The Pictish Child

  There was a smell in the rooms that Jennifer could not put a name to, a kind of musty, flowery, lemon-and-pine-sachet smell. But beneath that odor was something darker and heavier, something uncomfortable and edgy, something that made Jennifer’s throat ache as if she had strep. She wondered if that darker, heavier smell was old age. Except Gran didn’t smell like that. Or Da.

  And then they were in what could only be the Garden Parlor. It was an all-over-glass room full of green and flowering plants sitting in heavy ceramic jardinieres. Rain pattered away on the glass roof and against the windows. The chairs here were wrought iron, painted white, with cushions covered in tartan plaids. Little lace doilies, looking terribly out of place, lay over the back cushions.

  Three old women—each clearly much older than Gran, though none of them had hair quite as white as hers—were playing cards around a glass-topped table. One had set out the pattern and the other two were busy commenting on it. A fourth chair at the table stood empty. Teacups were at each place and a tea service—pot and creamer and sugar bowl—waited on a small table nearby. The three were so engaged in their game that they didn’t notice that visitors had come in.

  “It’s Patience!” Peter said, the first words he’d spoken since entering the Eventide Home. “Look, Jennifer, they’re playing Patience.”

  His voice was surprisingly loud in the glass room, and the three old women looked up slowly.

  “An American! And a boy!” said one, a lady with pink-tinted glasses pinching her sharp nose and a face like a dried-up apple.

  “Canna be American if he kens the game,” said the second. “There’s nain in America still kens it.” She was round and soft, and looked as if she were as upholstered as the parlor chairs.

  But the third, imperious as a queen, with hair dyed an improbable shade of orange, threw down the cards. “Here at long last, Gwennie,” she said loudly. “And what has taken ye so long? The place is dull and boring wi’oot ye!”

  “The girls,” Fiona said unnecessarily, and fled the room.

  Sniffing loudly, the dog walked stiff-legged over to one of the windows, where he gazed out longingly. Peter joined him there and they stood silently, hip to shoulder, staring out at the sodden garden as if it were their only hope of escaping the awful regiment of women.

  “Dinna be afraid, dearie,” the soft woman called to Molly, who, suddenly overcome with shyness, had hidden behind Gran. “Come and let me see ye.”

  Molly refused to budge.

  But Jennifer threw caution to the winds. “Are you all part of Gran’s coven?” She knew that witches gathered in covens.

  “Do ye mean, are we Weird Sisters? Hags? Crones?” asked the pinched-faced one.

  “Carlines?” added the soft one. “Cummers?”

  “All of the above!” declared the orange-haired old lady happily. “But in this day and time, so as not to disturb the populace, we call ourselves a sewing circle. After all”—and she winked heavily at Jennifer, a long, slow lowering of the left eyelid—“they burned witches here in Fair-burn up through the middle of the nineteenth century.”

  The dog whispered to Peter, “Sewing circle, my left hind leg!”

  “Maybe they should call it a spelling bee!” Peter whispered back.

  “Spelling bee!” The dog shouted with laughter.

  “It talks!” the orange-haired weird sister cried. “Gwennie, how did ye? Where did ye?”

  “When did ye?” asked the other two.

  “Not I,” Gran said. “Not at all. It were these three found him. My granddaughter’s bairns. And Americans, as ye have observed. There is some magic across the water, though neither they nor we ken what it is yet.”

  Jennifer explained carefully that Gran and Da weren’t exactly her mother’s grandparents. They were older cousins who had taken care of Mom’s mother during the war, when all the rest of the family had perished in one way or another—parents in the buzz bombs in London, real grandparents in a train trying to escape afterward.

  “Kin is kin and clan is clan,” pronounced Gran. “And these three”—she pointed to the card players—“are my friends, but the four of us are as close as sisters.”

  The three old women each raised a teacup at that.

  “To friendship,” said the orange-haired one. And they all drank.

  After that, of course, there were introductions all around, as the old ladies peppered the children with questions about where they were staying and for how long they planned to visit and the like.

  The soft, round lady was Mrs. Campbell; the pinched-faced one was Mrs. McGregor.

