The Bone Flute (8 page)

“Changed,” said the second sister, in a voice like autumn rain.

“Beyond your reach,” added the oldest, in a voice like winter wind.

“But I love her!”

“This is a terrible wrong you have done, young Diarmid,” said the youngest. “You made an evil thing, and with it you piped your love back across the river of time.”

“No mortal flesh can cross that river twice and live,” said the middle sister. “This is your doing, and you must pay.”

“Then why not let him kill me?”

“That would be a price too heavy and a penalty too light,” the eldest said. She lifted one finger and Gwyn's obsidian blade shattered and fell from his hand.

Then the three sisters spoke together in a voice like the sea, “Hear now your doom, Diarmid the bard. You will search for the bone flute and never will you rest till it's found, though you scour the world over. Find it, prove your right to it, and your doom is done.”

“And then will I see Rhianna?”

“Then you will find rest.”

“On the other side of darkness, in the land of morning.”

“Rhianna may please herself.”

Then Gwyn howled with fury. Black clouds boiled, and a tempest threw Diarmid to his knees. “And what of my vengeance? Rhianna was mine! I claim his death for my loss!”

“His death does not belong to you,” said the eldest sister, whose hem never stirred no matter how the wind shrieked.

“And neither did Rhianna,” said Diarmid, staggering to his feet.

Gwyn smiled, and the wind died. “Then this I swear. I will be the one to first lay hands on the flute. And when I do, I'll pipe you such a tune as will have you dancing in the outer darkness forever!”

Rain fell. When it drew off and the clouds broke, young Diarmid stood alone beside the river of time.

12
Invisible chocolate

C
amrose crouched in silence for a long time before she real-ized Miranda had stopped talking. It seemed to her that during the story the husky voice had gone smooth. And in places it sang, and out of the clear notes came images of brave young Diarmid, and the terrible hounds and the three black-robed Wyrde.

“It does explain a lot.” She stretched her cramped legs. “So Diarmid's been looking for this fl ute for … how many years?”

“More than you could count,” said Miranda in her original creaky voice.

“And the heirloom Gilda talked about—that's the bone flute, right? And now it's inside a house that isn't there. How did I get mixed up in this?”

“By birth. You're one of a long line, a line nearly as old as that tale. You are the Keeper of the bone flute.”

“Me. Th e Keeper of the bone fl ute.” She rubbed her eyes, and in the dark behind her eyelids she saw it floating, bright, as if a spotlight was shining on it: an ivory flute with a spiral of letters flowing around and around its length. A beautiful thing, full of power. Evil power, the Wyrde said.

“This can't be right. I'm only twelve. Somebody made a mistake.”

“Gilda was only twelve when she became Keeper.”

“Yes, and look what happened then!”

“Stop carping! It's in your power to end this tale.”

“By giving it to the rightful claimant, you mean, like Gilda said.” That was more hopeful.

“But who's the rightful claimant?” Mark put in.

“Easy. It has to be Diarmid, right, Miranda?” Camrose felt almost jaunty now. It was cheering to know the right thing to do.

“
Mmrrr
. That's not for me to say. Just you judge right, and we'll all be happy. Diarmid will find his rest, and you'll lay down your charge, and I—I'll be free!” She laughed with a sound like branches rubbing together.

“Free from what?”

“My bondage. Ask no more of that!”

“Okay, so how do I find Diarmid?”

“That won't be hard. The flute draws him.”

“But how will I know him?”

“Think, Keeper—for once! Ask yourself who's new in town.”

“Terence?” Mark said in a wondering tone.

“And there's that busker.” Camrose remembered his young face with the old eyes. Diarmid's story would explain the eyes.

“Hate this sitting still,” Miranda snarled. Feet scrambled across Camrose's legs and a small body darkened the mouth of the burrow.

“Wait! You can't leave us now!”

“It's safe. Go home.” She was gone.

Mark crawled to the opening and listened. “I don't hear anything. But it could just be lying in wait.”

“No, Miranda's a pain in the neck, but I don't think she'd say it's safe if it isn't. I think we have to trust her.”

“Okay. Here goes.”

It took a lot of work to get him out. Then Camrose pushed his backpack out after him and slithered out herself.

They stood in a small clearing among the trees, with cool moonlight pouring in. The path glimmered a few steps away. They pushed through to it and in a minute they were head–ing up Grant Street. At the first bend Camrose turned and looked back, but there was nothing to see but a narrow band of darkness.

“I can't figure out what happened in the woods.”

“Me neither.”

“It's like it was a much bigger place all of a sudden. Was it just because we were so scared we couldn't think? Were we running around in circles?”

“I don't think it was just that. Remember that hill we fell down? There isn't a hill in those woods.” Mark looked at the blue glow of his watch and sucked air through his teeth. “Oh, man. It's past ten! I'm really going to catch it.”

Bronwyn had already locked up. Camrose reached up to the ledge above the door where the spare key was hidden and turned it gently in the lock. She replaced the key, eased the door open and slid in, silently closing it behind her.

