The Pictish Child (6 page)

“Why noo?” The dog sat up suddenly on his haunches. “Instead of a hundred years ago? Or a thousand?”

“The stone,” Jennifer said thoughtfully. “There has to have been some special magic in that Pictish stone …”

“Which Molly let loose by touching,” Peter interrupted.

“Or Mrs. McGregor did,” said Molly.

“Or you, Jennifer,” Peter added.

“Or all three,” said Gran. “Three is an important number in magic. And remember—magic cannot be taken, only given.”

The dog lay back down and covered his ears with his paws. “Oh, my puir head,” he said. “It's all guesswork. And guesswork is nae work, as they say in the Lowlands.”

They ignored him.

“Then when Molly
gave
the stone back to Ninia, the original owner …” Jennifer said.

Her musing was cut short by the horse. “What can we do about the mist, boxed up here? I do not want to go back through that hole. To war. To death. I like the green grass of your garden, old woman.” He whuffled and shook his head several times, nearly knocking over a floor lamp.

“What we need to do now is to think clearly,” Gran said. “Quietly. Properly. Without emotion putting a cloud as dark as that mist over our minds.”

“All very well for ye to say,” the dog protested, his paws now off his ears. “I'm greetin wi' terror mysel', and I never got to do my business out in the street.”

At that Molly started to cry. She was only four years old, after all. It was a high, panicky wail.

Molly's wailing set Ninia off, and the Pictish girl began to sniffle. Then she squeezed the cat till it yowled in protest. When it scratched her, she dropped it in surprise, and it hid under the sofa.

Cat mewed.

Dog howled.

Horse whuffled.

Ninia wept.

And Molly cried, “I want my mommy!”

“Mommy!”
Jennifer said. “Oh no!”

Peter looked equally appalled. “How will they get home? Mom and Pop. And Da. How will they get through the dark mist and into the house? We have to warn them. We have to—”

“Dinna fash yersel about that,” said Gran. “They're not due for hours yet.”

And that's when there was a knock at the door: heavy, frantic, and sustained.

Ten

Warrior

“They must be here early,” Peter cried, jumping up from the sofa. “We've got to let them in before the mist gets them.”

“No, Peter …” Gran put a hand out to forestall him. “Who knows what else might come in with them, through that tear in history—”

But it was too late. He'd already run out of the living room and was heading toward the front door.

“Peter!” Jennifer shouted, going after him. “It might be a trick of the mist's.”

“What if it's not?” he called back. “We can't leave them out there in it. That's much too dangerous.” He unbolted the lock and lifted the latch.

“You daft lad!” screamed the dog. “Dinna make a midden out of a mouse hole. Why would they be knocking? Yer mom and pop and Da each have a key!”

But it was too late. Peter had already cracked the door open and a wisp of the fog was creeping painfully over the metal doorstep.

“Mom?” Peter called out tremulously into the grey mist that was rapidly filling the courtyard. “Pop?”

As if to mock him, the fog called the same names back.

At the garden window, Molly cried, “It's gone. The grey stuff's all gone.”

But it was not gone, had merely left the garden and was gathering by the open front door, bunched and thick and ready to push in.

Peter slammed the door shut and locked it again, leaning his back against it. Jennifer pushed against the door as well, as if their combined weight was all that was needed to keep the household safe.

“It's all right,” Peter called to the others in the living room. “I shut it again in time. No harm done.”

No harm?
wondered Jennifer.

Even as Peter spoke, the tiny wisp of fog that had made it across the iron barrier began to take form. It shifted and shaped itself before their horrified eyes, growing into a man. Not a tall man—not nearly as tall as Pop, who was six feet—but a man broad at the shoulder, with well-muscled arms, a full dark beard, and long, dark hair combed over to one side and tied up in a ponytail. He was wearing a short leather tunic and soft leather boots. In one hand he held a large ax, and in the other a long-handled spear. Some kind of embossed leather shield was slung across his back on a leather strap.

The warrior was scary enough in the darkened hallway, but when Peter backed away from him and accidentally rubbed against the light switch, turning on the hall light, the man was scarier still.