  “Like the man on the plaque!” Molly cried, coming from behind Gran at last and clapping her hands. “Mr. McGregor’s Eventide Home.”

  “What a lovely child!” said Mrs. McGregor. “And so bricht.”

  “Oh!” Molly said.

  “What is it, child?”

  “And there’s Farmer McGregor in Peter Rabbit! Peter ate all his lettuces.”

  The old ladies beamed at her.

  Peter muttered down to the dog. “And Rob Roy was a McGregor, too. I saw the movie. So what?”

  Everyone ignored him, including the dog.

  “Well—I am Maggie MacAlpin,” said the orange-haired lady. She looked very serious. “It is very special that I tell ye my true name, ye ken that? Not just my married name, which is Maggie MacAlpin Morrison. But Morrison being long dead, I’ve gone back to my own name.”

  Jennifer remembered Gran mentioning the power of names. And she remembered, too, that in one of the fantasy books she loved—it might have been A Wizard of Earthsea—the author spoke of the importance of naming. She kept her mouth shut, to keep from asking the impolite question.

  But Molly—with the innocence of a preschooler—had no such qualms. “Is Maggie your whole name? Or is it just some of it? My whole name is Molly Isabelle—”

  “Molly!” Jennifer said, almost as a warning.

  Maggie MacAlpin threw her flame-colored head back and roared with laughter. Then she leaned over and gathered Molly up, letting her sit on the glass-topped table.

  “Here ye go, Molly Isabelle,” she said. “Tell us more about yerself.”

  It all seemed terrifically friendly, but Jennifer noticed that Maggie MacAlpin had never actually answered Molly’s question. And by putting Molly on the table, she had also destroyed the pattern of the Patience game.

  Four

  Talisman

  Jennifer started toward her sister protectively, but Gran stopped her, putting a hand out.

  “Nothing to fear, Jennifer. They like bairns—children, that is.”

  “Probably like to eat them for dinner,” Peter muttered. He and the dog walked out of the Garden Parlor together, heading toward the inner rooms and—Jennifer presumed—the door outside.

  She longed to follow them and take Molly with her.

  But Molly seemed to be enjoying herself. She was actually flirting with the old ladies, or at least trying to charm them, which in Jennifer’s opinion was one and the same.

  “Gran …” Jennifer began, the whine back in her voice. She had a sudden sharp, icy pang of fear, like a cold hand on her back, which she couldn’t explain. For a moment the room seemed to darken, as if the lights had dimmed. Jennifer blinked and everything was right again.

  But Gran had joined her friends at the table, sitting in the empty chair and chatting away in a sprightly combination of English and Scots that left Jennifer feeling grumpy and left out.

  Redheaded Maggie MacAlpin must have sensed Jennifer’s unhappiness, for she suddenly turned. Looking right at Jennifer, she said:

  Hokey pokey, a penny the lump,

  The more ye eat, the more ye jump.

  Jump Jennifer certainly did, afraid that Maggie MacAlpin had just set some sort of spell on her. She put her hands up as if to ward off something invisible.

  “Well?” asked Maggie MacAlpin. She was grinning in a way that Jennifer felt was directed at her.

  Jennifer
wriggled her fingers but at last had to admit she did not feel enchanted, did not feel trapped in any kind of sorcery at all—not like the other day, when the wizard Michael Scot had spoken a spell and the air had simply hummed with magic.

  “Well?” Maggie MacAlpin asked again. “Do ye in fact want some?”

  Gran laughed. “She’s no idea what ye mean, Maggie. They have nae such a verse in America, I’m guessing.”

  “Nae such a verse? And what is the world coming to if a child dinna ken those words? I mean ice cream, child,” Maggie MacAlpin explained. “That’s how my own granny used to ask me if I wanted any. Would ye like some? Ice cream cold enough to make ye jump.”

  “On a cold, rainy day like this?” Jennifer’s voice was full of scorn. “Dreech!”

  “Och, they’ve nae manners, these Americans,” said Mrs. McGregor.

  “Yes, please,” said Molly.

  With that, the three old ladies turned their attention back to Molly, which Jennifer found to be a kind of relief. But then they went on and on about how lovely Molly was, and what good manners she had, and what pretty dark curls she had. It got pretty sickening.