Get caught coming in this late and there'd be a nasty scene. It was a wonder the police weren't out after her already. Maybe if she could get to her room without being noticed … Terence was already in. His jacket hung on a hook in the coat alcove. Her hand hovered near the leather, not daring to touch. From inches away she could feel a nimbus of warmth over it. Her spine crawled. She backed toward the stairs.

Her foot was on the bottom step when voices in the kitchen caught her ear. A low murmur—that sounded like Terence— and then Bronwyn in that piercing know-it-all tone that always rubbed Camrose raw.

“I mean, it's not like I really care, but the way Dad encour–ages her! He actually pretends to take her seriously!” A pause, then she added grumpily, “I don't think he ever paid half that much attention to me.”

“I suppose she still has her secret nooks and hiding places, like all young kids.”

“Oh, like you wouldn't believe! I'll bet she still thinks that rope ladder in the tree is a secret.”

Camrose took her foot from the stairs and walked along the hall toward the kitchen.

“I had one like that when I was a kid. I had some secret caches round the house too.”

“I never did. I don't think Camrose does, either. She'd get heck from me if she started prying the place apart.”

Camrose stepped into the kitchen. Bronwyn didn't look up. She was sitting at the kitchen table across from Terence, raising a glass to her lips. She sipped and put the glass down. It was empty. An empty plate sat on the table between them.

“Have another chocolate,” Terence said.

“I shouldn't, but they're so delicious.” Her fingers hesitated over the plate, then chose a piece of nothing and raised it to her lips. She took a delicate bite of air and smiled at him.

“Mmm!”

Ice closed around Camrose's heart. She took another step into the room. Terence looked at her, but Bronwyn just raised her empty glass.

“Bronwyn, wake up!”

Bronwyn took another bite of air. Camrose turned on Terence, fists clenched and trembling. “You just stop whatever you're doing to her!”

“Whatever do you mean?” His smile gleamed.

“You've done something. You've hypnotized her!”

“Not even close. But why should you mind? You heard how she's been talking about you.”

“I don't care! She's my sister!”

“That matters?”

“Of course it matters!”

Terence leaned forward. “And what will you give me if I set her free?” he purred.

“Give you? I don't have anything to give you!”

“But you will. Soon.”

Camrose stared at him and couldn't speak.

He sat back and laughed. “All right, anything to please you, little cousin. Just … ” He poised a hand. “Remember this when the time comes to choose.” He snapped his fingers.

Bronwyn frowned at her glass and set it down. Then she frowned at Camrose. “When did you get in?”

“Just now.”

“Okay, that does it. You're grounded.”

“What!”

“You heard me. You can go out during the day, but from now until Dad gets home, you stay in the house after supper.”

Terence touched Bronwyn's wrist. “Hey, is that fair?” She looked at him and her eyes went cloudy. He smiled into them.

She blinked. “No, it's not fair. She's not grounded.” She rubbed her forehead. “Ow, my head hurts. I think I'll go to bed.”

Camrose followed her out of the kitchen and up the stairs and watched her close her door. Then she darted into her own room and closed her own door and wedged it with a sandal.

“If I were grounded, I wouldn't have been able to go into the ghost house again,” she muttered. “That was why he did … whatever he did. Not to be nice. He wants me to get the flute.”

Remember this when the time comes to choose, he'd said. “If only I didn't have to choose! I never asked for this!”

Half an hour later she stepped out into the dark hallway and tiptoed to the stairs. Down she went, barefoot, stepping at the wall side of the steps so they wouldn't creak.

The light under the buttons of the phone was a dim green glow in the downstairs hall next to the stair wall. Camrose punched “one” for long distance. Then the area code and number written on a piece of paper taped to the phone. It rang once, twice, three times. Stopped.

The receiver filled with a rushing sound like wind or water that went on and on. Camrose hung up and tried again. Three rings, then emptiness and windy sounds.

A small red light flashed on the phone. “Message!” Eagerly she jabbed at the buttons. “Dad?”

Tense silence at the other end. Then an indrawn breath.

“Who's there?” Camrose demanded.

“Who are you?” A breathless, frantic voice. A girl's voice. A … familiar …

The line went dead.

13
The busker

W
ith slippery hands, Camrose clutched a phone cold as bone. It clattered as she hung up. She pressed her hands to her churning stomach.

A stir of the air made her look up. Terence was gazing down at her from the dim landing. His eyes refl ected the light with a yellowish sheen like mica.

“Something the matter?” he asked pleasantly.

“Do you think I'd tell you?”

He laughed and went back upstairs. She waited to hear the click of his door closing, then followed. Once in her room again, she curled up in a shivering ball under the covers.

Who was that on the phone? Something strange about that voice. It made her backbone cold.

“Just a wrong number, that's all,” she told herself over and over until she fell asleep. It took a long time.

When she woke, the rectangular shape of her window was glimmering in the dark. She stretched. Must be nearly dawn.

She slid out of bed and cat-footed to the window. The sky above the house was violet, but when she pressed her face to the glass she could see a peach glow along the northeast horizon. It's like sunset in reverse, she thought.

Sunset in reverse.

She thumped herself on the forehead. “Why didn't I figure that out before?” She dived for her jeans.