The Pictish Child

by Jane Yolen

  “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.

  So Jennifer, Molly, and Peter returned to the front door, dragging Ninia with them. There they began to talk loudly and jiggle the handle and fool with the lock, as if they were about to open the door.

  They could hear an ominous clanking from the dark mist, where it lurked in the courtyard, waiting for its opportunity like some wild, ravenous beast.

  Craning her neck, Jennifer stared through a small window in the entryway. She could see the darkness gathering in all the nooks and niches of the entryway. It obscured the stone flower troughs by the side of the house, and even
covered the ivy that climbed on the wall. Sounds of battle cries rattled against the window like pebbles thrown from the past, and she jumped back.

  “Rattle the handle again,” she whispered to Peter. “I think we may have it fooled. We want it all here, and no stray wisps in the garden. To give Bridei and the horse time to get set. And to make sure none gets into the house through the garden door.”

  As Peter worked the latch up and down one last time, Jennifer tiptoed back to the living room and called out to Gran, “Go!”

  At Jennifer’s cry, Gran gave the lock a quick twist and yanked open the garden door. Then she stood aside as the horse—with its bulky rider—pushed past. As they went by, she clapped Devil on his rear, which made him jerk forward in surprise. Once horse and rider were through the door, Gran slammed the door behind them and locked it fast.

  By then the children had raced back to see if she needed any help.

  When it was clear that the door was well shut and bolted, Jennifer ran over to the window and looked out.

  For a moment the garden was free of the dark mist, and she could see Bridei clearly. He had both spear and ax raised above his head and was holding on to the horse tightly with his thighs. Devil rose onto his back legs and his front feet pawed at the air while Bridei shouted a loud, ululating challenge that could be heard even through the window.

  And then the dark mist responded, rolling over the rooftop and down into the garden like doom, covering horse and rider and table and herbal borders and all. It roiled and boiled from one side of the lawn to the other.

  Though Jennifer could not see anything now but the mist, she could hear the clanging sounds of sword and battle-ax and the cries of warriors. She could distinguish the low rumble of carts and the skirling of strange pipes.

  “Come on, Bridei!” she shouted. “Come on, Night of Long Thunder.”

  She thought she heard him call back.

  The other children and Gran crowded next to her, adding their voices to hers.

  The battle seemed to go on forever.

  It seemed to end all at once.

  And then the mist was gone.

  Gone from the garden. Gone from the house. Gone from any window the children looked out.

  Gone.

  “Bridei …” Ninia whispered. She threw herself onto the sofa and buried her nose in the cat’s furry neck.

  “Did they win?” asked Jennifer at last. “Did they lose?”

  No one could give her a real answer.

  Twelve

  Car Ride

  “We must get into the car and ride over to the museum,” said Gran. “Now!”

  “But why?” Peter asked.

  “Because the answer to Jennifer’s question about the outcome of the battle may very well be there. In the museum.”

  “No,” Peter said, “I mean, why should we go by car? I thought you were big on walking everywhere. The museum’s not far. I went past it this morning when I—went the long way home.”

  “Ha!” said the dog. “When he was lost, he means.”

  “We go in the car because it will be fastest. And safest.”

  Jennifer understood at once. “Cold iron,” she said. “In the car we’ll be surrounded by cold iron.”

  “Not me, my lass,” said the dog. “Nae cold iron for me.”

  “Cold aluminum, you mean,” Peter said. “And plastic. And steel. Cars aren’t made of iron.”

  “I have a very old car,” Gran said.

  She wasn’t kidding. The car was so old it had a fierce-looking grille like a lion’s open mouth at the front end, and huge tail fins at the rear.

  “Does this thing still run?” Peter asked.

  “Da says it does,” Gran told them.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Jennifer ran her hand along the metal surface of the car.

  “I don’t drive,” said Gran.

  “Then how, you foolish auld besom, are we to get there?” the dog asked.

  “Peter can drive,” said Molly brightly. “Pop lets him practice in the driveway. Pop says he’s a … a natural.”

  But Peter, who had been looking in through the driver’s side window, shook his head vigorously. “Not a shift car, I can’t. Not on the left side of the road, I can’t. Not—”

  The dog interrupted. “You wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous—”

  “All right,” Peter said, as much to shut the dog up as for anything else. “I’ll try. Just no more name-calling.”

  They covered the backseat and back floor with blankets and a down duvet, but even then Ninia and the dog had a hard time breathing, both being creatures of magic now totally enclosed in a metal shell.

  Trembling and silent, Ninia perched on the backseat as if on some sort of wild and unpredictable steed. She kept her eyes closed tightly and her hands clasped. Her knuckles—the ones that were not bandaged—were white with the effort.