  At that very moment, in came Fiona carrying a bowl and spoon, some hand-knit tasseled shawls over her arm. “I thought the wee one might like some ice cream. It’s vanilla and chocolate mint swirl. A favorite, I am told, among American children.”

  “The very best,” said Maggie MacAlpin, taking the bowl from her and giving it to Molly.

  Fiona looked out the window at the rain and, shaking her head, placed a shawl over the shoulders of each of the old women. “Now, ladies,” she said softly, “can’t have you getting a chill.”

  There was a small protest from each of them, but the shawls were draped nonetheless, and Fiona turned to Gran. “Best you have one, too, Mrs. Douglas, or ye’ll be living here sooner than ye think.”

  “I’m not cold in the least, thank you very much,” Gran snapped. “And if it be dreech, it’s but a wee bit o’ dreech. I hae lived in it my whole life long.”

  Looking put out, Fiona set the extra shawl down. She poured fresh tea into the teacups, and then she was gone, back into the main part of the house.

  Back, Jennifer thought, to stand near the fire. I wish I were with her. She shivered. With cold this time, not fear. I could use that shawl! But she didn’t ask, fearing Gran’s ridicule. Or her friends’.

  “How is it, dearie?” Mrs. Campbell was saying to Molly, whose face was already a smear of ice cream.

  Jennifer was not amused. She knew with sudden and irritating certainty that the three old ladies—and probably Gran, too, for that matter—had arranged that little display of Minor magic for her sake. How else to explain Fiona coming in with just the one bowl, and right on cue? The fact that Molly got to eat something delicious and that Jennifer didn’t was entirely beside the point.

  I hope it is cold enough to make her stomach jump, thought Jennifer grimly.

  “I have something,” said Mrs. McGregor, in a small, muzzy voice. “For the curly-head. A talisman. I found it … weeding … the graves …” Her voice trailed off, as if speaking had suddenly become an effort.

  “What’s a tallyman?” asked Molly.

  Oh no, Jennifer thought, starting to turn away. It’s too much. I should have gone to stand by the fire with Fiona. Or out with Peter and the dog. But she didn’t turn quickly enough. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. McGregor hand Molly what looked like a painted stone about the size of a fifty-cent piece.

  “Ooooo,” Molly said, clutching the stone.

  “Taken!” said Maggie MacAlpin mysteriously. “Taken!” But she also sounded weak, as if she were about to faint. Then suddenly she sat up straight, adding, “Waken. Mistaken. Shaken.”

  Gran looked at her with sharp curiosity. “Maggie, what are ye havering about?”

  Maggie MacAlpin didn’t respond directly. Instead she made one more effort at rousing herself, and glared at Molly. “Give it me!”

  But Molly pouted, clutching the stone talisman to her chest. “Mine,” she said, just as Maggie MacAlpin fell asleep in the middle of reaching for the stone.

  Both Mrs. McGregor and Mrs. Campbell began to doze, too, their chins resting on their chests.

  Jennifer knew that nursing homes often over-medicated their patients. She’d seen a TV special on the problem and written a paper for her American Civics class called “Where the Old Folks Go.” (Got an A-plus, too, while Peter’s paper on drugs and the Olympics had only gotten an A-minus, which was surprising.) So Jennifer guessed that all three of the Eventide ladies were probably on pills, like Valium or some other kind of tranquilizer.

  She shivered, recognizing the fear sensation again. A kind of feeling of darkness, she thought, though this time the lights stayed on. The heavy smell of old age only seemed stronger now that all three of the women were asleep, Maggie MacAlpin snoring with her mouth wide open.

  Jennifer knew with sudden certainty that she had to get some fresh air.

  She found Peter and the dog standing on the front steps, staring out at the bucketing-down rain. They both looked miserable.

  “Umbrella full of holes?” she asked. “Or afraid of melting?”

  Peter gestured at the dog. “He refuses to move.”

  “I’m waiting for a drier day,” the dog said.

  “You’ll be here till next summer, then,” said Peter ferociously, handing the leash to Jennifer. “You take charge of him. The two of you are quite a pair! I’m going off on my own.” And away he went, umbrella raised high.

