The Pictish Child (8 page)

Fourteen

Eventide Again

By the time they all got into the car, it had started to rain, and a steady drumroll sounded on the car's roof. Peter couldn't find the windshield wipers for the longest time, and when he finally did, they made a groaning sound and swiped a great fog across the window.

At first Jennifer thought the dark mist had returned, but gradually the windshield cleared up, and Peter got the car going again.
It isn't
, Jennifer thought,
the least bit like magic.

Since Peter couldn't figure out how to put the car into reverse, they had to go the long way around, right through the very center of Fairburn. The car moved in short, sharp jerks as Peter tried to avoid the other cars and a horde of pedestrians, all of whom suddenly seemed in league against them.

Everyone inside the car was now shouting advice to Peter all at the same time—even Ninia, though what she was saying no one could guess.

Peter was close to losing his temper or crying, whichever came first. Jennifer recognized the pinched look on his face all too well.

“Silence,” Gran demanded at last, in a voice that said she was not to be trifled with. “I will be the only one to speak to Peter from now on, do ye all understand? And then only to give him instructions as to where to turn. He is making a fine job of this driving, and Da will be proud of him. Drive on, my lad.”

With that they were all silenced, except for the dog, whose moans continued—though more quietly—throughout the rest of the juggering ride.

It seemed to take forever, but at last they pulled up in front of the Eventide Home, close enough to the curb that the tires scraped.

Then they piled out of the car, like clowns in a circus routine, and headed directly for the front door.

This time no one greeted them. Indeed there seemed to be no one at home as they walked right through the two rooms toward the Garden Parlor. The Eventide Home was startlingly empty of residents. Even the old lady who had been sitting staring out at the road was gone.

“I will give that Maggie MacAlpin a piece of my mind,” said Gran. “To think she has been my best friend forever, and never a word about her Pictish connections.”

“But it was Mrs. McGregor who gave Molly the stone,” Jennifer reminded her. “Not Mrs. MacAlpin.”

“Then I will give them both a piece. And have a piece left over for Catriona Campbell as well. Yer not to practice witchcraft against yer friends. And never against members of yer own coven. Whatever did those three think they were doing? Or has the Eventide Home sapped them of their wits as well as their strength?”

There was no one in the Garden Parlor, either.

Just when Jennifer was sure something awful must have happened to the entire population of the Eventide Home—something to do with the dark mist, probably—there was a loud sound, rather like a flock of birds gabbling together. Along the hall, from the opposite end of the Eventide Home, marched the residents in a ragged line.

“Och—lunchtime, of course,” Gran said. “And now they've all been let out of the dining commons and are coming toward us like a gaggle of silly geese.”

Since it was just what she'd been thinking herself, Jennifer started to laugh, as much in relief as anything else. Molly joined in, and so did Peter. Ninia laughed, too, though she had no idea what the others were finding so amusing.

But the dog made no such sound. Instead he backed up from the advancing line, tail between his legs, and found an improbable hiding place under the glass-topped table. There he began moaning, “Dark, dark, dark,” till Peter gave him a slight kick.

Jennifer glanced out the window to the Eventide gardens and the cemetery wall beyond, fully expecting to see the dreaded dark mist advancing toward them. But the gardens were clear, the rain had stopped again, and it was sunshine that was now pouring down instead.

Molly began jumping around. “It's Fiona with them. See?” She pointed down the hall. “Do you think she'll have more ice cream for me, Gran? Can I ask her? Can I?”

Indeed it was Fiona, shepherding her flock with expert ease and infinite patience. Jennifer came to the doorway and watched as Fiona situated four old ladies on the sofa in one room and left them to their gossip. Then Fiona wheeled the old gentleman over to the fire to doze, though the fire was no longer lit. Next she pushed the lady in the wheelchair to the window and motioned at something, a bird, perhaps, or someone walking by. As she passed one of the fringed lampshades, she gave it a tweak with her fingers, her foxlike face looking slyer than ever.

Finally Fiona guided Gran's three friends—Mrs. McGregor, Mrs. Campbell, and Maggie MacAlpin—to the table at the Garden Parlor's Center.

