by Lynne Jonell
Will was pretty sure a prayer was supposed to have words. “Please,” he croaked at last. “Help me get Jamie home. Keep my mother safe. Make me braver than I am.”
* * *
Morag’s home was small, made of stone, and thatched with straw. A thin, chuckling stream meandered through the clearing and disappeared into the woods on the opposite side. In the yard, clothes flapped lazily on a line stretched between the hut and a tree, two chickens pecked in the yard, and a wisp of smoke curled up from a hole in the roof.
Inside, the house was dark and smelled of goat. Will stood beside the rough wooden door, waiting until his eyes got used to the dimness. In the center of the floor a small fire glowed, and above it an iron pot hung from a chain.
There was a rustling from a bench against the wall and a shadowy figure raised itself on one elbow. “Morag? Who’s that with you? Did you sell the eggs?”
The voice was thin and peevish, and Morag went swiftly to the bench. “It’s all right, Mam, they just want a plaid each. We have that old one of Da’s, and I’ve another—my second best. You can see they need some decent clothes.”
The figure reared up straighter, and a thin finger shook in Morag’s face, outlined by the firelight. “Not unless they pay me! Beautifully woven, my plaids are!”
“They’ll pay,” Morag said hurriedly. “See? Such a fine coin!”
“Let’s get out of here,” Will muttered to Nan.
The air outside was fresh and clean-smelling, and they took deep breaths. “I can’t say I like Morag’s mother much,” said Nan.
Will nudged her into silence as Morag came outside.
“Don’t worry,” the girl said. “Mam’s been sick since Da died, and it makes her cross, like. But she says you can’t have two plaids for just one penny. Do you have another?”
Will reached silently into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. The coins shone in the sun.
Morag sucked in her breath. “Did you steal it?” she whispered.
“Of course not!” Will threw back his shoulders. “I’m not a thief.”
“How did you ever get so much, then?” Morag reached out and touched a coin the size of a quarter. “This one. It’s as big as a groat. Is it worth the same? Sixpence?”
“Ten pence, actually,” said Nan.
“All right,” said Morag. “I will give you two plaids, and belts, and a knife.… The knife is notched,” she added hurriedly, “but it will serve to cut your food.”
“Will you help us get to Jamie?” Will asked. “I have to get close enough to talk to him. He’s kind of—um—confused.”
Morag’s thick brows drew together. “He can’t be your brother,” she reminded Will. “You said your brother just ran away today, and that lad’s been here since last summer.”
Will and Nan glanced at each other and were silent.
Morag folded her arms. “Come on, then. What is it you’re not saying?”
Will groaned aloud. “You won’t believe us, not in a million years.”
Morag was silent. She tapped her foot.
“Fine, then,” Will said, exasperated. “We’re from another time. Far into the future. And my brother, Jamie, accidentally went running into this time and got lost. And now we’ve come to find him. I told you that you wouldn’t believe us,” he added.
The color drained from Morag’s face, leaving it pale as winter. “Witchcraft!” she breathed.
Nan glared at Will. “Now look what you’ve done.” She put out a reassuring hand, but the older girl backed away, her eyes wide.
“Wait a minute.” Will scratched behind his ear. “You still believe in witches? Like those guys at the Salem witch trials?”
“That happens later,” Nan hissed under her breath. “And in America.”
“Sor-reee, Miss Perfect History,” said Will.
Morag put out her arms on either side of the door and blocked the entrance with her body. “Don’t hurt me and Mam,” she begged. “I will give you back your silver, see?” She reached into her long, pouched sleeve and pulled out the ten pence coin.
Nan moved toward her. “Come on, don’t be like that. We’re not really witches.”
“Witches?” The word sounded as if it had been hissed by a snake. But it came from Morag’s mother, her hair wildly tangled and her eyes strangely shiny as she peered around her daughter. “You will burn at the stake for this!”
Nan gasped.
