The Bagpiper’s Ghost (10 page)

But Jennifer was no longer looking at the Sluagh. Instead, she was staring at Peter, for he'd turned away from the sight of the marching dead, too, and was weeping loudly, his hands over his face.

“Mary forgave you, you know,” Jennifer said to him. “She loved you as much as a twin can love. Closer than ordinary brother and sister. I know. I'm a twin, too. But Mary had another life—as the piper's own true love. You denied her that.”

Peter nodded and took his hands down from his face. That face was old, lined, haggard. “But how
could
she fergive? I lied to her. I harled over her token. When McGregor never came back, she died o' her grief, thinking he'd never cared fer her. And I, who had killed her, died wi' her, though I lived on forty more years and had a family o' my ain who begged fer the love I couldna give them. Forty more years preaching God's words, and I the biggest sinner o' them a'.” His fists went to his temples.

Taking his hands in hers, Jennifer said, “If God can forgive you and your sister can forgive you, surely
you
can forgive yourself, Andrew MacFadden.”

He looked at her with hooded eyes. With tired eyes. “Fergive mysel? And how do I do that, lass?”

“On your knees, I guess,” Jennifer said. She pointed dramatically to the ground. “On your knees.”

He sank to his knees and held his hands up toward the sky or toward heaven or toward the place where his sister had disappeared. Jennifer was never to know exactly which.

“I do repent o' my wickedness, Lord,” he said. “And if Mary can fergive me, then I do fergive myself as weel.” Suddenly he pitched forward onto his face, and lay there stiffly as the sun rose over the eastern cemetery wall at three-thirty in the morning.

Three hours had passed so quickly. It was morning already.

Morning. Too late, then
, Jennifer thought. She couldn't move. Not an inch. She felt as if she'd been cast in stone. Harled stone.

Just then, the dog came over and started licking the back of Peter's neck, his great tongue sloshing up into the hairline and then down under Peter's collar.

Peter shuddered and sat up. “Leave me alone,” he cried, pushing the dog away roughly. “You're wetting me all over, you snot rag!”

“Not till ye fergive me,” cried the dog. “I put ye in danger. And all because …”

“Peter!” Jennifer cried. “You're back. Oh my gosh—it worked! It worked!” Unbidden tears began cascading down her cheeks. She wiped them away with her fists.

Peter looked puzzled. “What worked? Have I been away?” He got to his knees. “Why do girls always cry at the silliest things? And when are we going to see the ghosts, Jen? I thought that's why we came out here.”

“You idiot—you were a ghost yourself,” Jennifer said. “We thought we'd lost you. And it's the night after the first time we came here.”

“Will ye both fergive me?” the dog howled.

They looked at him, and Jennifer said, “Forgive for
what?
”

Peter added, “Spill it, dog. This had better be good.”

The dog groveled at their feet and whimpered. “It's nae a pretty tale.”

“Pretty or not,” Jennifer said, “out with it.”

“Aye, yer richt. Best said than sorry.” He nodded his head, ears flopping. “The piper McGregor was my master, and I followed him to war. I was loyal, see. Dogs are. It was a lang, cold jog we had. Mile after mile of it. But when the battle itself came—the sleet, the drums, the pipes, the screams—och, how I ran. Freely do I admit it noo. I ran and ran all the way back hame, where I bumped into the wizard Michael Scot, who was moving forward in time. He kenned me, he did, kenned me fer a coward. It seemed to please him.”

Peter said in a stunned voice. “McGregor? Battle? What has that to do with anything?”

Gran had come over and heard the confession, too. Hands on hips, she glared at the dog. “So when ye kenned they were twins—Peter and Jennifer—and heard the ghostly bagpipes playing, ye thought to mak amends with yer auld master, is that it?”

The dog hung his head. “Yes, yes.” He whimpered. “I never thought to hurt young Peter.”

“Well, nae harm's done that doesna leave a scar,” Gran said. “Besides, all's well noo. Fer all o' us. Even ye, ye greetin, self-abusing hound. Confession's gud fer the soul, they say.”

“
If
dogs have souls,” Jennifer added angrily.

“Och, they do that,” Gran said. “All living things do. It was what interested Michael Scot in him, o' course.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the handkerchief again. “I wonder how much himsel's had a hand in today's doings?”

Just then Thunder limped over to them, the cat fast asleep on his broad back.

Peter didn't seem to be listening. Instead, he was staring at Gran and the horse with its burnt shoulder, and the sleeping cat. His jaw gaped open. “What are
they
doing here, Jen? Did you let them know? You shouldn't have done that. It was supposed to be a secret.”

“I'll tell you everything later,” said Jennifer. “But let's get back home first. I'm
starving.”

“That's funny—I'm starving, too,” Peter said. “I feel as if I haven't eaten for a day at least.”

She laughed. “You haven't.”

“No, really,” Peter said. “I always feel what you feel. That's what being a twin's all about, I guess.”

“Something like that,” she agreed, smiling. Then she held out her hand and yanked him to his feet. They headed for the gate, the dog trotting placidly and silently at Peter's side.

“We had better study more aboot twin magic,” Gran said to Thunder. “Power is power, but double is trouble. We might nae be so lucky next time.”

The cat opened one sleepy eye in comment. Then horse, cat, and old woman followed the twins through the gate and home.

