Awkward Rachel, who hates speaking up and getting things wrong, would ask for ordinary black tea because it’s the safest. But this house calls for courage.
“That smells interesting. I’d love to try it, thanks.” I perch on the very edge of a wooden chair and watch Mrs. Mac potter about the kitchen.
Sybil does a great job of getting underfoot, but Mrs. Mac doesn’t step on her even once. When the tea is ready, in a pot that looks like some sort of creature but I can’t tell what—a toad, maybe?—Mrs. Mac clicks her fingers and says quietly, “Dogs!”
Just like that, they’re all around us; Sybil and the deerhound and the two from the hall—sturdy brindled Staffies. They sit, watching us.
“This is Finn,” Mrs. Mac indicates the deerhound, “and these are Minnie and Paddy, or Minerva and Patrick if you want to be formal. One named for a goddess, the other for a saint. And Finn, of course, was a great hero. Then there’s Sybil, and her brother over there.”
There are dog beds all over the place, from an oversized one that must be Finn’s to a tiny one with built-up sides. A head pops up from that one, round eyed and big eared. That dog’s just asking to be called Yoda. When Mrs. Mac lifts him out of his bed, I see that his hind legs are deformed.
“Oh, poor thing,” I say.
“Here, hold him while I pour the tea. One hand under his rear end, that’s it, and one around his chest. Take a firm hold. He won’t break.”
“What’s his name?” I’m trying to think of a god or saint or hero who couldn’t walk.
“Frankie. You’d be far too young to know how that name was chosen.”
I sit at the table with Frankie on my knee, wishing I could work it out. “St. Francis?”
“Good guess, but not right. You may like a spoonful of honey to sweeten that tea. Let it cool a bit before you drink.”
Frankie. Francis. Or maybe just Frank? Wasn’t there once an American president who used a wheelchair? Pity I didn’t bring my phone with me. But she’d probably think that was cheating. I stroke Frankie’s oversized ears and rub him under the chin. He relaxes against my chest. Why do I suddenly feel like crying? I hold the dog steady with one hand while I stir some honey into my tea. And the answer pops into my brain all by itself. “Franklin,” I say.
Mrs. Mac grins. “Very good, Rachel. A reader, are you?”
“Lucky guess. We don’t do much American history at school. And yes, I do love to read.” I focus on my tea, my cheeks hot. I’m waiting for the usual jokes about how a girl my age should be into clothes and boys.
But she just smiles and says, “Frankie has some wheels. He’s just getting used to the contraption, but he can scoot up and down the hall quite well.”
We sit quietly drinking our tea for a bit, then Mrs. Mac asks, “Do you know anything about the history of this house? How it came to be built, and who lived in it?”
“Nothing much. Only that it’s been empty for a long while.”
“You might do a little research. See what you can tell me, next time you visit.”
“Like homework?”
She laughs, not a polite-old-lady chuckle but a full-bellied guffaw. “Not at all. Expanding your horizons. Broadening your knowledge. Preparing for the future, and I don’t mean in a learn this or you’ll never get a job way. More tea?”
I remember suddenly that I only came over to give her the letter. “Oh—I’d better go home. My mother will freak out if she can’t find me. Sorry to seem rude, I…” I get up and almost step on Sybil. “Oh, sorry!”
“There’s no need to apologize for yourself, Rachel.” Mrs. Mac gives me a searching look. Her voice is kind, though. “If you need to go home, go. And if you’d like to visit me again, please do. Sybil! Up!” The tiny dog executes an unlikely leap into Mrs. Mac’s arms. “I’ll see you out.”
As we go down the hallway, I glance through a part-open door—that I’m sure was shut before—and my feet refuse to take another step. The room within is large and shadowy. The walls are lined with shelves, and the shelves are crammed with books. There are little round tables with lamps on them, and some squashy-looking old chairs. I stand there gaping. Those books can’t have been here while the house was empty. They’d have been eaten up by insects or fallen apart from mold or something. When did she move them all in?