  “Peter!” Jennifer called after him, but he didn’t even turn to look back. Once he was through the gate, the high stone walls hid him from view, though she did catch a glimpse of the umbrella as it moved along the road.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said Jennifer, turning to the dog. “He’s as upset as I’ve ever seen him.”

  “Done? Done? I’ve done nothing but what I should. You’re the one who challenged him. I’m only guarding the wee lass.”

  “Out here?”

  “Better than in there,” said the dog. “That place reeks of darkness.”

  “I sensed something, too,” Jennifer said, trying to salvage something with the dog. “And for a moment I thought the lights had gone out … Gran says you don’t have the kind of electricity we have in the States. So maybe the Eventide Home needs a better generator or something.”

  “Humans have nae noses,” said the dog. “It’s a shame, but there it is. The worst of the reek, though, surrounds those three auld carlines.”

  “Is it old age?” Jennifer asked.

  “Only a bairn would ask that,” muttered the dog.

  “But those are Gran’s friends,” Jennifer said, trying not to remember how uncomfortable their drugged sleep had made her just moments before. “And they must be good witches—white witches—because Gran is.”

  “Who kens yer weaknesses better than a friend?” the dog asked her, adding, “Or a twin. And as for good or bad, dark or light, the nose never lies.”

  Just then the door opened behind them, and Gran and Molly came out holding the umbrellas.

  “Look, Jen!” Molly said, traces of ice cream still on her lips. “Look, what Mrs. McGregor gave me before she fell asleep.”

  This time Jennifer looked closely. The little rock wasn’t painted at all, but rather engraved with a strange picture of a bird on top of a snake. The thing almost seemed to glow.

  “It’s a tallyman. Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Talisman” Jennifer corrected her. Pretty was not what she would have called the stone. Spooky, perhaps. Scary, maybe. Dangerous, definitely.

  Five

  Lost Stone

  “Where’s Peter?” asked Gran.

  “He’s gone on home,” said Jennifer, careful not to mention their fight.

  “Nae that way,” the dog said. “The gormless lad went left who should have gone right.”

  “Is Peter lost?” asked Molly, looking te
rribly worried.

  “Not so much lost as bothered,” Gran assured her. “It is very difficult to get lost for long in a town as small as Fairburn. He’ll get home soon enough. And so should we.” She looked up and smiled. “The rain is over for now.” Then, taking Molly by the hand, she headed determinedly toward the gate, the dog trotting by her side.

  Umbrella tightly furled, Jennifer hurried after them.

  They turned right on Burial Brae, onto the cobblestones, and Molly pulled her hand from Gran’s. She skipped ahead on the sidewalk, throwing her stone talisman straight up into the air and catching it two times out of the first three throws.

  “Be careful, child,” Gran called out as a car passed by on the cobbled road. Molly was scrabbling at the curb for her little stone after the one missed throw.

  But whether Molly heard Gran and ignored her or simply misunderstood was not clear, for she threw the talisman up again and this time it went too high, hitting a tree branch and ricocheting over the stone wall into the cemetery.

  For a stunned moment no one said anything. Then Molly wailed. “My tallyman!”

  “Talisman,” Jennifer muttered through clenched teeth.

  Gran said, “Guide us!” fervently.

  And the dog sat on his hind end and howled.

  “Gran, Gran,” Molly cried, running back to them. “Do something. Mrs. McGregor gave it to me. I can’t lose it. I can’t.” She was close to hysterics.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Jennifer said, “it’s just a stupid stone.”

  “It’s a talisman,” wailed Molly, this time saying it correctly.

  “I’m afraid she is right,” said Gran. “It would be a terrible thing to lose that stone. I feel that in my bones. Will ye go in and look for it, Jennifer, dear? The gate’s by the side there.”

  “In the cemetery?” Jennifer didn’t know why that should so appall her. There was a cemetery called Willowbrook near their home in Connecticut, and she and her friends played in it all the time. But this cemetery was centuries older than the one back home, and something just felt strange about it. She had that same feeling of foreboding she’d had inside the Eventide Home. Only stronger. She wished Peter hadn’t left. She needed him. He was always braver about things than she was.