The Bagpiper’s Ghost (8 page)

Maybe I'm going crazy, too
, she thought. But she knew she was as sane as could be. It was the rest of the world that had suddenly become the madhouse.

She thought carefully:
We have to get Peter back tonight
.

Tonight
.

Because if the doctor takes Peter away from here—from Fairburn and Fife—he'll never get better. He really
will
be Andrew MacFadden, that awful, lying man
.

Forever
.

Twelve

Runaway

Dinner was a sad affair. The roast was burnt, the potatoes undercooked, the green beans overcooked into a gray mash, and there was no pudding.

It didn't matter, of course.

Jennifer pushed the potatoes around her plate with her fork and couldn't eat a thing.

Mom and Pop sat with glazed looks on their faces, and Da's normally sunny smile was turned down into one of the dourest frowns imaginable. Gran was clearly thinking about something other than the meal in front of her.

Only Molly had any appetite.

And the dog.

The dog waited patiently under the table for scraps. Jennifer knew he'd have a lot to eat soon.

Afterwards dragged by as well. Jennifer tried a couple of games with Molly, because none of the grown-ups wanted to talk at all. They played Stone, Scissors, Paper, with the cat sticking her paw out as if playing with them every third round. They attempted several verses of the hand-clapping “Miss Mary Mack.” They even tried some card games. But Jennifer couldn't get up much enthusiasm for any of it, and Molly, sensing something wrong, asked if she could just watch TV, instead. Jennifer was grateful to stop playing.

In fact, they were all in a state of tremulous listening, as if expecting any minute to hear Peter start ranting and raving and speaking in a foreign tongue again.

Only Molly—happily watching a game show she didn't really understand—seemed blissfully unaware of the danger.

Those hours between dinner and bedtime seemed endless.

Endless and full of endless light.

At last Molly, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, was carried up to her room by Pop around nine o'clock. There Mom undressed her and tucked her into bed.

Jennifer followed, took off her own shoes, and lay down fully dressed on top of the covers. She got out the piece of paper from her pocket and attempted to make sense of her notes, in case there was something important there:
glaistig, green ladies, banshee, sluagh
. None of them seemed to be part of the spell. Besides, she doubted she'd got any of the spellings right and wondered if spelling mattered.

“Of course,
spelling
counts,” she told herself in a loud whisper, “in
magic
!” She smiled a little and thought how Peter would have loved the joke. “Spelling counts,” she said again. Somehow it no longer seemed so funny.

“Mmmmmm,” Molly called out, mostly asleep. “Jennnnnn?”

Jennifer looked over at her little sister. The last thing she needed was to wake Molly and have to explain a lame joke. “Everything's fine, Molls,” she whispered. “Just fine.”

Though, of course,
nothing
was fine.

Peter was possessed by some eighteenth-century liar and twin abuser, and it was all her fault.

Her fault.

And the dog's.

Molly turned over and went right back to sleep, making her little
pop-pop-pop
snore.

Shoving the paper back in her pocket, Jennifer tried to fall asleep herself. Really she did.

But no such luck.

She tossed and turned and ended up with the sheets wrapped around her neck in a stranglehold. Having to untangle herself woke her up completely. She knew she would never fall asleep now.

So she got off the bed and tiptoed into Peter's room.

Still knocked out by whatever the doctor had injected into him, Peter was snoring lightly. He looked no different from her old familiar brother. No sign of the awful Andrew MacFadden anywhere. But Andrew MacFadden was still there. Jennifer knew that for certain.

Dead certain.

Or certainly dead
, she thought.

Peter turned over heavily but did not waken.

“Oh, Peter,” Jennifer whispered, “don't leave me. Don't leave me and become some dried-up old Fifer who lies to his sister and keeps her from her own true love.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again without a sound.

“You're my best friend, Peter,” Jennifer said. “You're my twin. We were together before we were with anyone else. We belong together now. Come back. Come back.”

She tried not to sound sappy. Peter hated sappy. But there were tears in her eyes.

Something like a shadow of an answer passed across Peter's face. But still he slept.