“Not completely sorted out yet,” Mrs. Mac says. “Maybe you could assist me next time you visit. Let your mother know first. She’d surely approve of helping an old lady, mmm?”
I walk on, reluctantly, and say goodbye at the front door. As I cross the road, I think out what to say to Mum. I’ll be going over sometimes to help Mrs. Mac sort out her books, if that’s okay. She can’t reach the highest shelves on her own. I don’t like to lie, but the truth would freak Mum out.
That house is full of magic.
#
To my surprise, Mum says I can go over after school a few days later to help with the books. The night before I go, I make muffins to take with me. I’m nervous, even though Mrs. Mac was so nice. What if I interrupt her when she’s busy with something, or taking a nap?
The thought of being a nuisance makes my stomach queasy. It brings back all the times I’ve heard other kids talking about me at school, as if it was freakish to read a book at recess or ask questions they don’t understand or get so wrapped up in writing that I miss the bell to go back to class.
I can’t talk to my parents about this. Their solution would be signing me up for basketball or hockey or something, on the assumption that playing team sports would suddenly make me fit in. James can tell something’s not right at school. But I can’t talk to him, he’s only eleven. And he’d pass it straight on to Mum and Dad.
Mrs. Mac opens the door and smiles, and my stomach settles. We eat the muffins and drink tea, and I’m allowed to fasten Franklin into his little wheeled contraption so he can whizz up and down the hall with Sybil running alongside.
Then we go to the library.
This time there are reading lights on, and the curtains are open, and the big room is bright and warm and welcoming. In between the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are quirky corners and niches holding different things: a jar full of feathers, a scowling mask, a candelabra shaped like a woman with snakes for hair. There are window seats with cushions—an invitation to curl up and lose yourself in a book. At one end of the room is a tiled hearth for an open fire. The tiles have creatures on them, a bit like the ones on those stamps.
I take a big breath and let it out slowly. My home across the road is nice enough but it’s not the sort of place that brings stories bubbling to the surface.
“This house is beautiful,” I say as I look at the intricate pattern of leaves and vines and birds on the curtain fabric, and the carpet square like soft grass, and the diamond-shaped windowpanes. There are so many surprises here. One of them is the desktop computer setup, with big screen and printer and ergonomic office chair. Hers? I guess it must be.
There are books on a small table, and one catches my eye. Tracing the Cailleach: The Hag Figure in the Folklore of the Western Isles by Dr. M. G. MacEachern. I’m about to ask if Dr. MacEachern is a relative when I turn the book over and see the author’s photo on the back. It’s her, but a lot younger, around my mother’s age. She’s standing on rocks with the sea behind and her long dark hair streaming out in the wind. She’s not dressed up for a fancy author photo, but sensibly clad in a parka and jeans.
“That’s a great picture. You look happy.”
“I was happy. I’d finished my doctoral thesis and seen it published, and I was in one of my favorite spots in the world. You might find that book a little dry; it’s heavy on scholarly references. Try this instead.” She passes me a slimmer volume. The jacket illustration shows an old woman emerging from a dark wood, holding a lighted lantern and accompanied by a wolf. It’s a fairy tale version of Mrs. Mac. The title is Maiden and Crone: Tales of the Western Isles by M. G. McEachern.
“They left the ‘doctor’ off your
name,” I say.
“That one’s not a scholarly work, simply a collection of some of the tales I discovered along the way. It was a lot of fun to write.”
I look through the pages. The illustrations are brilliant. One shows the witch, or maybe she’s a hag, standing in a giant whirlpool and washing what looks like a tartan blanket. She’s wild and powerful and completely unafraid. She’s exactly the way I wish I could be.
“We can be whatever we choose,” says Mrs. Mac, as if she’s read my thoughts.
“A goddess? A witch? In Ashburn?”
She smiles. “You won’t live your whole life in Ashburn. Not that it’s so bad a place to be a witch. Often it’s places like this that most need one.”
“What does that word mean—Cailleach?” I point to the title of the first book. “Sorry, I’m sure that’s not how you say it.”
“You’re doing it again. Apologizing.”
