Excerpt: The Search for ArdRi

Chapter 1
I must be mad. Why else would I be answering an invitation from a person I don't know to a place I don't know for a reason I don't know? I really must be mad, to something as stupid as that—and even more stupidly, I'm walking. This place is somewhere out in the country, and I'm walking. It's good exercise and all that, but most people are smart enough to exercise in clothes meant for exercising. This "conference concerning the search for ArdRi" may or may not be a formal event, so I'm in something better than jeans but not as good as my Sunday clothes. They're not exactly meant for walking, that's for sure.
As I walk and grumble at myself, I twist my ring around my finger. The band is a pale gold with three black stone ravens flying on it, carrying three tiny blood-red stones in their beaks. My great-grandmother left it to me when she died, and I gathered from what she wrote that it's been passed down from woman to woman in our family for at least a hundred years, maybe more. It's usually a comforting thing, to twist it around on my finger and watch the ravens flying backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards.
There's a car coming. I step off the road and stumble, landing myself up to the ankles in ditchwater. Growling at myself for not having squeezed some money out of my college student-size savings—that size because I am a college student—and taken a taxi, I wait for the car to pass, looking up at the sky to pass the time. Three birds are wheeling high up in the general direction I'm heading. They're black birds, maybe ravens.
Pooh-poohing the chill that just went up my spine, I pull myself back up to the road and squelch along. It just figures that these sandals are the type that won't dry for hours, doesn't it? I tug at the strap of my sack—I never go anywhere without a few notebooks for writing and drawing, among other things—and look around for any mailbox with an address on it; out in the country it's no use looking for house numbers. The mailbox up there is the first one I've seen in a while.
When I get up to it I heave a sigh of relief. Degaré. I pull the invitation out of my bag and check—yes, this is it, finally. I turn into the driveway, which is lined with trees, and sigh again, this time because the end is far enough away that it's impossible to see. The driveway turns a bit, but it's a while before it does. More to walk. At least the trees are pretty; they're just pulling out their autumn colors.
As I walk, I keep on grumbling at myself over how stupid this is. A. Degaré could be a man or a woman, ArdRi could, according to my searches, be High King in Ireland or a used car lot, and I'm either sweaty or sweaty, despite the cool breeze. I never was one for walking; I never saw the use when the alternative was to write.
Now I've turned the bend in the driveway and can see something ahead. It's mostly obscured by the cathedral ceiling of trees, but it looks like a house. As I come closer, I let out a whistle. It's not just a house, it's a mansion! The only thing like this I've ever seen before was the nineteenth-century home of a millionaire in Rhode Island. I never expected to see something this grand in Indiana, though. Farmhouses, trailer parks, the sort of house they put up by the dozens in neighborhoods that used the be cornfields, yes. A mansion, no.
The neighbor at my parent's house was retired and mowed his lawn for fun, but this lawn is neater than his ever was. One of the banks downtown has giant glass windows, and they were never as clean as this. The scrupulous order almost makes the place look unwelcoming; I tend to like places with dandelions and violets in the lawn—in season, of course—and the slightest air of unkemptness. It's like the people I've heard of who write 500,000 words of a novel in a month—has nobody anything better to do? I only go for the normal 50,000 words, and barely make it at that, if at all.
Enough thinking. Straightening my clothes and smoothing my hair, I march past the driveway's one car—I thought this was supposed to be a conference?—and up the steps to the door. Taking a deep breath, I tentatively grasp the lion's-head knocker and knock three times.
The door swings open to the sight of a tall, lanky man in clothes that look like they haven't been washed in a week. He looks—and smells—like he hasn't, either.
"Mr.... Degaré?" I ask.
"Nope," the man replies. "Degaré's by the map, talking with Arbaim's group. Better come in, though. By the way, I'm H. Hawkins, P.I."
"Deirdre MacKenzie," I reply. A private eye? I suppose this is a search, then.
Once inside, my eyes widen and I glance outside again. One car out there... fifty-odd people in here. Something's strange.
"Well, Deirdre MacKenzie, it's nice to meet you. Are you with one of the search groups?"
"I don't know. I just got this invitation in the mail, so I came." I hand it to him while looking around the room. Mostly men, a few women, just about everybody dressed in what looks rather medieval without being fancy. If it wasn't for the occasional cell phone, camera, or coke, I'd be sure that it was medieval.
"Oh, you're new here," H. Hawkins says, interrupting my thoughts. "Well, here's the basic story. Alexandre Degaré over there, the one with the white hair by the map, he's a crusty old fellow in the first place, and he gets even worse when his wife dies. Gets so his son can't stand him and runs off into this other world nobody but the two knew existed—the son's ArdRi, by the way. Well, his son's running off gets old Degaré thinking, you know, and he cools off, has what I'd call a religious experience—you know, gets serious about God—and wants ArdRi back. So he calls in a bunch of P.I.s and detectives and whoever else he can find and sends us all out looking for the boy. It's been a couple years now he's been gone, and there's not a trace of him anywhere at the moment. We nearly got him a year and half ago, but he got away. Right now we're organizing, trying to make sure he wasn't caught in the war...."
