The Radiant Road by Katherine Catmull Page B

floppy dark hair andsad, skeptical brown eyes. They exchanged a few words now and then, and shared ironic glances at overheard conversations.
    She saw him once or twice a month for a year; had said maybe a hundred words to him; did not know his name. He was the closest thing she had to a boy friend.
    Now she sat pressed arm to arm with a dark boy, a Strange boy, an intelligent boy with sadness around the edges. And to sit pressed arm to arm with this boy seemed like coming home, and how, how could that be?
    â€œYou and me were friends,” she tried softly. “When we were babies, when we were small.” The words were wrong and not enough for all she felt.
    â€œWe were,” said Finn. “We slept and played together, here in the in-between. The two worlds, human and Timeless, like two eggs inside one nest, this nest, our nest.”
    She held up her hand, and watched the fireflies bob and dance around it. “Do other people come here? To this place, I mean, to the in-between. Do other . . . people of Timeless, or whatever?”
    â€œAh,” said Finn. He held his own hand up, and the fireflies wove a glowing thread between them. “No. This place is our place, only ours. Well: and the lights. Whatever makes light may pass through our yew. But people, mine or yours, no. No one can visit the in-between, but Clare and Finn.”
    This was the most beautiful answer in the world. Clare’s heart rang like church bells.
    â€œIt is a great joy to me you’ve returned,” said Finn, and the bells rang higher still. “Because this tree has much missed its guardian.”
    The bells clanked a bit. “Its guardian ?”
    Finn paused, pulled back. “Do you not know about yourself and this tree?” said Finn. He seemed incredulous. “Your mother must have taught you something ?”
    Clare stiffened. “My mother’s dead, and if she taught me stuff when I was five , I’ve forgotten it.” (Not all, though, not all: We leave it open so the fairies can come through .) “I heard this tree was one of the landmarks of the fairy road, if that’s what you mean.”
    Finn smiled, and fireflies bobbed around his face, blinking him dark and light. “Oh—the fairy road is it, after all?” he asked. Clare made a face—all right —and he continued. “You may call them landmarks, but we call them gates, which is what they are, gates between our worlds. Long ago, the two worlds were one. At least, that is what we say, or how we say it.
    â€œBut when the spine of the world was split in two, spots of connection were left. These are called gates. And this tree is the living heart of all the gates between the worlds. It roots into the earth with a thousand fingers, and it sends those roots in all directions. This tree’s roots run even beneath the sea, where every road begins or ends.”
    Who said something like that before? thought Clare—but Finn was still talking. “When a series of gates falls in a straight line, that makes a fairy road whereby the fairies may travel as a host, leaping from gate to gate, as at certain times of year, fairies must.”
    Clare’s face looked as if she were tasting something bad. Finn cried, exasperated, “Oh, girl, if you don’t like ‘fairy roads,’ then you might call them ‘the dreaming roads’ or ‘the gates of making.’ The name is not important. But each gate, each gate the world over, has a guardian, who must keep it open and flowing. The job is passed down through the generations. Your family has guarded this gate, the most important gate of all, this yew tree, for long, oh, long.”
    Every generation, one girl is born into this house.
    â€œMy mother guarded it?”
    â€œShe did. And your grandmother, and great-gran, they all did, back and back.”
    â€œSo, but,” said Clare, something opening in her chest, “so how do I