“There, my dears,” Fiona said. “Enjoy your card game.” She tweaked the fringe on the shade by the table as well.

Ignoring the children, she added to Gran, “Perhaps you would like to play cards with them, Mrs. Douglas. And here's a shawl. You will get much too cold if you sit in here without one.” Not waiting for permission this time, she placed the shawl over Gran's shoulders and smoothed it down.

“Perhaps …” Gran said slowly, as if trying to puzzle out something, “perhaps I would like to play.” She sat in the empty chair. “And that shawl feels nice and warm.”

“You miss your friends here in the Eventide Home, don't you,” said Fiona. But it was less a question than a statement. “You should come more often. They need a fourth for the cards.” She smiled and left the room.

“Play cards?” Jennifer said, appalled. “This is no time to play cards, Gran. I thought we came here to talk to Maggie MacAlpin. To give her a piece of your mind.”

“About the Picts,” Peter added.

Gran looked up a bit muzzily. “Of course we did, my dears. All in good time. Canna rush these things. All in good time. These are my friends. I miss them. I should come more often. They need a fourth for the cards.”

“What picks do you want to talk to me about, Gwen?” Maggie's hair was standing up around her head like a hatful of orange wires. “Are ye into horse racing now? Or is it a pick for the coming football matches?”

“About …” Gran began, then faltered.

“About you and Kenneth mac Alpin, the king,” Jennifer blurted out. “The one who …” She tried to remember the exact wording, then had it at last. “Who forged together a single nation of Scots and Picts.”

“Och, weel, that was a long time ago,” Maggie MacAlpin said. “Auld Kenneth, as we call him. We've nae claim to the crown noo.” She picked up the cards and began to deal.

Fiona came back with some ice cream for each of the children, and Peter and Molly dug into theirs with great gusto. Ninia tried to imitate them, but when she picked up the spoon she dropped it at once with a cry and shook out her hand.

“Too hot for you, too cold for me,” Jennifer said, putting her bowl down.

“Eat it,” said Fiona. Her voice, which had been soft and persuasive before, now seemed full of a terrible threat. “Eat your ice cream.”

Jennifer gritted her teeth until they hurt. “I … don't … like … ice … cream,” she said.

“It's nae ice and never cream,” cried the dog from beneath the table. “It's a wee bit o' the dark. Leave it be.”

It was clear that Fiona had not been expecting the dog to speak, and for a moment she was stunned. But only for a moment. Raising her right hand, she pointed at him and cried out a single awful word. The word was as loud as a gunshot and just as deafening. For a moment everything stopped, just like a movie's freeze-action frame, Jennifer thought.

The dog leaped up as if burned, upsetting the table and the deck of cards, overturning a lamp, and bumping into Jennifer, who fell heavily to the floor. Then he ran from the room yelping.

Ninia put her hands over her ears. The four old women looked strangely dazed. Ninia hadn't moved since the dog had scampered away. And Peter and Molly seemed frozen in place by the sound of Fiona's magic word, or by the ice cream, or both.

Do something
, Jennifer tried to tell herself.
Do something now.
But for the life of her, she didn't know what to do.

Fifteen

Power

Fiona began to smile. That smile reminded Jennifer of the wizard Michael Scot. There was no real joy behind it and it never reached her eyes. It was a serpent's smile, all lips and no teeth.

“Do not even think of getting up, little American,” Fiona said to Jennifer. “Ye canna stand against me. I have gathered all the power from these auld carlines to me. I have silenced the boy and the little lassies. And yer gran's power, as soon as I gather it up, will make me stronger still.”

“But why?” Jennifer asked, her voice barely a whisper. Gran had said that
why
was the question to ask of magic. Also, if she could keep Fiona talking, someone—anyone—might come to their rescue. At least it always worked like that in the movies.

“Why?” Fiona laughed. “Because these auld wives do not know when it is time enough to die. Why should they have all the power, and we young ones have to wait?
Stay quiet
, my teachers told me.
Study hard. And maybe
—when I'm fifty years or so—
ye will have the knowledge and the power.
Well, I dinna want to wait that long. Till I am fifty and dried up, with lines in my face and a kernel for a heart. I dinna want to wait—and now I dinna have to.”