I've stopped paying attention; I can only take in so much at a time. I wander over to the map, worming my way through until I'm staring right at it. It's at least as tall as I am. To one side is an enlarged photograph of a boy. By the look of it, he wasn't one for pictures. It's not only a blurry photograph, it's a scowling photograph.
"Deirdre MacKenzie."
I turn to face Alexandre Degaré.
"Will you help me find my son?"
I meet his hollow, tired eyes thoughtfully. One part of me says this is crazy and I should just go home. I've already wasted half the day walking along country roads, I'm tired, I'm sweaty, and I have better things to do. The other part of me says something completely different.
Slowly, against my better judgment but with my inner tugging, I nod. I see the sparkle of tears in his eyes as he hands me a well-used sketchbook.
Somehow I feel that nothing more needs to be said. I nod my thanks and leave the circle, carrying the sketchbook delicately, the way I would a glass vase. Where can I sit down and look at this? I need some time to grasp what I've just agreed to do.
Through some giant double doors I can see shelves of books: my traditional refuge. I make for the library, pausing momentarily at the sheer size of it. I'd love to just browse for a couple hours, but I need to sit down after my long walk. I head for a lonely corner of the library, hidden behind shelves taller than I am, and slump down against one of them. For a moment I sit there, eyes closed, just breathing; then I open my eyes and look at the books around me. Celtic Myths: the Ulster Cycle. The Canterbury Tales. Breton Lais. Knights of Olde. Ancient Ballads. You can tell a lot about a person by the books he reads. One book seems out of place: The Complete T.S. Elliot. I pull it out gingerly and open it to the bookmark. A stanza is underlined.
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And I pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
"Ash Wednesday:" T.S. Elliot's first major poem after his conversion to Christianity. Hm.
Placing the book back on the shelf, I open the sketchbook to a portrait of a baby boy. Soft pastel, then. I look at the signature in the bottom corner: Sarai Degaré. Then this must be ArdRi, the missing son. It is a very nice picture. I flip through slowly, watching as the boy grows from a tiny child to a boy who looks rather like my 11-year-old brother. The next picture is only half-finished; Sarai must have been working on it when she died. I close the sketchbook, sad for this broken family, and my eyes catches sight of something on the end of a towering bookshelf. A picture? A mirror? I push myself up and walk over. My first thought is that it's a picture of a very green landscape with the foothills of a mountain in the background, but as I blink and come closer, I can see that it's a very detailed view of a library not unlike this one. A bit smaller and more old-fashioned, maybe. The view is down an aisle to the end of the room, which has a wide-open window.
Three ravens fly past the window.
I blink. One comes back and lands on the windowsill, twisting its head and looking right at me.
It's got to be some fancy TV screen. I know that. I may have written about doors and mirrors into other worlds, I may have read about them, but this has to be a fancy TV screen. I'll just touch it—I know it's not a good idea to touch TV screens, but it won't kill me and I won't be deluding myself into thinking it's anything but what it really is.
I reach out my hand, the one still holding the sketchbook, into the library on the other side. I reach in as far as my elbow—and drop the sketchbook into that other library. Before I really think about what I'm doing, I step forward and lean down to pick it up. Now I'm totally in the library.
This can't be real. I reach for one of the bookshelves and steady myself. Clutching the sketchbook to me, I turn. There's nothing behind me that I could possibly have come out of. I feel around the book-lined shelves, hoping for a secret panel to open, but nothing does. Shaking all over, I turn back.
The raven is still staring at me, and now another has joined it. I shake my head and slide Sarai Degaré's sketchbook into my bag, which is still slung over my shoulders.
The ravens are staring at me.
"Stop it!" I burst out. "Stop looking at me like that!"
A third joins them, and they look at me and I look at them. There's something red in the third raven's beak, I notice.
I turn away and walk down an aisle between the dusty books along the wall and the dusty shelves in the center of the room. There is a door at the end of the aisle—not a double door, and not large. I'm trying to come to terms with what has to be true: I'm in another world, or something like that. I open the door and go through into a narrow stone hallway, coming face-to-face with two uniformed soldiers.
"Who are you?" the one on my right demands.
I look up at him, still rather dazed. "I'm Deirdre."
"What are you doing out of your room?" the other queries harshly.
"I—what?"
They look at each other. "Take her to the Earl," they say simultaneously, grabbing my arms and forcing me down the hall.
"Hey, hands off!" I protest, but they're not listening. I try to twist away, but I'm still shivering and I can't quite think. "Leave me alone!"
We turn a corner and barrel through into a large stone hall with giant tapestries on either side. Two men are standing together on the dais, talking earnestly; they whirl to face us.
"What's the meaning of this?" the taller, younger one demands, his bushy eyebrows joining to make a very flattened V on his forehead.
