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erected on the spot, to remove the curse on the land. The monoliths were pulled down by mule teams and hammered to bits. No adult could crawl into the crooked opening down into the dark well of bones, so they sent a drummer boy whose name is not recorded, and, later, according to the Mission chronicles, young novices. (Those boys had been the stars of the horror stories my brothers and I concocted to give each other nightmares.)
    In later years, an order of monks built a Monastery on the Mission grounds, and steadfastly prevented any antiquarians or archeologists who otherwise might have learned of the find and been curious from digging up the site. That Monastery was abandoned not long after the Oregon territory gained Statehood, and became an antique itself. But the Church still owned the acreage over most of the mountain. It was land too steep for logging, so there was no incentive for the State to claim it by eminent domain and run us off. It was officially part of the Archdiocese of Portland and my dad was allegedly the Deacon assigned to maintain the grounds, and people were kept away.
    I said, “I am assuming the Monastery was abandoned for the same reason it was built here. Whatever scared the prehistoric people into putting up their monoliths scared the abbot, right?”
    He smiled, pleased. “Correct. The Congregation ordered the Monastics away once the real nature of the danger was known. A man who was allegedly a Deacon of the Order of The Most Holy Savior was placed here as a watchman.”
    The Order was also known as the Brigitines. Founded in 1370, they were wiped out in Europe during the Reformation. The only ones left in the whole world were here in Oregon, in Amity, where they baked fudge between prayers. It was tasty. As a member, Dad got a free supply on feast days and name days.
    Only he was telling me he was not a member. I said slowly, “The Brigitine monks are a front group for the Templars?” The fudge-cooks? The idea was laughable, but I was not laughing.
    Dad nodded.
    I said, “Then you are telling me Deacon Derfel…?”
    “He was actually an Ostiary of the Templars, a Knight: Sir Duellus. And Deacon Eustace after him was also Sir Eustachius.”
    Deacon Derfel Gadarn was the man who lived here before us, and built our house, or, rather, built the main part, what is now the den and kitchen. Deacon Eustace was the man who kept the house before us, and installed modern wiring and plumbing. We had to tear out and re-do the entire septic tank because he installed it wrong, and it had been leaking into the foundations. So I had always had a personal grudge against Deacon Eustace my whole life, even though I had never met him.
    My eyes were drawn to where, through the small windows in the back wall of the garage, the leafy silhouette of the treetops and the rugged silhouette of the cliffs could almost be seen against the stars and clouds.
    Dad said, “The way between worlds opens in places where the walls are thin when the stars are right. The ancient peoples erected their stones to mark the spot and measure the times. We have also made measurements, using modern tools, and believe that the twilight door on this mountain here should remain quiescent for another two centuries. But there are forbidden methods that can force a door open where and when there shouldn’t be one.”
    “Methods like Professor Dreadful’s machine?”
    He shook his head. I saw embarrassment and shame on his face, which is a terrible thing for any son to see. “I underestimated him, or perhaps he fooled me. His machine could not possibly work.”
    “I think he is from another world. I saw a note.”
    Dad looked stricken. “That’s — impossible. Or, no, that’s something I cannot see how it could be possible. Unless —” He squinted. “He is not from the Vatican, and not from the Tower. Why would the gypsies do something like this? Have they betrayed us? I should tell the Congregation immediately.”
    These were