Epilogue

 

Epilogue

Several hours had already passed as Professor Simoon Gale waited, shivering and filled with growing anxiety, beside his jeep. He had parked on a dead-end lane in the rural townland of Glenballythomas, within County Roscommon. A freezing drizzle had begun to fall, its icy drops stinging his face, which was only partially shielded by the oversized hood of his heavy, waterproof jacket. He paced back and forth in short bursts, while a thousand thoughts—each darker than the last—raced through his mind.

"Is it possible they didn't make it? Could they have missed this very last portal too?"

He glanced once more toward the back seat. The warm clothes, heavy jackets, and jumpers he had packed with such meticulous care for Remi and Anemo were still there, completely untouched.

"But what about the animals? Where on earth did they disappear to?"

Steeling himself, he switched on his torch and stepped past the stile gate, entering the field of frozen grass.

"Children? Anyone?" he called out, but the echo of the longest night of the year simply swallowed his voice.

There was no sign of life.

He trudged forward for nearly ten minutes, watching every single shadow and movement as warily as a giant feline on the hunt.

When he finally reached the cave’s hidden, overgrown entrance, he leaned down into the freezing chill and instantly realized that the cave was flooded. Any attempt to venture deeper into the passage was entirely impossible.

With a heavy heart, he took a few tentative steps inside anyway, sweeping the torch's beam of light across the jagged walls of the entrance. The stone surface was deeply scarred by the passage of time; ancient carvings in the Celtic Ogham script looked as though they had been waiting there since the dawn of creation. Suddenly, the torchlight halted on a patch of rock blackened by age and partially covered in damp moss. Professor Simoon bent closer, his heart hammering against his temples.

"They didn't drown! This message is meant for me."

It bore the exact same ancient style as the other carvings in the Ogham script—the secret alphabet of the trees—and yet Simoon Gale knew with absolute certainty that the message was intended for his eyes alone. The lines had been worn smooth by centuries of dampness, leaving behind only a few short words, but they instantly rekindled the fire of hope in his eyes:

"We have traveled into the past, Father! We'll keep trying!"