"Earl Conor, we found her out of her room!" one exclaims, and they push me forward so hard that I stumble and fall. It's all I can do to keep from crying, and my shaking hasn't subsided.
The Earl strides forward to loom over me. "Who are you?"
I take a few deep breaths. "My name is Deirdre."
He grunts and glares at the guards. "You're just in from the war, aren't you. Well, this is a different Deirdre. The Deirdre that's supposed to stay in her room is mind-numbingly beautiful, not like this." He takes a second look at me. "Where are you from?"
"Indiana."
They stare at me blankly.
"America."
Still they stare at me blankly.
Earl Conor sighs, exasperated. "If you can't explain where you're from, can you explain why you're here?"
"I agreed to help search for ArdRi, and I went through the mirror thing, and I don't know how I got here or where I am," I stammer, tears welling up in my eyes. I'm not normally so quick to cry, but I still haven't quite recovered from the shock of finding myself here.
He snorts. "Very well, Deirdre from nowhere, make yourself useful, go with these two bumbling idiots, and bring the other Deirdre here."
"Please, who is the other Deirdre?"
"My betrothed. Go!"
I push myself up and stumble out the door with the two soldiers.
"He didn't have to call us bumbling idiots," one grumbles.
"Ah, he's just in a bad temper because the war didn't go well. Hurry up, you!"
I wipe my eyes and hurry.
Deirdre's door has two guards outside it; no need for a lock. One bangs on the door and calls for her, but there's no answer. He bangs again, then looks at me. "Get her."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. It's a lady's room, isn't it? You're female. Go in there and get her."
I pull the door open as if it might fall apart at my touch and slip in. It's a nice room, tastefully and richly decorated; the centerpiece is a four-poster bed, and on it is a lady. I walk closer and stare at her for a moment; she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her face, though, is gaunt and sad. She's not moving, either. I can't see the rise and fall of her breathing, and she looks so still. I touch her wrist—cold as ice, with no pulse—and place my hand by her nose and mouth. She's not breathing. I'm in a room with a dead woman.
I walk to the door and open it. "She's dead. Deirdre is dead."
They shut the door in my face, and I turn back to Deirdre. What is it people do when somebody is dead?
I reach over and grasp the sheets in both hands, but before I cover her face with them, I lean forward and touch my forehead to hers, mourning a life passed away. Somehow it seems the right thing to do, a way to honor this woman who is, as yet, the kindest person I have met in this world.
I turn and slump down by the bed and a medium-sized harp, my head resting on my knees. This is too much. I need some time to think, to catch up with the last—has it only been half an hour or so? That's what my watch says. I take it off and stuff it as far down in my bag as I can. It has been a year since I stepped in the ditchwater, a year or more.
The Earl enters brusquely, marches to Deirdre, and snaps the sheet off her face. "She'd rather be dead than the wife of an earl? Fool." He notices me, and his brow wrinkles. "What was that you said earlier about ArdRi?"
"He's missing, and I agreed to help look for him."
"ArdRi son of Alexandre Degaré?"
I nod. "You know him?"
"We... have quite a history together. I think I'd be interested in helping to find ArdRi—very interested. Do you have any idea where to look?"
I pause. "Could we talk somewhere else?" I tilt my head in Deirdre's direction. "It doesn't quite seem respectful."
"Of course." Earl Conor lends me his hand to help me up and leads me out of the room. He stops in the hallway to talk with the man with whom I first saw him consulting. "Cathbad, take care of burying her. After that, come see me in Great Hall."
The aged man bows his head silently, and we leave. In Great Hall, the Earl pulls three chairs near each other on the side of the dais and beckons me to one. He ignores the—well, even if he is just an earl, it would have to be a throne, wouldn't it? Judging by its looks, anyway, it is a throne.
"Now, Deirdre, tell me about this search."
I try to remember what H. Hawkins, P.I., told me. "ArdRi ran away a few years ago.... The people Mr. Degaré hired are searching just about everywhere, and they're worried that he might have been caught in the war. I don't really remember much else; I was only there for a couple minutes. Sorry."
Cathbad enters and takes his seat.
"Cathbad! Apparently Degaré's son has been missing for quite some time, now, and the old man's searching everywhere for him."
Cathbad looks up from his contemplation of his withered hands. "Last time you sent out to retrieve one who had disappeared, the Red Branch was nearly annihilated."
Earl Conor waves that off. "ArdRi's only one boy."
"As was Naois."
What a strange name. It sounds like Nish, but I think I read somewhere that it's spelled N-A-O-I-S.
"Naois had two brothers and all three were full-fledged knights. ArdRi's—oh, I forget his age; he's probably still in his teens. We're helping a father find his lost son, Cathbad. What can go wrong?"
Cathbad bows his head, which I take to mean he's given up the argument.
The Earl continues his planning. "How would you like to join a search party, Deirdre of nowhere?"
"I'd like to," I reply.