The Pictish Child

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The Pictish Child

Jane Yolen

For Robert Harris,
my Scottish consultant

Tartan:

Plaid cloth.

In Scotland each clan

has its own distinctive pattern.

One

Luck

Jennifer looked out the window in disbelief. What awful luck. They had been in Scotland for only five days, the first part of their summer vacation, visiting with Gran and Da—and three of those days had been full of rain.

They'd driven from the airport in a storm so fierce it had washed the tidy streets of Fairburn clean of any dust. Yesterday it had been pouring again, the rain coming down straight and then slantwise. Today the sky was slate grey, like a badly erased blackboard, and there was more rain.

They'd already spent too many hours up in the attic playing dress-up, which Peter hated but Molly loved. And lots of card games, none of which they'd ever heard of in the States, like Patience and Happy Families and Bezique—which Peter loved and Molly hated.

And
, Jennifer thought miserably,
I have been stuck in the middle of every argument. It's no different than being at home. Except for the magic.

The magic!

They had had two incredible days when magic had surrounded them like the Scottish weather. She had conveniently forgotten the fear and the terror that had accompanied those days, remembering instead only the dizzying wonder she had felt.

But now
, Jennifer thought,
it's just rain, rain, rain.

She traced the path of one drop as it slid down the window, her finger leaving a peculiar long smudge. She could see her own image faintly in the glass, the red hair almost black against the tall, dark, wet trees, the wide-set eyes that made her look permanently surprised.

“Dreech,” she said, turning to the others. It was one of the few Scottish words she had really learned, and it perfectly described the day: grey and wet and dreary. “A dreech day.”

“Och, child,” Gran said as she cleared away the breakfast dishes, “this day is hardly dreech. A drop or two, that's all. And with your parents and Da off to Edinburgh on business, it is just the perfect kind of day for us to go and cheer up my friends at the Eventide Home. You must be bored silly with attic games.”

“You mean—go out?” Peter asked. “In this?” He sounded as if he were expressing astonishment with all of Scotland. “A complicated country,” was what their father kept calling it. In America such a rain would have canceled baseball games and sent Peter and his friends scurrying gratefully to the mall.

“Och, aye.” Gran's round face beamed at him. “No one ever melted in this sort of rain.”

“We can take Da's big umbrellas,” Molly said brightly. “They'll cover us all the way up.” She was right. The umbrellas were huge, as tall as Molly. Though at four she wasn't that big.

“And,” Gran added, “for all the way down, I think I can find extra wellies.”

“Wellies?” Jennifer asked.

“For yer feet, child,” Gran explained. “In the wardrobe cupboard.”

Without further discussion, Gran sorted out the rain gear in the wardrobe cupboard, which turned out to be the standing wooden closet in the hall. She handed them each a pair of bright red rubber boots and one each of the enormous golf umbrellas. “The dishes can wait. Or Da can do them, should he get home before us. Though I shall be shocked indeed if he does!” She laughed out loud, as if she had made a great joke.

Jennifer and Molly put on the wellies they were handed, and Molly tromped up and down the entryway happily. Even dry, the wellies made a squishy sound. Frankly, Jennifer thought her wellies were silly looking, but at least they'd keep her feet from getting soaked.

“What about you, Gran?” Jennifer asked.

Tying a flowered scarf over her head, Gran said, “I've lived in this sort of rain since I were a wee lass. Besides, we're not going far. Just down the road.”

“You two look like … nerds,” Peter said, refusing the red boots.

Jennifer felt the word like a sword in her heart.

“Besides, my Nikes are waterproof.” He took his umbrella with barely concealed disdain and opened it while they were still inside the house.
FAIRBURN GOLF CLUB
was emblazoned in yellow letters on the side.

“Och, bad luck, that,” said Gran. “Opening a brolly indoors. Shut it at once, Peter.”

Given that Gran knew a thing or two about luck—and magic, as they had already learned in the first days of their visit—Peter quickly drew the umbrella back down, catching his finger in the mechanism and pinching it fiercely. He refused to cry out, of course. At thirteen it would have taken the amputation of a major limb to make him do that.

But Jennifer saw Peter's eyes narrow and knew what that meant. A moment later, when he popped the finger into his mouth like a cork in a bottle, she guessed that it had really hurt. Her own fingertip ached in sympathy. Twins were like that. Where one hurt, the other felt the pain.

