by Jane Yolen
“Like my bird and snake!” Molly cried.
Gran nodded. “The later stones—after the Picts all became Christians—have Celtic crosses on them. But no one kens what those earlier pictures mean. They may be magic symbols or they may be clan names or they may be grocery lists. We dinna ken for certain.”
“Grocery lists!” Molly put both her hands over her mouth and giggled.
“Pretty hard to bring that kind of list to the store with you,” said Peter. He laughed, too.
“Maybe it’s a list of kings,” Jennifer mused aloud.
“Perhaps,” said Gran. “And perhaps the wee Pictish lass will tell us.”
“If that one could tell us a thing,” the dog said, sitting up, “she’d ha’ done it already.”
At that moment Ninia came over. In her fist was a bunch of herbs from the garden. She named them slowly to Gran in her rough tongue.
“Good, good,” said Gran, then she named all the herbs back to Ninia, using the English words. “We call this one thyme and this one rosemary. And this one—”
“Catnip!” put in Jennifer.
As if on cue, Gran’s little white cat appeared around the corner of the garden table. Ninia took one look, gave a little scream, and—dropping the herbs—ran into the house.
“I feel the same way,” said the dog. Then he put his head on his paws and within moments began to snore.
Eight
Dark Mist
It took them a good fifteen minutes and three pieces of shortbread—which Ninia ate with a ferocious appetite—to coax her into touching the little cat. But once she’d been convinced to stroke its silky-soft fur with her fingertips—the only parts of her hands not bandaged up by Gran—she began to smile. She picked the cat up in her arms and after that refused to let it go, carrying it everywhere with her.
Surprisingly the little cat let her cart it around, and it took to lying draped over her shoulders like some furry white shawl. She spoke to it continuously, in a lyrical singsong.
“I bet she’s never seen a cat before,” said Peter.
“We can let her have this one,” said Molly.
“Awfully generous with someone else’s pet.” Jennifer felt snippy because she’d wanted the cat herself.
Peter understood at once; twins sometimes have an uncanny knack for knowing this sort of thing. Immediately he backed her in his awkward way, as if their other arguments were long forgotten.
“What if Ninia decides she needs the fur for a hat?” he said. “Or wants a midnight snack of kitty on crackers? And”—he snapped his fingers—“there goes Gran’s cat.”
“Gran’s cat,” Gran said, “can take care of itself.”
And that was that.
They had lunch in the garden—sandwiches on homemade bread, big chunks of cheese, crisps, and glasses of fizzy lemonade. Ninia didn’t seem to know what to do with the sandwiches until she took them apart and ate what was inside. The glass with the lemonade utterly defeated her. She kept staring into it and turning it upside down, spilling the lemonade everywhere. But she was wild about the crisps and couldn’t get enough of them.
“Bet it’s the salt,” Peter said. “Salt was probably hard to come by back then.”
“They lived right by the sea,” Jennifer pointed out. “Plenty of salt there.”
Gran shrugged. “Crisps are Da’s favorite, too.”
The dog woke up to the sound of eating and begged—not entirely successfully—for scraps.
They were partway through the meal, Ninia licking the crisps bag without embarrassment, when the great black horse, Devil, trotted over from beyond the wall. He liked to crop the long grass in the wilder part of the garden and rarely strayed closer to the house.
“Am I missing food?” he asked, his words bumping up and down as he trotted toward them.
This time Ninia showed no fear. She leaped up, gabbling long nonsense sentences, and ran over to him. He stopped at once and stood rigidly, while she put both hands on either side of his long face and blew into his nostrils one at a time.
“Never seen a horse afore, either,” the dog remarked sarcastically.
Gran smiled. “Of course she has seen horses. There are Pictish stones with horses carved on them in our museum. But …” And she mused a bit, watching the girl and Devil. “She seems to ken this one intimately.”
“Blow softly in my nose and ye can ken me intimately, too,” said the dog.
Gran aimed a cuff at his ear, but missed.
Just then the horse and Ninia came over to them. Giving an expansive gesture with her left hand, Ninia launched into a long and completely unintelligible speech.
“Well …” Gran said to Devil, “and do ye have some information to impart to us?”
“My lady and I were acquainted in the long-ago …” Devil began.
“My lady!” Jennifer exploded. “In that outfit?”
“That outfit was what young girls wore then,” Devil replied.
“In the long-ago, you mean?” Jennifer said.
The horse nodded his head up and down. “And she was no ordinary girl then. She was to be the mother of the next king.”
“She’s way too young to be a mother,” Peter put in.
“And ye are way too auld to be a fool,” said the dog.
“Awfully old,” mused Jennifer to the horse, “if you and she lived with the Picts.”
“Och,” said Gran, “now things may be coming clear. Ninia’s been sent here on a mission.”
“Or as an escape,” Jennifer added.
“Clear as dirt,” the dog said.
“He bites his tongue who speaks in haste,” said the horse easily.
The Pictish girl gabbled again.
“Och, well, that was certainly instructive.” The dog stood and stretched. Then, stiff legged, he walked toward the garden gate. “Someone best let me out,” he said. “I’d rather not mess the garden unintentionally.”