“Sorry. I mean…Could you tell me how to pronounce it, please?”
Mrs. Mac demonstrates. It sounds like KY-akh. “It means Hag,” she says. “Some folk imagine a hag as a hideous old woman. I see her as a force of nature. One which has been around since the time of our ancient ancestors, or longer still. But, of course, she could be both.”
“She doesn’t look hideous there. She looks as if nothing in the whole world could scare her.”
There’s a pause while Mrs. Mac pats Minnie and Paddy, who have come in quietly to sit on either side of her. “That’s how we need to be, Rachel,” Mrs. Mac says. “Unafraid. Unapologetic. Like the Cailleach. You’ll find that story at the end. It’s called ‘Washing the Plaid.’ Read it now, if you like.”
She doesn’t speak while I look the story up in the contents and find the right page. The title has a little wreath around it—half spring flowers, half snowflakes.
Then Mrs. Mac says, “She’s young like you. Brigid, a springtime goddess. And she’s old like me. The Hag, bringer of winter. That tale is about the way things keep changing, yet stay the same. How they renew themselves after turbulent times. How we stand strong, no matter what.”
I glance across, and for a moment I see not elderly Mrs. Mac with her white hair and wrinkles, but the woman in the author photo: a traveler, an adventurer, fearless and joyful. She’s young and middle-aged and old, all at the same time. Magic.
With a shiver, I bury myself in the book. It’s weird reading the story right after I’ve had that thought, because when the Cailleach washes her plaid in the whirlpool in late autumn, the tartan colors fade to white, and winter creeps over the land. When it’s time for spring a young goddess, Brigid, takes the Cailleach’s place, and things warm up and start growing again.
A note at the end tells me that in some versions of the story Brigid and the Cailleach are the same person. Young and old, spring and winter. In others, they’re separate goddesses. Either way, it’s about changes being part of a long steady pattern. That makes me think of how Mrs. Mac came to the Bridge House. And how you can’t judge things on the way they look at any given time, though lots of people do just that.
My mind fills up with ideas. I’m bursting to write about this.
#
I write at home. I write at school, and when people make snarky comments, I ignore them. I write at the Bridge House, after school or on the weekends, while Mrs. Mac works on her computer. But although I get deep into writing, I’m not blind to what’s happening around me, some of it seriously weird.
It started with the blue front door, and it keeps happening: fresh paintwork, wobbly steps fixed, broken windowpanes replaced. Inside, the house seems lighter, fresher, the curtains clean, the colors of the dragon carpet no longer faded. No cobwebs in the high corners, though there are still lots outside the kitchen windows. Mrs. Mac doesn’t ask me to sort the books, but someone’s doing it, because from all mixed up they’ve moved into library order. The jackets look brighter.
I don’t ask how it’s happening. I don’t want to break the spell
#
Each time I go home, I tell my parents I’ve been helping Mrs. Mac fix up the house. As long as I do my homework, they don’t seem to mind. I’m not ready to show them my stories yet. And if I told them I want to be a writer, they’d probably say Mrs. Mac was a bad influence, and make me stop visiting the Bridge House.
Why don’t I want anyone to read my stories? Because I couldn’t bear to be told they’re rubbish. It would be even worse if someone tried to be nice and I could tell they actually thought my stuff was terrible.
But I remember how Mrs. Mac gave me her book to read when she hardly knew me, and I think about the gazillion great story ideas I’ve had since visiting her, the house, and the dogs. She’s a writer too, a real writer. If there’s anyone I should trust to look at my stuff, she’s it.
I do have one story I’m fairly proud of. It’s my version of “Washing the Plaid.” Will Mrs. Mac like it, though? I imagine the Cailleach standing out there in the whirlpool, strong arms wielding the plaid like a banner, and I know it’s time to be brave.
I print a copy and give it to her the next time I’m at Bridge House. My hands tremble and I run home before she opens the first page.