Will’s thoughts hurried over one another like tumbling dice. If people in this time still believed in witches, they were in serious danger … and he wasn’t going to change their minds. Suddenly he had an idea. It might not work, but it was all he could think of. He gripped his hands together to keep them steady. “You’re right about the witchcraft,” he said, over Nan’s fierce whisper. “But we aren’t the ones doing it. My brother has been—er—bewitched. Yeah. And we’ve come to save him.”
Morag’s hands came down, but she still looked wary. “Bewitched?”
Will nodded, thinking fast. “He was bewitched by—um—a powerful enchantment. That’s why he didn’t recognize us. And that’s why we thought he’d been gone only a day, when he was actually away for a whole year.”
Impossibly, Morag’s eyes seemed to grow even wider. “Oh!”
Morag’s mother batted her hand at them as if swatting flies. “Don’t you trust them, Morag. That little monk was lying the whole time. I could tell.”
“Little monk?” said Will.
“She means you,” Morag said hurriedly. “Because your hair is so short, you see. Men cut their hair short at the monastery.… Mam, go back to bed, you’re sick,” she said, turning her mother around. “I can feel the fever in your skin. Come on, back to bed, and I’ll give you a drink of ale.”
“But if they’re witches, girl?”
“He can’t be a witch if he’s a monk,” Morag explained patiently. “Right, Mam?”
“I don’t trust monks, either,” muttered the old woman. “And he’s all clarty with dirt, head to toe. Doesn’t he know how to wash?”
“He was just going to, at the burn.” Morag jerked her head toward the little stream with a meaningful look at Will, and led her mother into the hut.
So a burn was what the Scots called a stream. The water was ice cold, but it felt good to get the dried mud off him. Will rubbed and rubbed until his skin was clean, and stood shivering outside the hut as Morag tucked a blanket over her mother. There was a sound of swallowing as Morag tipped up the aleskin; then the girl tiptoed out, her arms full.
“Here,” she said hurriedly. “Put these on. The shirt first. Then the plaid—no,” she said to Will, “it goes over the shoulder, like this—then you pull this string through the loops to pleat it and tuck it into your belt, like so.”
With deft, quick movements, Morag’s hands draped and tucked and pleated the long, wide, multicolored piece of cloth until it looked a little like a toga and a little like a kilt. She slid an old, notched knife inside Will’s belt and then turned and fixed Nan’s plaid as well.
“There, now,” Morag said. “Mam’s quiet for the moment, but you’d best be gone before she wakes. You said you wanted my help to get close to young Jamie, but I don’t know what I can do. It’s a pity one of you isn’t a girl.”
“I’m a girl,” said Nan pointedly.
“You?” Morag peered at her. “Why are you running about in a boy’s underthings, then? And why did you cut your hair?”
Nan frowned. “I haven’t cut my hair for a year now. It’s past my shoulders.”
Morag shook her head. “Girls let theirs grow long enough to sit on, and they put it in a braid. Your hair is boys’ length.” She glanced at Will. “Or most boys,” she amended. “In any case, I’ll have to tie your plaid differently. Hold still.”
Nan stood impatiently as Morag tugged and pulled the plaid about. “What did you mean, it was a pity one of us wasn’t a girl? How would being a girl help?”
Morag finished and stepped
back to view her handiwork. “It’s just that I could get you a job at the castle,” she said. “My cousin is a chambermaid there—she’s the one who overheard what the laird said to his lady about young James—and my cousin says the last new girl they got was hopeless, all thumbs, could hardly sew on a button without pricking her fingers and getting blood all over everything. She wanted me, but I can’t leave Mam. Can you sew?”
“Of course,” said Nan recklessly. “What’s so hard about sewing? Stick the needle in, pull it out, that’s all there is to it.”
Will gave her a sidelong look.
“And as for you…” Morag scanned Will up and down. “What can you do? Do you know how to care for horses?”
Will shook his head.
“Pigs?”
“No,” said Will firmly.
“Are you sure?” Morag said. “You don’t have to be that smart to be a pig boy.”
Nan laughed.