  On the other hand, the dog lay on a blanket on the floor with his teeth clamped together, and growled continuously.

  Jennifer pushed up the garage door nervously, in case the mist was still around.

  But there was not a sign of mist, or rain.

  Jennifer ran to get into the backseat, shoving over next to Ninia.

  Luckily Da had backed the car into the garage and all Peter had to do—once he figured out how to start it and get it into first gear—was to let the car drift down the driveway and out onto the lane.

  The first real problem they had was when they had to turn into Double Dykes Road. Peter narrowly missed plowing into a passing motorcycle.

  The man on the cycle waved his fist at them and called Peter a name.

  Frantically Peter hit the brakes and they were all flung forward. Like all cars of that vintage, it had no seat belts.

  Molly screamed. Jennifer cursed—something she never did. Gran cried out, “Keep us!”

  And the car died.

  It took almost five minutes for Peter to get it started again, for he had flooded the engine without knowing it. They sat, anxiously staring out of the windows and wondering if the mist was going to come back, while he tried and tried again to get the thing to turn over. The whole time they were stuck, Ninia jabbered in her foreign tongue and the dog moaned.

  But once the engine started up again, putt-putting with a steady rhythm, Peter did just fine, though he never did get the car out of first gear.

  “Ye are a natural,” Gran said. “There’s American magic in those hands, lad.”

  Peter was concentrating so hard on the road ahead, he almost did not hear the compliment.

  So, Jennifer thought, that’s what American magic is. Electricity and cars.

  The old car juggered along Double Dykes, into Burial Brae, and then—with Gran shouting, “Right! Right!”—Peter maneuvered them around a traffic circle and down Market Street to the little museum.

  Of course, he did not so much park the car as abandon it by the roadside. At which point they all stumbled out, Ninia and the dog being the most careful, so as not to touch any of the metal parts. Then they raced pell-mell into the little museum.

  But they needn’t have hurried. There was not a sign of the dark mist anywhere.

  Thirteen

  Museum

  The museum was smaller than Jennifer had expected. It was housed in an old fisherman’s cottage, with only two low-ceilinged rooms and a small entryway.

  “This is tiny,” Jennifer said.

  “Aye—’tis a wee thing. Not much to it,” said Gran. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

  She paid a pound for a family admission fee to a bored-looking woman in a sweater and dark tartan skirt behind the desk. The woman barely looked up from her magazine and so didn’t even notice Ninia’s odd dress.

  “Ye three take that room,” Gran said to Molly, Peter, and the dog. “And we will look at this one.”

  Jennifer took Ninia by the hand and pulled her over to the first display. In a glass case mounted on the wall there were about eight pieces of worked
silver jewelry, not too dissimilar from what Ninia wore. One was identified as a silver mount for a blast horn, another as a silver hair pin. The rest were brooches and rings. All of the silver was covered in designs of Celtic knotwork, as well as with dragon heads and lion heads and birds with long, improbable beaks.

  The second display consisted of pieces of gritty, coarse pottery in an oatmeal color that Jennifer thought was not very pretty at all.

  In the final display case were three largish stones, each about the size of a chair back. The first was covered with the same swirling designs that had decorated Bridei’s chest and arms. The second was crowded with animal drawings, mostly of bulls, though there was something that looked like a man on a horse as well. But the third …

  Ninia started jabbering again.

  “Gran, look!” Jennifer pointed to the third stone, which had a single snake and bird. “It’s her sign. Ninia’s!”

  Gran read the placard below the stone aloud. “‘Found at Campbell’s farm, south Fairburn, 1957. Considered a Class III stone, period after A.D. 800. Both the eagle and the snake are thought to be wisdom signs.’”

  “If she’s so wise,” Jennifer groused, “why can’t she speak English?” She was embarrassed the moment the complaint had left her mouth.

  “Hush!” Gran said. “No need to sound like that silly dog. Besides, the stone gives us a possible date.”

  “Why should we need one?”

  But Gran’s answer was interrupted by Ninia, who could not stop gibbering at the stone. She tried to touch it and her hand hit the glass. She tried a second time, only a little too hard, and an alarm went off.

  The woman in the sweater and tartan skirt came rushing in. “Here!” she said. “Don’t be touching that.”

  Jennifer dragged Ninia away from the glass and stood in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”

  Meanwhile Molly and Peter, with the dog at their heels, came running in at the sound of the alarm.

  “Jeez, Jen, what did you guys do?” Peter asked.

  “Nothing,” Jennifer said. “Ninia was just a little overexcited. There’s a stone here with her … clan pictures on it.”