The story starts like this:
You know me. But you don’t see me. I’m the shuffling bag lady in her worn-out shoes, the muttering derelict whose disturbing smell turns your head away and speeds your footsteps. I’m the wife and mother who one day, without explanation, throws a few things in a suitcase and walks out the door forever. I’m the snowy-haired grandmother, wizened as an apple left too long in storage, who stares at you with knife-sharp eyes, daring you to call her a little old lady.
I’m a witch. I’m a wisewoman. I’m a force of nature, a power to be reckoned with. I have a thousand names. I’ve lived a thousand lives. I am the spark of being, the flame of courage, the danger and the choice. I’m in every woman, deep down. Sometimes blinding bright, sometimes a steady glow, sometimes the merest flicker in a cavern of uncertainty. Disregard me at your own cost.
#
The next day I’m nearly home from school when I hear the shouting. There are people on the road outside our house and cars everywhere. I see James and Mum and Mr. Briggs, our neighbor. He’s the one doing the shouting.
I start to run, my schoolbag bouncing on my back. As I get close, I spot something tiny darting around on the road. Oh, God, it’s Sybil.
“Wait!” I call out, gesturing wildly, but nobody’s looking at me. Sybil’s in a panic, zigzagging all over the place. A driver coming the other way has stopped. People behind her honk their horns. A car comes up behind me. The driver slows; I step off the curb and put a hand out. Stop. With a grimace, he hits the brakes.
When I turn back, Mum has moved out to face the opposite line of traffic, signaling to the drivers to wait. I dump my bag on the footpath outside our house. James is crouched beside the lead car, trying to see underneath. The driver opens her door and gets out.
“It’s under here,” says James.
“Stay where you are. I’ll go on the other side,” I tell him.
The driver moves to the front of the car and gets in position for a quick catch.
There’s still an exit for Sybil—at the back. If she goes out that way, her path will lead straight under the line of vehicles with their impatient drivers. Mum stays right where she is, making sure nobody tries to drive through. Her expression startles me. Disregard me at your own cost.
“We need someone at the back of the car!” I call out.
In a moment, there’s Finn, come from nowhere to station himself exactly where he’s needed. I kneel on the road, peering under the car. Sybil’s right in the middle, out of reach, hunkered down on the ground, trembling.
“We need a broom or something,” says James, peering at me from the other side.
“How about I release the brake and we roll the car slowly forward?” suggests the driver, getting back in.
“Get that vicious brute off the road!�
�� yells Mr. Briggs. “Should be muzzled and locked up!”
“Keep your opinions to yourself,” Mum snaps. “Right now, we need a couple of people to push the car gently forward. Thanks,” she adds as other neighbors come over to help. “Slowly. That animal must be terrified. Ready? One, two, three—now.”
The car moves forward to reveal Sybil, now lying motionless on the road. Oh God, she’s had a heart attack or something. But no—she raises her head. She’s up on her feet, gathering herself for a sprint. Finn steps forward and places a majestic paw on her back, and she relaxes. I gather her up, holding her tight against my chest. My heart’s thumping super quick and so is Sybil’s. I feel dizzy, as if I might pass out.
“Thank you so much,” Mum is saying to the crowd. “It looks as if the little one’s fine. Thanks, everyone.” She ushers Sybil, Finn, James and me onto the footpath, then signals to various drivers that they can be on their way. One or two of them toot their horns briefly before they drive off, as if to say, Well done.
Mum waves.
I could swear she’s enjoying herself.
“I’d better take Sybil to Mrs. Mac’s,” I say when the traffic’s cleared. I can hear Mr. Briggs muttering something with “council” in it as he shuffles off home.
“Not on your own,” says Mum. “You’ve had a shock. We’ll all go. James, take Rachel’s bag inside, will you? And fetch that packet of Tim Tams from the pantry.”
We wait for him at Mrs. Mac’s gate, which is slightly open. There’s no sign of her; I hope she’s okay. James returns with the biscuits, but when we’re heading up the path he hangs back.
“Mum?” He sounds unusually serious.
“What is it, James?”
“Mr. Briggs let the little dog out. He opened Mrs. Mac’s gate.”
Relics, Wrecks and Ruins Page 2