The Pictish Child by Jane Yolen Read Free Book Online Page A

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.”
    â€œThe mist isn’t a being,” said Jennifer sensibly.
    â€œI believe it is the essence of all the beings of a particular time,” the horse said.
    â€œThat makes absolutely no sense,” Peter interjected.
    â€œIt 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 …”
    â€œWhy noo?” The dog sat up suddenly on his haunches. “Instead of a hundred years ago? Or a thousand?”
    â€œThe stone,” Jennifer said thoughtfully. “There has to have been some special magic in that Pictish stone …”
    â€œWhich Molly let loose by touching,” Peter interrupted.
    â€œOr Mrs. McGregor did,” said Molly.
    â€œOr you, Jennifer,” Peter added.
    â€œOr 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.
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œAll 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!”
    â€œMommy!” 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—”
    â€œDinna 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
    â€œThey must be here early,” Peter cried, jumping up from the sofa. “We’ve got to let them in before the mist gets them.”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œPeter!” Jennifer shouted, going after him. “It might be a trick of the mist’s.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œYou 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