Kisses always work in fairy tales
, Jennifer thought. She bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

He didn't stir.

“Oh, Peter,” Jennifer cried again. She couldn't stand feeling so helpless, so she went back to her own room. This time when she lay down on top of the covers, she fell instantly to sleep and slept without dreams.

At eleven-thirty something woke her. Some strange sound. A scraping, a grunting, a cascade of foreign language.

She got up slowly, still half asleep, and walked out into the hallway. Looking out over the half balcony that Gran called a minstrel's gallery, she saw that the front door of the house stood wide-open.

“Peter?” she whispered.

No one answered, so she went to check up on him. In the half-light, she saw the bed was empty.

Quickly she checked in the bathroom down the hall.

He wasn't there, either.

She ran down the stairs. A washcloth lay by the open front door.

“Peter …” she called, loud enough to be heard outside, but not so loud as to wake the house.

Still no answer.

She ran outside, paying little attention to the way the pebbles hurt her bare feet.

The road was empty.

Why didn't the dog bark?
She thought.
Where's Gran? Why didn't she wake me? What should I do now?

She took a few tentative steps on the road and realized that going barefoot would slow her down. So she went back into the house and found her shoes. Then, just to be sure, she checked Peter's room again.

A strange, muffled sound came from the closet.

Opening the door, she found the dog tied up, a gag made out of a sock tight around his jaws.

Quickly she untied him.

“Oh my ears and tail, he swicked me,” the dog moaned. “Swicked me and tricked me. Aye, he's a canny one.”

“Peter?” Jennifer asked.

“Nae—that spoacher, that minister, Andrew MacFadden” the dog said, shaking himself all over. “The one who stole Peter's body fer his ain.”

The noise brought Gran into the room.

“Hsst,”
she said, “is Peter gone?”

Jennifer nodded.

“And got oot the door how?” Gran looked puzzled. “I thought the cold iron latches would stop him.”

“So that's why the washcloth was by the front door” Jennifer mused. “He must have used it to shield his hand.”

“I said he was canny,” the dog put in.

“Then we must follow,” Gran said. “Nae one minute must be lost.”

“
Now
you're rushing?” Jennifer asked.

“Noo it's dark,” Gran said solemnly. “And dark is the time to deal wi' ghosts. I was just aboot to wake ye, lass.” She was already dressed, her pocketbook clutched in her right hand. When she saw Jennifer staring at it, she smiled dourly. “Fer my magicks, Jen. My unguents fer emergencies. And my hankie.”

“Fer nose drips,” the dog commented.

“Are you
kidding?
” Jennifer began, then shut up at the look Gran gave her. She remembered what was in that hankie now—the ashes of the wizard Michael Scot. “Well, what about Mom and Pop and Da?”

“Asleep,” Gran said, her right finger making a circle in the air.

“And Molly?”

Gran made a grimace. “Likewise.”

“And if they wake?”

“They willna,” the dog answered for her. “The auld carlin's bespelled them.”

Gran looked grimly satisfied. “We need nae screamin' and carryin' on when there's real magic work to be done. And there's nae an ounce of magic in any o' them. Except perhaps the wee lass. But she'll be nae gud wi'oot her sleep. Come.” She cocked her head, listening for a minute, then put her fingers to her mouth and let out a shrill whistle.

Thunder met them at the open front door.

Gran hoisted Jennifer onto the horse's back, then, with a strange little leap, mounted behind her.

“Oof,” Gran said. “Getting too auld fer sech.”

“Could have fooled me,” Jennifer whispered.

The horse turned and set off down the cobbles, the dog trotting by his side. Even without metal shoes, Thunder seemed to make an awful racket clattering along, but Jennifer knew that since no one in the house would wake, it didn't matter.

At the corner, the white cat waved them off with its long tail.

They were in a full gallop on Double Dykes Road before Jennifer realized they were riding with neither saddle nor reins. Trembling, she leaned over Thunder's neck and grabbed hold of his mane.

“Not so tight, girl. I will not let you fall,” the horse called to her.

But still she held on.