Peter got up and followed the dog to the fence. Lifting the ironwork latch, he began to open the wooden door. But even before he’d gotten it pushed partway out, the dog was scampering backward, howling hysterically.
“The dark! The dark! The dark!”
And the mist, which had somehow gotten free of the confines of the cemetery and the binding of the ironwork gates, came pouring into the garden with its sounds of war.
Nine
Night for Day
They all managed to get into the house before the mist entirely filled the garden, but only just. The lunch dishes were left scattered on the garden table, the encyclopedia fell to the ground, and two of the chairs were overturned in their flight.
The mist still looked like a haar, only now it was darker and more menacing. It moved like low rain clouds around the house, obscuring the closest objects, even the wisteria that climbed along the house walls.
Relentlessly the mist turned day into night.
“Wow!” said Molly, pressing her nose up to the living-room window and watching as the dark mist changed form. “Look—there’s something in it. I think it’s a man. No, a horse. No—”
Ninia grabbed her arm and pulled her away. “Me Molly!” she cried. “Me Molly!”
Meanwhile Gran had gone into the cupboard by the kitchen and, moments later, emerged carrying a large grey toolbox.
“Here,” she said, handing out ratchets and hammers, screwdrivers and wrenches to the children. “Stick one in front of each window and door. The brass and iron fixtures on the doors and windows should keep the mist out anyway, but better safe than …”
“… sorry.” Peter and Jennifer finished her sentence together.
“Very sorry,” Peter added. Though he knew it was stupid, he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that it was somehow all his fault that the mist had gotten into the garden at all.
Dutifully all of the children—except for Ninia, of course—ran around the house placing the tools and nails by windows and doors. When those were all set out, they used Gran’s sterlin
g silverware, teakettle, pots and pans, and old washtub, too. Ninia didn’t help, fearing she’d be burned again, though she stuck close to Molly the whole time.
They had just finished on the second floor when Jennifer had a sudden, panicky thought.
“The chimneys!” she shouted as the mist began to scrabble up on the roof. She could hear mourning doves, in panicked flight, leaving their chimney-pot nests.
Desperately the children raced to the fireplaces in each room and scattered the last remaining bits of metal onto the hearthstones. For good measure, Peter placed several portable metal heaters like fire guards in front of each fireplace.
When they were finished they ran back to the living room, where Gran waited with the dog, the cat, and the horse.
“Will it be enough?” Jennifer asked, panting with the effort of securing the house. “Do you think it will be enough, Gran?”
“For now,” Gran said. It was not much comfort.
Day was now entirely night, as the dark mist covered window after window, downstairs and upstairs and—
“The actic!” Molly cried. “What if it comes in the actic?” There were lots of windows up there.
“Attic,” Jennifer said automatically.
“We’ve blocked the attic door with carpet tacks and paper clips and some screwdrivers,” said Peter. “They should hold.”
Jennifer started to shake again, just as she had in the Eventide Home. “But the iron gate didn’t hold the mist in the cemetery,” she said. “And that was much thicker iron. And older.”
“Ye needn’t ha’ reminded us o’ that!” the dog said miserably. He lay on the rug and put his paws up over his ears.
“I dinna think the mist came through the cemetery gates at all,” Gran said. “I think it flowed over the oak tree and down a limb to the other side. Or else someone released it through one of the gates. And then …”
“And then it followed us home?” Jennifer could not stop shaking.
“Like a dog on a trail,” said Peter.
“I resent that comparison,” said the dog.
“But why did it follow us?” It was Molly’s turn to whine.
“That,” Gran said, “is always the real question in any magic. Why.”
They sat down together in the living room, the lights on everywhere. It said a great deal about their state of fear that Ninia didn’t question—even with so much as a look—what must have been a miracle to her glowing in each light fixture. She just clutched the cat and sat huddled between Molly and Jennifer, unable to speak of her terror to anyone but the horse.
“Why,” Gran repeated. “That is what we need to figure out first.”
“The mist is after the girl?” suggested Peter.
“Or the talisman,” said Jennifer.
“Or us,” said Molly.
“Or me.” The horse spoke from the corner by the garden door with a kind of awful sorrow. “When Michael Scot first took me from my Pictish past, he tore a hole in history. And it seems to have allowed other beings to slip through. Like Ninia. Like the mist.”
“The mist isn’t a being,” said Jennifer sensibly.
“I believe it is the essence of all the beings of a particular time,” the horse said.
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Peter interjected.
“It makes every bit of sense,” Gran said. “That is why the mist is dangerous. If the wrong part of that essence comes loose in the house … or grabs up one of us and thrusts that one through that hole in time …”
“Why noo?” The dog sat up suddenly on his haunches. “Instead of a hundred years ago? Or a thousand?”
“The stone,” Jennifer said thoughtfully. “There has to have been some special magic in that Pictish stone …”
“Which Molly let loose by touching,” Peter interrupted.
“Or Mrs. McGregor did,” said Molly.
“Or you, Jennifer,” Peter added.
“Or all three,” said Gran. “Three is an important number in magic. And remember—magic cannot be taken, only given.”