Like Ninia, he was tattooed on his hands and arms. But he was also tattooed on his body and face, in great swirling designs, like waves. His startled mouth was open and it was a misery of broken teeth. A livid scar ran down his face, from forehead to chin.

Jennifer screamed and Peter tried to run back into the living room, but the warrior quickly blocked his path, bellowing some awful Pictish war cry. So Peter simultaneously gave him a great kick in the shins and ducked under the man's right arm, the arm with the ax.

It was an incredibly brave and incredibly stupid thing to do, and Jennifer shouted encouragement, as if she were cheering Peter on at one of his soccer games.

The warrior turned and started after him, battle-ax held high. In another second the ax would be swung in a downward stroke, and that would be the end of Peter.

Jennifer's cheer turned into a scream.

But Ninia's voice was louder still. She stood and called out something in three short, commanding syllables.

The warrior looked over, spotted her, and fell to his knees in one movement. He laid down his weapons, first the ax and then the spear; put his head in his hands, and—all unaccountably—wept.

Eleven

Single Combat

Ninia walked over to the burly warrior and pushed his tattooed hands away from his face. Then she put her own hands under his chin, lifted it, and said something so softly only he could hear.

“If she blows in his nostrils, I may have to honk,” said the dog.

“If you are not silent,
I
may have to kill you,” said Devil.

“If someone doesn't explain what is happening,” Jennifer said,
“I
may have to scream.”

Gran held up a hand and they all quieted. “Clearly she recognizes him. King, father, brother, cousin …”

“Actually,” the horse said, moving out into the main part of the living room, but taking care not to step on Gran's good carpet, “he is the high king's war councillor.”

“And …” Gran said slowly.

“How do you know there is more, old woman?” the horse asked.

“There is always more in history,” Gran said. “It is only in a story that much is left out.”

“Besides,” Peter said to the horse, “she's a witch. And a grandmother. It's an unbeatable combination.”

“Ah.” The horse nodded. “I shall remember that.”

“Dinna make me angry, horse,” warned Gran. “You dinna want that.”

Devil nodded. “I will tell you all without threats, Grandmother. The man is first among the Pictish warriors. His name is Bridei mac Derlei, named for the great king of the Picts—Bridei mac Bili. But this one is more familiarly known to his clan as Bridei of the Ax and sometimes Bridei of the Long Scar.”

Jennifer's right forefinger traced an imitation of that long scar down her own face, from forehead to chin. She wondered what weapon had made it.

At that moment Bridei of the Ax spotted the horse and stood, right hand held out rigid. He babbled in his outlandish tongue. Ninia put her hand on his arm to calm him, but he kept on going. Whatever he was saying, there was certainly a lot of it.

“Now what?” Gran asked. “What have ye left out
this
time, horse?” She raised a hand in warning.

“Only that we are old friends,” Devil said, “the Ax and I.”

“So ye said about the lass.” The dog looked disgusted, or perhaps he was amused. It was difficult to tell which, with his long muzzle. “And are ye personally acquainted with the entire Pictish race?”

“Only the southern Picts,” the horse said without a trace of irony. “They called me Night of Long Thunder.” He walked slowly and carefully over to Bridei of the Ax, avoiding a sofa on the left and a chess table on the right. Lowering his head, Devil waited till Bridei put out his hand. Then he nuzzled the man's palm, blowing hotly into it.

“What an embarrassing display,” the dog said.

“I think it's sort of sweet,” Jennifer told him. “Like his name.”

“Aye—ye would.” The dog sat down sullenly.

In a single swift and sudden movement, Bridei threw himself atop the horse. He grabbed up a fistful of Devil's mane in his hand to use as a rein.

Except for a small series of tremors, like waves under the skin, Devil did not move. It was as if he were waiting for some further signal from the man.

“How
noble,”
said the dog. He clearly meant the opposite.