“I’m smart enough,” said Will, annoyed. “I got A’s in English and math last year at school. Anyway, I need a job where I have a chance to talk with Jamie. I probably wouldn’t see much of him if I was hanging around with porkers.”
Morag lifted both her eyebrows. “I thought you said you came from across the sea. How could you go to school with the English? And what do you mean by ‘math’?”
“I didn’t go to school with the English,” Will said. “English is just what we call reading and writing. And math is numbers. You know, adding, subtracting, multiplying, fractions, all that.”
“Oh.” Morag gave Will a slightly more respectful look. “You really do know how to read and write, then? And figure? Did you learn from the monks?”
Will made an indistinct motion with his head and changed the subject. “Would reading and writing get me a job closer to Jamie?”
“Maybe,” said Morag, considering. “If you can stay out of Ranald’s way. But the laird already has a clerk to write and figure for him. Let’s go talk to my cousin and see what she can do about jobs. I’ll tell her you’re distant relations of mine.”
“About five hundred years distant,” Nan whispered in Will’s ear.
* * *
The light under the trees grew dimmer as they followed the path back to the castle. By the time they emerged from the forest, the gathering clouds had massed into a sullen shelf overhead and were spitting a thin drizzle. The castle, half-obscured with gray misting rain, showed bleak and forbidding against the dark hills.
Will swallowed hard. His knees felt strangely weak. But Morag was charging across the muddy field, and Nan was close behind; he really had no choice. Besides, Jamie was there.
The gate creaked open, and they shook the wet off themselves inside the entrance, where the gift shop was in their own time. Now it was a larger room with stacked weapons, mounted heads of deer hung on the wall, and two guards on duty. Morag went to talk with them while Will and Nan waited.
From the left came the sound of booted feet and the scrape and clink of metal. From the right came a clash of pots and pans, a high-pitched squeal, and the sound of a full-throated woman in what seemed to be a passionate fury.
All at once a door banged open and a thin, gangling teenager scuttled down the hall toward the entryway. His eyes were wide, his plaid was flapping, and behind him, thumping heavily (but at remarkable speed) was a stout, big woman with red hair, a red face, and something red dripping from a ladle. She was swinging it over her head with what looked like homicidal intent.
The boy ducked as the ladle nearly connected with his head; shoved past Morag, who stood in his way; and spun out into the rain with a shriek. The big woman stood in the door, breathing heavily and brandishing the ladle. Bits of red splattered all around, and one splash landed on Will’s cheek. He wiped it off, hoping it wasn’t blood.
“AND DON’T COME BACK!” howled the big woman as the boy’s thin figure diminished in the distance. “That’s the last sauce that clarty lad will ever ruin for me,” she muttered, turning. “Oh, it’s you, Morag. Have you ever in all your life seen such a fool of a pot boy?”
“Where did he come from?” Morag asked.
“The monks sent him over—they said he’d been helping them in the brewery, but he must have been as bad at brewing water-of-life as he was at stirring a sauce, for they got rid of him quick enough, didn’t they?”
“Water-of-life?” said Nan. “What’s that?”
“It’s called uisge,” Morag answered. “Too strong a brew for you, lassie.” She nudged Will in the ribs with her elbow. “Go on, lad, tell Cook you’re ready to work! She needs a new pot boy, that’s clear enough.”
Will stared up at the red-haired woman, dismayed.
The woman stared back, frowning. “Is he stupid? The last boy was stupid as a bannock. I had to tell him three times how to do a task, and even then he got it wrong.”
“I don’t think he’s stupid,” said Morag. “Just a bit tongue-tied.” She pushed her elbow harder into Will’s ribs.
“It’s a job at the castle, anyway!” whispered Nan.
Will got his arm up in time to block Morag’s third bruising nudge, and considered his options. He wanted to get close to Jamie, not get hired by someone who would kill him if he made a mistake. But then, with any luck, he wouldn’t be on the job long. “I’d like to be your new pot boy,” he said, swallowing hard.
The cook looked Will up and down. “Are you a clean lad?”
“Um…” Will looked down at himself. Had he missed a spot when he’d washed at the burn?