So
, she thought,
there's the bad luck, then. The finger pinch.

And the rain.

But, though Jennifer was not to know till later, it was only the start of the luck—some good, some bad, and some terrible.

Two

Eventide Home

As they opened the door a slender, long-haired dog the color of ash pushed Peter aside. Its slim tail beat against his leg.

“Ye daft beings,” the dog said, “yer not going on a walk wi'oot me. It's been days since I've had a proper run. The garden's too wee a place for a dog of my size.”

Peter looked down. “And let you babble all over town? Not on your life.”

Gran smiled. “Only someone who holds magic will be able to understand him. Let the puir fool come along.”

“I'll get the leash,” Molly said, disappearing back into the house.

“I need no leash, thank ye very much,” the dog said. “A word of warning will do if I miss anything. And I
never
miss anything.”

“It's the law …” Jennifer began.

“In yer land, perhaps,” said the dog. “Not in mine.”

But by then Molly was back, holding the black plastic collar and leash that their mother had gotten the day after the dog had come to live with them. Not metal. Gran had warned specifically about that: Magic creatures cannot abide metal.

“Here,” Molly said, bending to slip it over the dog's head.

And the dog, with little grace, bowed its head to the inevitable, its tail drooping. “I'll wear it for ye, lass, but I dinna have to like it.”

They went outside then, and walked down the lane, leaving behind Gran's cottage with its grey slate roof that slumped like a farmer's hat. The rain pattered down on the umbrellas, sounding like a code, which Jennifer tried to decipher.

“Is it a message, Gran?” she asked.

“Och, lass, it's just a bit of rain,” the old woman answered.

“I was hoping for more magic,” Jennifer said. “Like the stuff we had when we first got here. The game of Patience, the wizard's map, the unicorn, the dragon …”

“Ye have that greetin teenie of a dog,” Gran pointed out, “for all the use he is.”

The dog made a rude noise, somewhere in between a belch and a fart, and Peter giggled.

“And we've got Devil in the garden,” Molly said.

Gran nodded. “Yes—the wizard's old black horse. Though we must give him a different name, and soon, I expect. Names are important, you know. Best not be asking for more magic just now.”

“Why?” Jennifer hated the bit of whine that crept into her voice. “Why not now? Once we're back in America, I bet there'll be no more magic.”

“You don't need magic in a land where everything is electric,” Gran told her.

“Well, everything is electric here, too,” Jennifer said. “Even the kettle.”

“There's electric—and there's power.” Gran's voice was adamant. “America's got the electricity and Scotland has the power.”

“Then I want
more
of that power,” Jennifer said stubbornly.

“Hush, child!” There was steel in Gran's caution. “Never wish for that. Power corrupts.”

“Remember Michael Scot,” the dog said suddenly, his voice hollow. And for a moment they all walked the lane in silence, remembering the awful wizard who had stolen Molly away and nearly taken over Fairburn a day and a half ago.

“Just for fun, then,” Jennifer said at last, trying to salvage something from the conversation.

But Gran's face had lost its softness. “Magic is not something to joke about. Or play with. It is never
just for fun.
Magic is a force that comes when it will. And stays where it will. Few can bid it safely. Beware of folk who joke about magic.”

“But
you
can bid it, Gran,” Molly said. “You're a witch. And Jen is, too.”

“Being a witch and bidding magic to dance are not necessarily the same,” Gran said. “Besides, I am a white witch and I deal in herbals. If Jennifer has any true magic, we dinna ken its real source yet. Untrained is untried, as we say. I expect any magic Jennifer has will be touched by her twinship and tinged with American know-it-all. And what that latter be, I canna say, for I hae never been across the lang water.”

They continued up the lane.

Peter had a funny, almost angry look that altered his normally pleasant face. Jennifer wondered what was bothering him but was astonished when he blurted out, “I don't see why Jen is the only one with magic when we're twins!”

The dog growled low in his throat, as if agreeing.

Jennifer turned to Peter quickly, using that soothing voice she'd come to rely on lately. “We don't know that I have any magic, really, Peter. And remember what they said in health class—that girls mature earlier than boys. Maybe your magic will be coming later.”