The Bone Flute (7 page)
“No! That's just it, we're not!” She whispered what she'd remembered during the game. The phone call from Aunt Alicia, about a year ago. The news that Terence had been hit by a car while he was hitchhiking across Germany. Hit and killed.
“So, he's not your cousin. How'd he get that postcard from your father, then?”
“I don't think he'd have any trouble faking it.”
“He's not moving around anymore.”
The house was fading ⦠gone. “He couldn't get in.” She drew a sharp breath. “I wonder, is that it?”
Mark waited patiently.
“It's all starting to make a kind of sense,” she whispered. “Gilda's house, Ennismor. It burned down in 1914. But somehow she hid thisâthis heirloom, whatever it is, inside the house, and the only way to get it is to go into the house when it comes back, at twilight.”
“I guess that sort of holds together. In a crazy way.”
“And Terence knows about the heirloom and he wants it too. It must be something important.”
“Know what bothers me? If he can see the house, and you can see it, why can't I see it?”
Camrose put a warning hand on his arm. Terence was turning around, his eyes glinting faintly as they scanned the spot where Camrose and Mark were hiding. He stood still a moment. Then he walked away up the path toward Grant Street.
They gave him a couple of minutes, then crawled out into the hollow. The last of the sunset was gone and the full moon was still tangled in the treetops. You could hardly see a thing, even out in the open.
“I think I know how he found out about the house,”
Camrose said. “Remember when he came up the street last night?”
“He caught a page of the letter and gave it back to you.”
“And maybe he caught the other page too, the one that's missing, and didn't give it back. I bet that's the page that told about the house.”
“But he didn't get in.”
“I wonder if there's a trick to it. Maybe Miranda knows. If I could only find her andâ”
“Shh!”
“What?”
“Thought I heard something.”
They both held still. It was so quiet you'd think all the birds were asleep, all the bugs dead.
Then Camrose heard it too. A crackle of dry leaves.
Crunch,
crunch, pause, crunch.
Footsteps, with a peculiar uneven rhythm. A limping rhythm.
“Animal,” Mark muttered. “Small dog.”
Nearer now, less stealthy, louder. A dog, maybe, but not a small one. Lame or not, it wasn't something Camrose wanted to meet face to face.
They backed away, elbow to elbow, toward the western side of the hollow. A few yards away, branches cracked. “Must be the size of a horse,” Mark whispered.
“Maybe it is a horse.” But somehow she thought not.
A splintering crash came from the other side of the hollow. They turned and ran.
S
omething exploded from the trees and pounded across the hollow behind them. They ran and ran, the path unreeling under their flying feet, and it fl ashed across Camrose's mind that they should be halfway up Grant Street by now. And then the path was gone and the woods were a black-and-white patchwork, confusing the eyes.
Just as Camrose was starting to grasp the idea that something impossible had happened to the woods, Mark's foot caught under a fallen branch. He fl ailed his arms and fell fl at into a nest of brush.
Camrose was beside him right away, pulling at his arm. “Up! Up!” He scrambled up. The footsteps crept nearer. Soft, limping, but they made the ground quiver. How big was this thing?
The crushing sounds stopped. In the silence she looked up and saw a head almost directly above them, black against the stars. An animal head, but with too many things sticking out of it: pointed ears, and thin, curving bristles or horns.
And bigger than a horse, much bigger. You couldn't run from a thing that big. Maybe if they kept still it wouldn't see them. She closed her eyes and hoped it didn't hunt by scent.
For a moment neither of them breathed. The head snuffled at the air above them. It
did
hunt by scent.
A small animal burst from the bushes and charged across their feet. Camrose yelped. Mark lurched backwards. Then they were clutching each other, sliding, rolling downhill. Teeth clashed in the air where their heads had been.
At the bottom of the hill Mark lay flat on his backpack, all the wind knocked out of him. Bushes snapped halfway up the hill, then nearer. Camrose pulled at him. “There's a hole here!”
The hole was a triangle of blackness between two leaning boulders. It didn't look large enough for Mark's shoulders, but he yanked off his pack, and as soon as Camrose had wriggled in, he stuffed it in after her. Then he slid in himself, feet first.
At the last moment he stuck. His head stayed out there like an apple on a plate. Camrose's hands fastened in his shirt and dragged, but she wasn't doing any good.
Then something small and furry hit the ground next to his head and hissed at him. He shrank back and his shoulders were suddenly through the hole. Then his head. He rolled away from the opening and lay gasping on a bed of papery dead leaves.
“We're safe!” Camrose crouched and peered out through the hole. The faint blue light at the entrance darkened. Feet, with claws, scrabbled among the leaves. She threw herself back and banged her head against a hard ceiling.
“It's a raccoon!” Mark said. “Watch out, it may bite.”
“Not if we leave it alone. Funny how it came along just in time to scare us into stepping backwards, just there. You could say it saved our lives. And last night, outside my room, there was another raccoon, and I thought ⦠” She heard herself babbling and switched it off.
“I hope it's not rabid.”