The dog lay back down and covered his ears with his paws. “Oh, my puir head,” he said. “It’s all guesswork. And guesswork is nae work, as they say in the Lowlands.”
They ignored him.
“Then when Molly gave the stone back to Ninia, the original owner …” Jennifer said.
Her musing was cut short by the horse. “What can we do about the mist, boxed up here? I do not want to go back through that hole. To war. To death. I like the green grass of your garden, old woman.” He whuffled and shook his head several times, nearly knocking over a floor lamp.
“What we need to do now is to think clearly,” Gran said. “Quietly. Properly. Without emotion putting a cloud as dark as that mist over our minds.”
“All very well for ye to say,” the dog protested, his paws now off his ears. “I’m greetin wi’ terror mysel’, and I never got to do my business out in the street.”
At that Molly started to cry. She was only four years old, after all. It was a high, panicky wail.
Molly’s wailing set Ninia off, and the Pictish girl began to sniffle. Then she squeezed the cat till it yowled in protest. When it scratched her, she dropped it in surprise, and it hid under the sofa.
Cat mewed.
Dog howled.
Horse whuffled.
Ninia wept.
And Molly cried, “I want my mommy!”
“Mommy!” Jennifer said. “Oh no!”
Peter looked equally appalled. “How will they get home? Mom and Pop. And Da. How will they get through the dark mist and into the house? We have to warn them. We have to—”
“Dinna fash yersel about that,” said Gran. “They’re not due for hours yet.”
And that’s when there was a knock at the door: heavy, frantic, and sustained.
Ten
Warrior
“They must be here early,” Peter cried, jumping up from the sofa. “We’ve got to let them in before the mist gets them.”
“No, Peter …” Gran put a hand out to forestall him. “Who knows what else might come in with them, through that tear in history—”
But it was too late. He’d already run out of the living room and was heading toward the front door.
“Peter!” Jennifer shouted, going after him. “It might be a trick of the mist’s.”
“What if it’s not?” he called back. “We can’t leave them out there in it. That’s much too dangerous.” He unbolted the lock and lifted the latch.
“You daft lad!” screamed the dog. “Dinna make a midden out of a mouse hole. Why would they be knocking? Yer mom and pop and Da each have a key!”
But it was too late. Peter had already cracked the door open and a wisp of the fog was creeping painfully over the metal doorstep.
“Mom?” Peter called out tremulously into the grey mist that was rapidly filling the courtyard. “Pop?”
As if to mock him, the fog called the same names back.
At the garden window, Molly cried, “It’s gone. The grey stuff’s all gone.”
But it was not gone, had merely left the garden and was gathering by the open front door, bunched and thick and ready to push in.
Peter slammed the door shut and locked it again, leaning his back against it. Jennifer pushed against the door as well, as if their combined weight was all that was needed to keep the household safe.
“It’s all right,” Peter called to the others in the living room. “I shut it again in time. No harm done.”
No harm? wondered Jennifer.
Even as Peter spoke, the tiny wisp of fog that had made it across the iron barrier began to take form. It shifted and shaped itself before their horrified eyes, growing into a man. Not a tall man—not nearly as tall as Pop, who was six feet—but a man broad at the shoulder, with well-muscled arms, a full dark beard, and long, dark hair combed over to one side and tied up in a ponytail. He was wearing a short leather tunic and soft leather boots. In one hand he held a large
ax, and in the other a long-handled spear. Some kind of embossed leather shield was slung across his back on a leather strap.
The warrior was scary enough in the darkened hallway, but when Peter backed away from him and accidentally rubbed against the light switch, turning on the hall light, the man was scarier still.
Like Ninia, he was tattooed on his hands and arms. But he was also tattooed on his body and face, in great swirling designs, like waves. His startled mouth was open and it was a misery of broken teeth. A livid scar ran down his face, from forehead to chin.
Jennifer screamed and Peter tried to run back into the living room, but the warrior quickly blocked his path, bellowing some awful Pictish war cry. So Peter simultaneously gave him a great kick in the shins and ducked under the man’s right arm, the arm with the ax.
It was an incredibly brave and incredibly stupid thing to do, and Jennifer shouted encouragement, as if she were cheering Peter on at one of his soccer games.
The warrior turned and started after him, battle-ax held high. In another second the ax would be swung in a downward stroke, and that would be the end of Peter.
Jennifer’s cheer turned into a scream.
But Ninia’s voice was louder still. She stood and called out something in three short, commanding syllables.
The warrior looked over, spotted her, and fell to his knees in one movement. He laid down his weapons, first the ax and then the spear; put his head in his hands, and—all unaccountably—wept.
Eleven
Single Combat
Ninia walked over to the burly warrior and pushed his tattooed hands away from his face. Then she put her own hands under his chin, lifted it, and said something so softly only he could hear.
“If she blows in his nostrils, I may have to honk,” said the dog.
“If you are not silent, I may have to kill you,” said Devil.
“If someone doesn’t explain what is happening,” Jennifer said, “I may have to scream.”
Gran held up a hand and they all quieted. “Clearly she recognizes him. King, father, brother, cousin …”
