urged.
“Well, I don’t remember it, but it had to do with—I don’t know.”
“Please try to remember. It might be important.”
“We were driving to the farm—this was before we’d even seen the aurochs—which we didn’t see, because it wasn’t there—and Simon all of a sudden rattles off this scrap of poetry. Celtic poetry. Something about standing at the door to the West,” I said, trying to recall the exact details. “It was one of those Celtic riddle verses where the speaker gives all these clues and you’re supposed to guess who he is.”
“Standing at the door to the West,” the professor repeated. “Yes, go on. Anything else?”
As with a jolt from an electric cattle prod, I remembered something else. “And before that,” I said, excitement tightening my vocal cords, “when we were just waking up. We slept beside the road, like I said, and I woke up just before sunrise. Simon wanted to get an early start but we overslept—not much; it was still plenty early. But Simon got all upset because he wanted to be at the farm before sunrise—not after. When I asked him why, he sneered and said, ‘And you a Celtic scholar.’ It was the time-between-times—Simon knew about the time-between-times, see. That’s why he had us rushing to get to the farm. I asked him and he didn’t deny it. Simon knew about the time-between-times.”
Nettleton smiled. “I see. Go on.”
“That was all. I wasn’t aware he knew about anything like that. It was odd, but that was Simon. He’d tear into anything that took his fancy.”
“But you did not reach the farm or the cairn before sunrise?”
“No. We reached the cairn well before ten o’clock, though,” I told him.
The professor rose and fetched the milk bottle. He poured milk into the mugs and topped up with hot tea, replacing the tea cozy. He rested his hands on the warm teapot and said slowly, “This is extremely interesting.”
“Great, but what’s it got to do with Simon’s disappearance?”
As if he hadn’t heard me, the professor got up and started rummaging through the pile of books on his desk. He found one and held it up to me. “I came across this last night,” he said and began reading to me.
“On a day in August in the year 1788, I arrived in the chief village of Glen Findhorn, a settlement of fair aspect called the Mills of Aird Righ. I called first on the schoolmaster, Mr. Desmond MacLagan, who kindly agreed to conduct me to the Cairn. MacLagan had been raised in the region and indeed had heard stories of the Cairn from his grandmother, Mrs. Maire Grant, who would oft times relate how she and other youths of the village on bright moonlit nights were wont to go to the Cairn. They seldom had long to wait before they would hear the most exquisite music and behold a grand tower standing in the hollow there. The diminutive folk of Fairyland would issue from the tower and perform their frolic and dance. Next morning the tower would not be found, but the grandmother and her friends would gather Fairy Gold from around the Cairn. This continued until one of the youths, when questioned about the gold, told his father, who then forbade any further excursions of this nature, saying that from time to time people were known to have disappeared in that vicinity.
“Upon reaching the glen, my guide and I dismounted and made our way into the hollow to the Cairn on foot. I found the ancient structure wholly unremarkable in size or proportion, and somewhat dilapidated in appearance. The only distinctive feature is an oven-shaped projection oriented west. Albeit, the farmers and uneducated folk of the glen consider the Cairn a Fairy Mound and accord it wide respect in their deliberations upon matters supernatural.”
Nettles glanced up from his reading. “This document establishes Carnwood Cairn as a site of Otherworldly activity,” he announced. “Although the author did not find the entrance—slightly puzzling, that—still I have
“Well, I don’t remember it, but it had to do with—I don’t know.”
“Please try to remember. It might be important.”
“We were driving to the farm—this was before we’d even seen the aurochs—which we didn’t see, because it wasn’t there—and Simon all of a sudden rattles off this scrap of poetry. Celtic poetry. Something about standing at the door to the West,” I said, trying to recall the exact details. “It was one of those Celtic riddle verses where the speaker gives all these clues and you’re supposed to guess who he is.”
“Standing at the door to the West,” the professor repeated. “Yes, go on. Anything else?”
As with a jolt from an electric cattle prod, I remembered something else. “And before that,” I said, excitement tightening my vocal cords, “when we were just waking up. We slept beside the road, like I said, and I woke up just before sunrise. Simon wanted to get an early start but we overslept—not much; it was still plenty early. But Simon got all upset because he wanted to be at the farm before sunrise—not after. When I asked him why, he sneered and said, ‘And you a Celtic scholar.’ It was the time-between-times—Simon knew about the time-between-times, see. That’s why he had us rushing to get to the farm. I asked him and he didn’t deny it. Simon knew about the time-between-times.”
Nettleton smiled. “I see. Go on.”
“That was all. I wasn’t aware he knew about anything like that. It was odd, but that was Simon. He’d tear into anything that took his fancy.”
“But you did not reach the farm or the cairn before sunrise?”
“No. We reached the cairn well before ten o’clock, though,” I told him.
The professor rose and fetched the milk bottle. He poured milk into the mugs and topped up with hot tea, replacing the tea cozy. He rested his hands on the warm teapot and said slowly, “This is extremely interesting.”
“Great, but what’s it got to do with Simon’s disappearance?”
As if he hadn’t heard me, the professor got up and started rummaging through the pile of books on his desk. He found one and held it up to me. “I came across this last night,” he said and began reading to me.
“On a day in August in the year 1788, I arrived in the chief village of Glen Findhorn, a settlement of fair aspect called the Mills of Aird Righ. I called first on the schoolmaster, Mr. Desmond MacLagan, who kindly agreed to conduct me to the Cairn. MacLagan had been raised in the region and indeed had heard stories of the Cairn from his grandmother, Mrs. Maire Grant, who would oft times relate how she and other youths of the village on bright moonlit nights were wont to go to the Cairn. They seldom had long to wait before they would hear the most exquisite music and behold a grand tower standing in the hollow there. The diminutive folk of Fairyland would issue from the tower and perform their frolic and dance. Next morning the tower would not be found, but the grandmother and her friends would gather Fairy Gold from around the Cairn. This continued until one of the youths, when questioned about the gold, told his father, who then forbade any further excursions of this nature, saying that from time to time people were known to have disappeared in that vicinity.
“Upon reaching the glen, my guide and I dismounted and made our way into the hollow to the Cairn on foot. I found the ancient structure wholly unremarkable in size or proportion, and somewhat dilapidated in appearance. The only distinctive feature is an oven-shaped projection oriented west. Albeit, the farmers and uneducated folk of the glen consider the Cairn a Fairy Mound and accord it wide respect in their deliberations upon matters supernatural.”
Nettles glanced up from his reading. “This document establishes Carnwood Cairn as a site of Otherworldly activity,” he announced. “Although the author did not find the entrance—slightly puzzling, that—still I have
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