Rough fur brushed Camrose's hand. Dead leaves rustled. Dust tickled her nose. The third refugee was making itself at home. She edged away. She'd heard they could be vicious even when they weren't rabid.
But she wasn't really thinking of the raccoon. They could hear crunching sounds outside the burrow. The blue triangle darkened over and over again as the thing paced back and forth past the opening.
“I wonder how safe we are here, really? Suppose that whatâever-it- is tries digging us out?” She felt above her head and down the rough wall and was relieved. It felt like solid stone. “What
is
it, anyway?”
“Don't know. Did you see how it grew?” Mark's voice shook. “It started small and got big as a house.”
“Bigger.”
“At least that means it can't get in.”
“But what's to stop it getting small again and coming in after us?”
“Not to worry,” said a creaky voice between them. “If it gets small enough to come in, it's small enough for me to handle.”
Camrose held her breath. Mark wasn't breathing, either.
“My advice is, stay here till dawn,” said the creaky voice. “The hound loves the night.”
“Who ⦠” Camrose cleared her throat. “Who's that?”
“It's Miranda, who else? Use your ears!”
“Miranda?”
“In the flesh. Of a sort. There's still a chance I could be rabid, of course. But most of the time I don't bite.”
Camrose tried to put a face to the voice and couldn't come up with anything human, not even as strangely human as Miranda's face.
She flinched as a hand gripped her arm and squeezed. A hard hand with short fingers and long nails that bit into her skin. It was human, though. Almost.
“Okay!” said Mark eagerly. “Now at last we'll get some answers!
What was that animal out there? How did it get so big?”
“You want to know too much.”
“But isn't that what you're
for
, to give answers?” Camrose broke in. “Gilda's letter said you would. She said, âAsk Miranda to tell you how this all started, that will make things clear.'
Couldn't you at least do
that
?”
“
Mmrrr
.”
“We can use all the help we can get,” Mark ventured.
“Mm,” she said, more pleasantly. “Well, that creature will be lurking for a while. We have time enough. So curl up, be quiet and don't interrupt, and I will tell you the tale of young Diarmid the bard.”
O
n the morning of the third day of his journey, young Diarmid came to the river of time. All behind him lay the green and living lands, and before him flowed the dark and starry river, and beyond the river lay a land hidden in everlast-ing night.
Diarmid stood upon the shore, and he called and called his love by name. “Rhianna!”
And on the far shore she appeared, dressed in a gown of snow-white silk. Smiling, she waded the river, and Diarmid ran to greet her.
But the moment she set her foot upon the living land she became a gaunt white hound with teeth like steel spikes, and leaped at him. He fought for an hour before killing the creature with his sword.
Again he stood upon the shore, and he called and called his love by name. “Rhianna!”
And on the far shore she appeared, dressed all in velvet black as night. Laughing, she waded the river, and Diarmid walked to meet her.
But the moment she set her foot upon the living land she became a huge black hound with claws like iron hooks, and leaped at him. He fought for an hour and then an hour more, before cutting off the creature's head.
A third time he stood upon the shore, and he called and called his love by name. “Rhianna!”
And on the far shore she appeared, in a gown of satin red as blood. Singing for joy, she waded the river, and Diarmid stepped down to meet her.
But the moment she set her foot upon the living land she became a gigantic red hound with eyes of fire, and leaped at him. He fought while the sun rolled up the sky and down the other side, and yet he could neither kill nor hurt the hound.
At last, just when its jaws were snapping at his throat, he cut off its left foreleg. Howling and limping, the creature waded back across the river.
“Now, surely, three times winds up the charm,” Diarmid said. He picked up the leg of the hound and from it he took the long bone, and with this bone he made a flute. And on the flute, round and round from lip to tip in an unbroken spiral, he carved words of calling and compelling.
This was the song of the bone flute.
I call the blood back to the bone,
I call the spark back to the stone,
I call the heart back to its own,
I call the wanderer home.
So it was on the evening of the third day of his journey that young Diarmid stood beside the river of time and played a tune. Over the water the music flew like a flock of singing birds.
And on the far shore she appeared, dressed all in ashen rags. Weeping, she waded the river, and it seemed to Diarmid as he played that she walked upon the music as on a path of flint.
But the moment her foot touched the living land she fell dead at his feet.
When Diarmid saw what he had done he threw down the bone flute, and the river swept it away.
Now Gwyn, son of Nuadu, lord of the Otherworld, had seen Rhianna, and it was he who had stolen her away. Crossing the river like a storm he found Diarmid sitting upon the shore, his sword forgotten on the ground beside him. Of Rhianna there was no sign.
Up went Gwyn's obsidian blade and down it swept, but before it could harm a hair of Diarmid's head it stopped, stuck fast in the air.
When Diarmid looked to see who had worked the spell, he saw before him three sisters robed in black. All in a row they stood, one with a spindle, one with a shuttle and one with a knife as sharp as any sword. They were the Wyrde who spin and weave the lives of women and men and who cut the threads when the web is done.
Diarmid bowed low, for he knew them, but he wasted no words. “Where is my Rhianna?”
“Safe,” said the youngest sister, in a voice soft as a summer breeze.
