“Cool,” I say with a surge of excitement.
Etched onto the surface of the disk, around the perimeter, is this: Wkccsfo cyvkb pvkbo 1864 = Kdwyczrobsm ovomdbsm cebqo. Dboo bodksxon zygob 87 ryebc. Ceppsmsoxd cebqo boymmebboxmo sxmkvmevklvo.
And welded onto the top is an ornate arrow, its tip extending out beyond the edge. That’s the sharp triangle I felt yesterday when I was feeling my way around in the dark.
The sock I’m holding over my mouth and nose goes into my backpack. It wasn’t helping much anyway. After a little digging, I find my notebook and pen, then tuck the flashlight under my armpit so I can have both hands free.
I meticulously copy each word—word?—into my notebook, triple-checking my spelling. I take a digital photo of the etching, the camera flash momentarily blinding me.
The arrow must correspond to something, but where is it pointing? I stand directly behind it, lining myself up with the trajectory of the arrow, then I aim the flashlight along that line. There’s nothing on the interior tree wall, other than markings that remind me of DNA maps. Long vertical lines with smaller dotted lines on top. But I decide they’re just water stains or fungus or something.
The tree’s thrumming noise engines on, and I point the flashlight straight up. The beam isn’t strong enough to show much. Looks like the perfect place for bats. The floor, for the most part, resembles a rotted-out tree stump. A couple puddles here and there. Yeah, try not to step in one of those again.
But something shimmers on the floor beneath the disk, like light reflecting off shallow water. Like light reflecting off … metal. Excited, I squat down and wipe away the dirt. Yes, it’s a ring of metal. I work my way around it, clearing it off, and find that it has ten symbols etched at equal intervals.
They’re simple line drawings, nothing I recognize. After I take photos and copy the symbols into my notebook, I stand and press my left hip against the disk, the tip of the arrow slightly pressing into my side. My body draws a straight line down to the ground. I lift my right foot, and sure enough, there’s a symbol underneath. This must be some sort of navigational device. This is where I am now—at the position marked with what strikes me as an F topped by an other upside-down F.
That’s enough. One more sweep of the flashlight to make sure I’m not missing anything, but at this point, I’m ready to go regardless. Claustrophobia is setting in. I’ve been in this coffin too long.
Think, Ruby, calm.
I’ve turned the wheel twice, clockwise both times. So that means if I go back one notch, I’ll be in Ó Direáin. If I go back two notches to the symbol marked
I’ll be home—back in what I’m calling Universe One. Back in Ennis, Ohio. Easy enough.
Even if the gardening gloves didn’t save me from the static shock of the doorknob, they should make it easier to turn the cold, slippery disk. Holding the flashlight with one gloved hand, I twist the wheel with the other, counterclockwise, aiming for two notches back.
“Move!” I put my soul into it, but I can’t get it to turn. “Come on, come on, come on,” I chant, but the wheel stubbornly stays put. Reluctantly, I click off the flashlight and slip it into my backpack so I have both hands free. The darkness is immediately sickening, strangling my senses. I’m shaking, my nervous system amped into overload.
The wheel still won’t budge. I keep at it until the tendons in my hands and wrist stiffen.
It’s not what I want, but I have no choice. I turn the wheel the other direction—clockwise—and it goes, clanking like an untuned bell, into the next position.
“Fabulous,” I announce to the tree. “Thanks for cooperating.” Now I’m even farther from home.
The tree hums and the door opens, bringing fresh air and a familiar landscape. There’s the stone high school with the slate roof and central spire. I’m in Ó Direáin, though I should assume it’s a different version, somehow, some way. The school campus is quiet; it’s Saturday. I circle the oak tree, just to make sure it looks the same in this universe, so I can make a note of it in my data journal. There’s nothing different about the tree itself, but behind it, the land slides downward gently. Below, maybe a half mile off, there’s a town. A full-blown town with sidewalks and shops. This very well may have been here in yesterday’s Ó Direáin, and I just didn’t notice. I never walked around the tree or looked in this direction.
What to do? I could—I should—hop back into the tree and keep turning the steering disk clockwise, until I go full circle and get back home. That would be the most rational course of action. Step into tree, turn disk, step out. Repeat until safely home. Done. End of story.
Or I can venture into downtown Ó Direáin. Because I’m curious. And because that eight-by-ten family photo keeps flicking through my mind. No matter how hard I try, I can’t push it away. I can’t hit the delete button. I know my brain’s hippocampus has grabbed the image, and is forcing me to keep it as a long-term memory. And I know that photo represents a bottomless heartache, a deep and penetrating itch. Maybe I can satisfy it, if I just catch a glimpse of Mom. What’s the big deal if I watch her, for ten minutes, from a distance? Just to see her. Just to touch—no, no—just to talk.
Ten minutes, Ruby. Not a second more. And just watching.
“There’s no guarantee she’s in this universe anyway,” I announce to myself, trying to clear the bickering voices from my head.
Absolutely. She might’ve only existed in that other version of Ó Direáin.
The hill is easy, and a well-worn footpath leads the way, directly to a sidewalk. A newspaper vending machine advertises the Ó Direáin Chronicle. Black lampposts hold the street signs at ninety-degree angles. I’m on the corner of Arainn Street and Breandan Avenue. Pinch me because I swear I’m in a friggin’ Disney park. Coffee shops, toy store, bookstore, banks. The smell of cookies wafts out of a place called Sweet Treats. Shoe store, architect office, Chinese restaurant. There’s a guy with a T-shirt that says CITY OF Ó DIREÁIN JANITORIAL SERVICES. He’s picking up garbage.
It’s perfect. The only thing that’s missing is the theme music.
After about five minutes of walking, I catch myself smiling. It’s cloudy, but there’s a sunshine vibe in the air. Kids with ice cream cones hold their parents’ hands. People read books under the canopies of stupendous trees. Couples snuggle on benches, dogs chase Frisbees.
A fountain burbles, and a bronze statue dominates the center of the park. It’s a man holding a lightbulb, and at the base of the statue is a plaque.
CITY FOREFATHER PADRAIG Ó DIREÁIN WAS BORN
IN 1841 IN ENNIS, IRELAND. A PROLIFIC INVENTOR,
HOLDING 732 PATENTS, HIS MOST FAMOUS
INVENTION WAS THE LIGHTBULB. HIS OBSESSION
WITH ELECTRICITY LED TO HIS DEATH DURING AN
EXPERIMENT WITH LIGHTNING IN 1922.
This could be an important bit of data, so I copy it into my notebook and snap a digital photo. As I work, my mind whirls. There was a scientist named Ó Direáin. So this city is obviously named after him. He was born in a place called Ennis, in Ireland, which means that Ennis, Ohio, is probably named after his birthplace. So he made his mark in more than one universe.
But hang on. Thomas Edison invented the lightbulb, am I right?
I start walking again, trying to wrap my brain around all of this, when I see the library. Seriously, catch me before I swoon and face-plant. It’s majestic! It’s a castle, I swear. Gargoyles, towers, stained-glass windows. If I could build my fantasy library, this would be it. Thick wooden doors, quarried stone floor. I’m brimming—no, I’m overflowing—with happiness.