TáIN Bó CUAILNGE
Centered below these words was the beautifully woven image of a bull in a pasture surrounded by dozens of sleeping warriors. A host of armed men were approaching from the right; a trio of black birds wheeled in the sky above. Overlooking the scene from a nearby hill was the silhouette of a tall man clutching a spear.
Max’s eyes swept over the picture, but they always returned to the dark figure on the hill. Slowly, the tapestry’s light grew brighter; its images trembled and danced behind shimmering waves of heat. With a rising cacophony of sound, the tapestry erupted with radiance so hot and bright Max feared it would consume him.
“Max! Max McDaniels!”
The room was dark once again. The tapestry hung against the wall, dull and ugly and still. Max backed away, confused and frightened, and crossed the velvet rope into the medieval gallery.
He saw his father’s hulking figure alongside two security guards at the far end of the gallery. Max called out. At the sound of Max’s voice, Mr. McDaniels raced toward his son.
“Oh, thank God! Thank God!” Mr. McDaniels wiped away tears as he stooped to smother Max in the folds of his coat. “Max, where on earth have you been? I’ve been looking for you for the last two hours!”
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Max said, baffled. “I’m okay. I was just in that other room, but I haven’t been gone more than twenty minutes.”
“What are you talking about? What other room?” Mr. McDaniels’s voice quavered as he peered over Max’s shoulder.
“The one that’s under repair,” replied Max, turning to point out the sign. He stopped, began to speak, and stopped again. There was no doorway, no sign, and no velvet rope.
Mr. McDaniels turned to the two guards, offering each a firm handshake. As the guards moved beyond earshot, Mr. McDaniels kneeled to Max’s height. His eyes were puffed and searching.
“Max, be honest with me. Where have you been for the last two hours?”
Max took a deep breath. “I was in a room off this gallery. Dad, I swear to you I didn’t think I was in there very long.”
“Where was this room?” asked Mr. McDaniels as he unfolded the museum map.
Max felt sick.
The room with the tapestry was simply not on the map.
“Max…I’m going to ask you this one time and one time only. Are you lying to me?”
Max stared hard at his shoes. Raising his eyes to his father’s, he heard his own voice, soft and trembling.
“No, Dad. I’m not lying to you.”
Before Max had finished the sentence, his father was pulling him briskly toward the exit. Several girls his age giggled and whispered as Max was dragged, feet shuffling and head bowed, out the museum entrance and down the steps.
The only sounds during the cab ride to the train station came from Mr. McDaniels thumbing rapidly through his pamphlets. Max noticed some were upside down or backward. The rain and wind were picking up again as the cab slowed to a halt near the train station.
“Make sure you’ve got your things,” sighed Mr. McDaniels, exiting the other side. He sounded tired and sad. Max drooped and thought better of sharing the fact that he had also lost his sketchbook.
Once on the train, the pair slid heavily into a padded booth. Mr. McDaniels handed his return ticket to the conductor, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The conductor turned to Max.
“Ticket, please.”
“Oh, I’ve got it right here,” Max muttered absentmindedly. He reached into his pocket, but procured a small envelope instead. The sight of his name scripted clearly on the envelope made him pause.
Confused, Max retrieved the ticket from his other pocket and gave it to the conductor. Glancing to confirm that his father was still resting, Max then looked over the envelope. In the warm yellow light it appeared buttery, its heavy paper folds converging to pleasing corners. He turned the envelope over and examined the silky navy script.
Mr. Max McDaniels
His father now breathing heavily, Max ran his finger along the envelope’s flap. Inside was a folded letter.
Dear Mr. McDaniels,
Our records indicate that you registered as a Potential this afternoon at 3:37 p.m. CST, U.S. Congratulations, Mr. McDaniels—you must be a very remarkable young man, and we look forward to making your acquaintance. One of our regional representatives will be contacting you shortly. Until that time, we would appreciate your absolute silence and utmost discretion in this matter.
Best regards,
Gabrielle Richter
Executive Director
Max read the note several times before stowing it back in his pocket. He felt utterly drained. He could not guess how the letter had come to be in his possession, much less what a “Potential” was and what it all had to do with him. He could guess it had something to do with the hidden tapestry and the mysterious presence now roaming free within him. Max stared out the window. Brilliant shafts of sunlight chased wispy trails of storm clouds across the western sky. Exhausted, he leaned against his father and drifted off to sleep, his fingers closed tight around the mysterious envelope.
2
THREE SOFT KNOCKS
The next morning, Max yawned as he watched his father toss a pair of black socks into an overnight bag. Zipping it closed, his father suddenly grunted and lumbered down the hallway. He returned a minute later with a handful of television cables and video-game controllers.
“Not that I don’t trust you…”
The tangled mess was stuffed into the bag and zipped up tight.
“What am I supposed to do all day?” Max moaned.
“Being grounded is a punishment,” his father growled. “You’re the one yawning—feel free to sleep the day away.”
Max had to admit that didn’t sound half bad. He had spent much of the night peering out of his window. The idea that the dead-eyed man might have Max’s name and address and could be coming at any moment had kept him occupied until dawn. By daylight, however, his fears seemed silly.
All the same, as a taxi honked outside, Max had a sudden urge to tell his father about the man at the museum. He swallowed his words. At this point, it would seem little better than a last gasp to avoid punishment.
“I’ll only be gone a day,” his father sighed. Mr. Lukens had granted Mr. McDaniels the opportunity to pitch a new client, and he was off for an overnight trip to Kansas City. “The number for the Raleighs is on the fridge. They’ll expect you for dinner by six, and you can sleep over there. Be good. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
With a peck on the head, Scott McDaniels was gone. Max locked the door, and curiosity led him back upstairs to examine his letter. Several readings later, it was still a mystery. He stood and looked out the window, listening to the wind as it shook the tall trees near the backyard fort he had built with his father. When his stomach began to growl, Max finally put the letter aside and went downstairs to make a sandwich.
He was descending the stairs when he saw a shadow moving beneath the front door. Max stopped as he heard three soft knocks. He remained still, poised between steps, when the knocks sounded again.
“Hello?” a lady called. “Anybody home?”
Max exhaled—it was not the man from the museum. Tiptoeing down to a side window, he glimpsed a plump, elderly woman holding a suitcase and glancing at her watch. Her cane was propped against the door. Catching sight of Max, she smiled brightly and waved.
“Hello. Are you Max McDaniels? I’m Mrs. Millen. I believe you received a letter that said I would be visiting you?”
Max smiled and waved back.
“Might I come in?” she asked sweetly, nodding toward the locked door.
He slid back the brass bolt and opened the door. Mrs. Millen stood on the doorstep, beaming and extending her hand.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Max. I was hoping I could have a few words with you about the letter you received.”
“Sure. Nice to meet you, too.”