As they turned onto the main road, they were suddenly passed by a single car.

“Ride 'em, Granny!” someone shouted out the car window, then the car careered out of sight.

After that, the street was empty.

Thirteen

Stones

The horse's feet cloppetting on the pavement and the steady rocking movement of the gallop had a lulling effect, and Jennifer almost fell asleep again.

But suddenly the dog bayed. “See him, see … see!”

Jennifer startled and at that moment felt more awake than she'd ever been in the past two days. Leaning forward, she sighted down the road over the horse's head in the gloaming, the semidark, and saw Peter just turning onto the path that led to the graveyard gate.

“Gran!” she cried, turning her head to tell the old woman behind her.

But Gran had already seen.

“Gae to it, horse,” Gran urged.

As if he had wings on his feet, Thunder flew down the street with a gait as soft and as fast as a Thoroughbred's.

Peter would have gotten into the graveyard before them, but he was stopped at the iron gate by the great ghostly figure of Iain McGregor. The piper had pulled out a wicked-looking sword and wouldn't let Peter past.

“Oot o' my way, McGregor,” Andrew shouted, waving his hand dismissively at the big man.

“Ye'll gae no further in, Andrew MacFadden,” the piper boomed. “Nae on this nicht or any other, till ye mak amends for the wrong ye did to me and my Mary.” The sword inched toward Andrew's chest.

“Can a ghost sword harm a real person?” Jennifer asked, looking over her shoulder at Gran.

Gran's voice whispered in her ear, and it seemed laced with fear. “I dinna ken fer certain, Jennie lass. A sword meant to harm a ghost
might
harm a mortal boy if he houses that spirit.” She shook her head. “I canna say.”

If Gran doesn't know
, Jennifer thought,
then no one knows
. In a panic, she tried to shout Peter's name, to call him back to himself, but the sound that came out was thin and without power.

The horse came to an abrupt stop right by the wall, and Jennifer tumbled forward onto his neck. She clutched him tight, her hands still twisted in his mane.

Gran slid off Thunder's back with an ease born of old habit. “Come, lass, we've work to do.”

Sliding off after her, Jennifer cried out to the piper, “Don't hurt him. Don't hurt the boy. He's not who you think he is. He's not really Andrew MacFadden.” She felt the familiar comfort of Gran's hand on her shoulder and continued. “He's my brother. My
twin
brother.”

The piper's sword stopped just short of Peter's throat, holding there. His grip was firm.

Just then, gasping for breath, the dog limped the final block toward them. Somehow he'd gotten a pebble lodged in one paw as he was running, which had slowed him down. Moaning and gabbling to himself, he managed to reach the gate, where he sat down on his haunches and worried the pebble with his teeth.

“Stanes,” he mumbled. “I hate them. A stane in the paw is the worst.”

The word pierced Jennifer like an arrow.

“‘Stane,'” she whispered. “It means something. Gran?”

Gran looked at her and saw that Jennifer was wrestling with some memory. She reached into her pocketbook and hauled out the hankie in which the wizard's ashes were tied. She held it to Jennifer's ear as if it were a seashell that could sing a song of the sea.

“Remember,” Gran said.

“Stane,” Jennifer repeated. Then her eyes got bright. “That's it, Gran. Something Peter said about a stane. Before the doctor got to the house. When Peter was gabbing and babbling. Only I can't quite get it …”

It was Gran who remembered. “‘In the stane a token of luv. Three from the bottom and four above.'”

“What's a stane?” Jennifer asked.

“A stone,” the dog said, looking up at them.

“Then maybe,” Jennifer said thoughtfully, “maybe Iain's message was about something left for Mary in a stone somewhere.” She took the hankie from Gran and turned to the piper. “What token did you leave, Iain McGregor? What stane did you leave it in?” She held the hankie toward him.

The big man shook his head, as if clearing it. “There's so much time twixt me and my hame.” His face twisted in agony. “I … I canna recall.” He pushed the sword closer to Peter's throat, and the tip drew a red line down the skin. “Can ye tell us, ye auld liar?”