A Scottish Glossary

aboot
—about

ain
—own

auld
—old

awa
—away

bairges
—struts

bairns
—children

bawties
—rabbits

besom
—woman, often a talkative one

blethering
—talking nonsense

bodie
—body, person

bonnie
—handsome or lovely

by my fegs
—a mild oath, like “Rats!”

canny
—smart, knowing

carlin
—witch, old woman

clout
—a rag or cloth

conies
—rabbits

coof
—fool, simpleton

daftie
—crazy person

dinna
—do not

doited
—crazed, enfeebled, foolish

doon
—down

dorty
—stubborn

forenoon
—morning

fou
—drunk

fowsome
—filthy, impure, obscene

frae
—from

gae
—go

going my dinger
—going about vigorously

gormless
—stupid

greetin teenie
—someone who is always complaining

gud
—good

haar
—sea mist

hue
—have

hame
—home

harling
—roughcasting to protect soft stone from the weather

hoovering
—vacuuming, or slang for vigorously eating (Hoover is a brand of vacuum cleaner.)

ken
—know

kirk
—church, usually Protestant

lad
—boy

lang
—long

lass
—girl

licht
—light

losh
—a mild swear word, like “gosh”

luv
—love

mair
—more

mischant
—worthless person

nae
—not, no

nicht
—night

noo
—now

oot
—out

paidling
—aimless, feckless

porridge
—oatmeal

puir
—poor

richt
—right

shut your cake hole
—shut your mouth

spoacher
—a poacher, thief

stane
—stone

swick
—to deceive

toom-headit
—brainless, empty-headed

toon
—town

weans
—little children

wee
—small, little

weel
—well

wee, sleekit, timorous, cowerin
—from a Robert Burns poem, “To a Mouse,” it means “small, sly, frightened, cowering”

wi'oot
—without

wouldna
—would not

A Personal History by Jane Yolen

I was born in New York City on February 11, 1939. Because February 11 is also Thomas Edison's birthday, my parents used to say I brought light into their world. But my parents were both writers and prone to exaggeration. My father was a journalist; my mother wrote short stories and created crossword puzzles and double acrostics. My younger brother, Steve, eventually became a newspaperman. We were a family of an awful lot of words!

We lived in the city for most of my childhood, with two brief moves: to California for a year while my father worked as a publicity agent for Warner Bros. films, and then to Newport News, Virginia, during the World War II years, when my mother moved my baby brother and me in with her parents while my father was stationed in London running the Army's secret radio.

When I was thirteen, we moved to Connecticut. After college I worked in book publishing in New York for five years, married, and after a year traveling around Europe and the Middle East with my husband in a Volkswagen camper, returned to the States. We bought a house in Massachusetts, where we lived almost happily ever after, raising three wonderful children.

I say “almost,” because in 2006, my wonderful husband of forty-four years—Professor David Stemple, the original Pa in my Caldecott Award–winning picture book,
Owl Moon
—died. I still live in the same house in Massachusetts.

And I am still writing.

I have often been called the “Hans Christian Andersen of America,” something first noted in
Newsweek
close to forty years ago because I was writing a lot of my own fairy tales at the time.

The sum of my books—including some eighty-five fairy tales in a variety of collections and anthologies—is now well over 335. Probably the most famous are
Owl Moon
,
The Devil's Arithmetic
, and
How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?
My work ranges from rhymed picture books and baby board books, through middle grade fiction, poetry collections, and nonfiction, to novels and story collections for young adults and adults. I've also written lyrics for folk and rock groups, scripted several animated shorts, and done voiceover work for animated short movies. And I do a monthly radio show called
Once Upon a Time
.

These days, my work includes writing books with each of my three children, now grown up and with families of their own. With Heidi, I have written mostly picture books, including
Not All Princesses Dress in Pink
and the nonfiction series Unsolved Mysteries from History. With my son Adam, I have written a series of Rock and Roll Fairy Tales for middle grades, among other fantasy novels. With my son Jason, who is an award-winning nature photographer, I have written poems to accompany his photographs for books like
Wild Wings
and
Color Me a Rhyme
.

And I am still writing.

Oh—along the way, I have won a lot of awards: two Nebula Awards, a World Fantasy Award, a Caldecott Medal, the Golden Kite Award, three Mythopoeic Awards, two Christopher Awards, the Jewish Book Award, and a nomination for the National Book Award, among many accolades. I have also won (for my full body of work) the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement, the Science Fiction Poetry Association's Grand Master Award, the Catholic Library Association's Regina Medal, the University of Minnesota's Kerlan Award, the University of Southern Mississippi and de Grummond Children's Literature Collection's Southern Miss Medallion, and the Smith College Medal. Six colleges and universities have given me honorary doctorate degrees. One of my awards, the Skylark, given by the New England Science Fiction Association, set my good coat on fire when the top part of it (a large magnifying glass) caught the sunlight. So I always give this warning: Be careful with awards and put them where the sun don't shine!

Also of note—in case you find yourself in a children's book trivia contest—I lost my fencing foil in Grand Central Station during a date, fell overboard while whitewater rafting in the Colorado River, and rode in a dog sled in Alaska one March day.

And yes—I am still writing.

At a Yolen cousins reunion as a child, holding up a photograph of myself. In the photo, I am about one year old, maybe two.