“But what you're doing is wrong,” Jennifer said hoarsely.

“Wrong is only right from the other side,” said Fiona. “And how can it be right for the auld to hold on to power?”

“Maybe it has to do with … wisdom?” asked Jennifer cautiously.

Fiona laughed. “And how wise are these auld carlines, putting themselves in my hands? They already forget the words to spells. They give away objects of magic without thinking. With their crabbed auld hands, they cannna tie a solid elfknot. Those things have naught to do wi' wisdom, my lass.”

“But …” Everything Fiona was saying was wrong. Jennifer felt that in her bones. So she tried to think of another argument. She could feel something else wrong, too, though she didn't tell Fiona. In fact, she was lying on the something wrong and it was poking hard into her backside and hurt like crazy. She tried to wriggle away from it, but it seemed to scooch along with her whichever way she moved.

“Stop moving about, ye stupid Yank,” said Fiona. “Ye'll not be pulling any American tricks on me.”

“I'm just trying to get comfortable,” complained Jennifer, willing herself to whine, making herself sound weaker than she was. She wished Peter could help. Fiona needed a swift karate kick to the knees! “What's wrong with that?”

“
Wrong … wrong
… ye keep harping on the word,” said Fiona. “From where I stand, what I am doing is right. And I have the
right
to hurt ye, if ye don't stop that infernal wriggling.”

Jennifer stopped wriggling and quickly changed the subject. “Look at them,” she said, nodding at the four women at the table. “Surely you're not doing right by them, no matter where you stand.”

“Are they hurt?” asked Fiona. “Do they want for anything? They are well fed and well clothed and kept dry and warm. Dinna ye watch the news, little Yank? Dinna ye ken how people are starving in Africa and in Pakistan and in parts of the States as well? These auld folk are happy here. They can play their little games at the table, and even think they are ordering me around. Still, it's I who have the power noo, nae those auld carlines.”

Power
, thought Jennifer.
It always comes down to that.

Fiona smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “I want you to notice, lass, that though I have taken their power from them, I
willna
have them hurt.”

“But it's
your
will—not theirs,” Jennifer said. “They've had no say in the matter.”

“Aye—my will. And my time, too. For the power.” Fiona's voice was triumphant.

It's not like the movies after all
, Jennifer thought.
The bad guy has talked and talked and in all that time no one has come to rescue us.
She knew then that any rescue was going to be up to her. Yet time was running out and she didn't have even the beginning of a plan.

Still, whatever she was lying on hurt more than ever. The first thing she'd have to do was get rid of it. She began feeling around, but carefully this time, so as not to annoy Fiona. At last she managed to pull out what she had been lying on. It was the overturned lamp's electric cord. Unaccountably, the three-pronged plug seemed to leap into her hand.

“Enough gassing,” Fiona said. “Time for ye to shut yer cake hole, and listen carefully. I'll not hurt ye, nor yer brother nor yer sister and her strange little friend, either. But ye will have to forget what has happened here. It would hae been better if ye had eaten the ice cream.” She fingered the little silver scissors that hung on the ribbon around her neck. “I can make ye forget. I have ways. And they willna hurt. No more than I've hurt these auld dears.”

Going over to Molly, Fiona began to twist several locks of the little girl's curls together. “Do ye see—the ice cream froze her natural resistance. So noo I can easily tie just three elfknots into little Molly Isabelle's hair. Och—yes, I have her name. The auld dears told me. It will make the spell all that much tighter, and she'll nae remember a thing after. I have always been good at knotwork. In fact, anything to do with yarn. Even before I kenned about the Craft, as we call witchery here in Scotland.” She spoke with a casualness that belied the wickedness she was doing. “And then I discovered that the black arts have a use for it, the yarn skill. To call a wind, to send a flux, to take someone into yer power.”

Jennifer stared at Fiona with growing horror. The young woman looked so normal, so nice as she fiddled with Molly's curls. Yet what she was really doing was so wicked. Jennifer shuddered. Then she glanced at the shawl over Gran's shoulders, with its tasseled fringes tied in intricate knots.