms extended outward in front, a gaping mouth and eyes. From deep within this object, a voice bellowed, “Light the fires and give me your children!” A flame sprang up in the guts of it, and Cian recognized what it was.

Niall had once explained how the Wicker Man was the Celtic version of a much older means of sacrifice, but still represented the original eater of children, Moloch. The abomination before him was one of the sacrificial idols. Misguided by hideous doctrines, parents would place their screaming infants and young children in this atrocity to appease the disgusting appetite of their god.

But Moloch was no mere god. Celesta had told him that much. A major force among the creatures of the Darkness, Moloch in any incarnation represented a powerful spirit-warrior for all that was evil. This same being had sought Cian’s ancestor, pursued him at any cost across Time. At last it caught up with the man’s descendant, a child – him – and cause him as much anguish, torment and misery as he could.

“Am I not clever?” The voice sounded bigger this time. By the fourth word, the idol had grown, changed, towering over Cian. A living thing with flaming eyes, wide nostrils from which curled foul, black smoke, and an unnaturally wide mouth fitted with sharp teeth that looked like steel. “And do you, boy, honestly imagine yourself able to do battle with me?”

Cian couldn’t reply. His voice had fled once more as he stared upward, dread-filled, at this eternal creature. After all, what could he say? He was a mortal, nothing more. No powers of his own. No overcoming abilities with which to stand on equal ground with a being like this.

“Is that supposed to be a sword, little man?” This time its voice was mocking, smug. “Are you serious, or do you try and insult me?”

Cian looked down at the piece of wood, feeling stupid, seeing it for the first time as a toy. A foolish toy he’d made by hand. One he had never even thought to use in self-defense the whole time he was in that house. Why not? And what made him think it would be of any use now? Except, of course, that he hadn’t brought it with him; it had been placed in his hand, unbidden. Why? By whom or what?

Moloch heaved a thunderous sigh and began to change again. By the time it was done with this new metamorphosis, it was a fraction taller than Cian and dressed in a black suit with a red shirt and white tie, a bright green handkerchief flopping out of the breast pocket. It smoothed back wavy black hair with a manicured hand, thrusting the other into the pocket of its trousers. When its hand came away from its head, it was holding a cigarette, which it put between thick red lips, taking a puff, and blowing the smoke out with a slow, languid breath into the dark air around them.

In a voice so pleasant and normal that it frightened Cian more than the deeper, angrier one, it said, “You know, you are beginning to bore me, little man.” It gave Cian an up-and-down glance, lip curled in scorn, and shook its head. “No threat here, I see. But I must say, I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner – you would have made a delicious morsel as a baby. You’re so pretty, and I know you would have tasted as good as you look!” It threw back its head, laughed as though it had said something hilarious, and turned, walking away into deeper darkness, leaving Cian alone and shivering.

That was his opponent? That was who – what – he had to face in a final battle and somehow defeat? A despair greater than that which had driven him to attempt suicide overwhelmed him. He crouched down, hugging himself, unable to think, to breathe... almost like with Celeste...

Beautiful Celeste, who would be playing to keep back the other beings of evil so he could face Moloch alone; Celeste, who would be in the worst danger if he failed, the first to bear the brunt of the terrors that would be unleashed if –

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to uncoil, stand straight, forced himself to relax, to breathe, to think. And then he recognized what had happened, saw its reality: a first strike by his opponent to try and defeat him before they ever met in real combat. Cian shook his head, strength flooding back into numbed limbs, into his heart and mind.

Celeste, Katie, the Croghan, Celesta, even Niall – for their sakes, he could not afford to indulge in fear or self-pity, and not because he was so wonderful and heroic... but because they were.

A new voice, a welcomed, familiar one, whispered words of comfort, encouragement and strength into the silence. He answered with quiet gratitude. The dreaming nightmare was over and he could rest. All that remained was to face the waking horror and the battle that would mark the end of his journey with either victory or defeat.

And then, one way or the other, he might finally have peace.

 

 

 

 

The End of Book I

Impressum

Texte: Judy Colella
Bildmaterialien: Laszlo Kugler
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 25.03.2014

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