“My last pot boy was dirty and careless,” said Cook. “I can’t have that in my kitchen.”
Will had a sudden memory of his mother at the kitchen counter, teaching him how to cook. “I always wash my hands before I prepare food,” he offered.
The cook chuckled. “Well, you don’t have to go that far. It will be enough if you don’t drop twigs and bark and hunks of dried peat into the kettle, like the last boy.”
“Give him a try, Cook,” Morag said. “Will’s a bit slow with his tongue, but that’s good, isn’t it? He won’t be so pert to answer back. And he’s ready to work this instant.”
The big woman’s face was not so red now, and the ladle was dangling at her side. “You’ll vouch for him, Morag? You know him?”
“He’s a cousin, of sorts,” Morag said promptly.
Cook nodded. “Well, I’ll give him a trial. Will, is it? We’ve the evening meal to prepare and serve, and if you do well enough, I’ll keep you on. Come along.”
Morag gave Will a little shove. “Go on, follow her. She’s a bit crabbit, but she’s a bonnie cook. Stay on her good side, and she’ll feed you well! As for you,” she said to Nan, “come with me.”
“Wait!” Will reached for Nan’s wrist. “What about Jamie? We can’t just split up like this.”
“First do your job,” said Morag sternly, “or you’ll get thrown out of the castle before you even get a chance to speak to him.”
“But where are you taking her? We’ve got to make a plan!”
Morag made an impatient noise deep in her throat. “Hurry now, or Cook will be angry again, and you’ve seen what that looks like. You’ll see Nan at supper in the Great Hall, maybe.” Morag started up a narrow, curving stair, gripping Nan firmly by the arm. “Come along. I can’t spend all day!”
Nan leaned back to wave at Will. “I’ll find out what I can,” she promised, and then she was gone.
Will trudged toward the kitchen, thinking hard. He was in the castle, with a job. That was good. There was no need to panic.
Except his chest felt fluttery, as if something kept brushing at his ribs. Would Jamie recognize him, now that Will had cleaned the mud off his face? It still seemed crazy that Jamie hadn’t known his own brother, but Will supposed that, to a little kid, a year was a long time. And Jamie would have been terribly confused when he first came.
Will tried to recall his own kindergarten year, and could only come up with three or four clear memories. W
hat if he had been suddenly picked up out of his world, at that age, and then at once plunked down in another one? Would he have thought his old life was all a dream after a while? Would he have tried to forget?
Maybe he should be slow to approach Jamie. Maybe he should give his little brother time to get used to the idea.
No. He had to get Jamie and Nan back home. How much time was going by for Cousin Elspeth while they were stuck here? If Will could manage to get them all back in time for a late lunch, they might get off with only a scolding. But if they were gone much longer, Cousin Elspeth would be tearing the hillside apart to look for them. She would call in local searchers, and she would call his father. Except his dad was already busy trying to rescue Will’s mother.
The hall was long and dark. The narrow windows didn’t let in enough light to see clearly, and Will’s hand scraped on the rough stone wall. He sucked on his grazed knuckles. How had things gotten this complicated? Only two days ago, his biggest worry was that he might not get his homework done in time to play ball with his friends. And now, because Jamie had gotten that stupid Magic Eyeball book, they were in all kinds of trouble.
He groaned aloud. He had just remembered; Nan still had the Magic Eyeball book in her satchel. He should never have agreed to split up! He had to find Nan, and he had to find Jamie, and they all had to get out of here now.
Will turned around in an instant, already running. If he hurried, he could catch up with them on the stairs.
He rammed headfirst into something large and solid. A heavy hand came down on his shoulder, and his chin was wrenched upward.
“You again!” growled Ranald.
5
POT BOY AND CHAMBERMAID
RANALD SHOOK HIM THE WAY a dog might shake a rat it wanted to kill. Will’s teeth clicked in his head and his eyes closed as if on hinges. He tried to remember what he had learned in karate class, but it was hopeless when Ranald was lifting him right off his feet. Will had the odd sensation that it was all happening to someone else.