Ninia bent down and picked up first the long-handled spear, then the battle-ax. Even though they were heavy weapons, she did not falter but handed them over to Bridei with familiar ease. Then she took the little stone talisman and plaited it into the horse's mane, tying it in with quick, sure knots.

“Elfknots,” whispered the dog. “An old magic bound to the wearer.”

“Good magic or bad?” asked Jennifer quietly.

“Depends on the magicmaker's intentions,” Gran said. “But I imagine Ninia's are all good.”

“I
know
Ninia's good,” Molly said with perfect four-year-old assurance. “She's my
friend.”

Peter only
humphed
through his nose, which, Jennifer thought, was not a judgment at all.

Meanwhile Ninia was running her hand down Devil's nose slowly and saying something to both the warrior and the horse. It sounded to Jennifer a bit like a prayer, for it was low and melodic and urgent.

As Ninia spoke Bridei nodded once or twice, the scar seeming to pulsate as he listened. When she was finished speaking, he pulled Devil's head to the side with a tug of the mane, till he had them both turned around. A quick nudge with his heels, and Bridei urged Devil forward, riding him right over the rug to Gran.

Once in front of Gran, Bridei bowed his head and called out what was clearly a string of instructions. Then he pointed out the window to the garden.

The horse translated, pitching his voice loud enough for them all to hear.

“It is the custom …” he began, then bobbed his head. “Sorry about the rug.”

“Never ye mind that rug,” Gran told him. “What custom do ye mean? And be quick about it.”

“It is the custom,” Devil said again. “Single combat between great warriors.”

“Wait a minute,” Peter said. “I'm not”—he gulped—“not a great warrior. I just do karate for fun—not fight with spears and axes. That's movie stuff. Besides, I'm just a kid.”

The horse gave a high laugh that was part snort. “If you were a Pictish lad, you'd be well into spears and axes and probably already fought a battle or three by now. But Bridei does not mean you. He is going back into the past, through that rip in time. And I must go with him. I have no choice, you see.” He tossed his head, and the stone tied in his mane flashed up and down. “The talisman compels me. Now that Bridei knows the mother of the next king is safe here—and he believes her safe from the Scots king's long reach—he is going back to issue a challenge to single combat. And
that
will decide the outcome of the final battle.”

“What final battle?” Gran asked.

“He didn't say.”

“Then
ask
him, you muckle ludicrous beast!” the dog cried.

“I cannot,” said the horse.

“Canna—or willna?” asked the dog.

“In this instance it is the same thing,” said the horse.

“Och!” the dog cried, and turned away.

“In fact,” Devil said quietly to the dog's back, “horses do not talk to the Picts, though we can certainly understand them. As you very well know, most of the time animals do not talk to people at all.”

“That's one small truth out of ye,” said the dog, turning back.

“Yes—it was only Michael Scot's magic that gave me the British tongue. And the British name. As it gave you yours, dog. Of course, my accent is much more cultivated, for I have had a longer time to practice it. And Devil is a better name than Dog.” The horse shook his great head.

“I'll cultivate ye, ye silly steed,” the dog told him. “I speak good plain Scots, not that primping Lowlands muck.” But there was something other than anger in his voice. It trembled a bit, and Jennifer thought he sounded sad.

“Bridei cannot understand what I say any more than Ninia can,” Devil said to Gran. “I can only tell you what they speak about, the girl and the Ax. I cannot talk back to them.”

Gran patted his head. “It is all right, my friend. You do what you can.”

“So be a good lad,” the horse called over to Peter, “and open the garden door. We must ride out to do battle, Bridei and I.”

The dog lay down on the rug, gave a convulsive sob, and covered his head with his paws.

“Are you crazy?” Peter asked. “I'm not going to open any more doors.”

Jennifer understood at once. It didn't need a twin to know what was on Peter's mind. He had already let in the dark mist twice. He felt guilty and horribly accountable for that. He was not about to let the mist into their lives a third time.

“Wait a minute,” Jennifer said. “I may have a better idea.”

They gathered around her and she sketched her plan out quickly. It wasn't much of a plan, actually, but it did have the grace of simplicity. Even Peter agreed.