The Pictish Child by Jane Yolen Page B

rummaging through time and concentrating centuries of magic in her own hands. Like the wizard Michael Scot, but without his vast knowledge. She couldn’t decide which would have been worse.
    Maggie spoke again. “That stone was brought through time, hand to hand, one MacAlpin woman to the next. I got it from my ain mother.”
    â€œFancy that,” said Gran.
    â€œBut, as ye ken,” Maggie said, “I hae nae daughters of my ain.”
    Jennifer leaned forward. “Taken …” she whispered. “Waken. Mistaken. Shaken …”
    Maggie MacAlpin turned toward Jennifer so fast, pins scattered from her orange hair. “How do ye ken those words, lass?”
    â€œWhy?” asked Jennifer.
    Gran smiled. “Jennifer has the right of it, Maggie, and weel ye ken it.”
    Maggie MacAlpin shook her head. “I dinna ken the why of it. Only the spell. It’s been called ‘The Chant of the Stone,’ and all firstborn MacAlpin girls learn it.”
    â€œSay it,” said Gran. “Say it to us noo.”
    â€œI canna, Gwen. Yer nae a MacAlpin.”
    Gran raised her right forefinger. “I’m nae wanting to bid ye, Maggie. We hae been friends too lang for that. But I will if I must, and weel ye ken it.”
    Maggie bit her lower lip. “Time is out of joint,” she said.
    â€œAnd ye put it that way, ye muckle auld witch,” cried the dog.
    Maggie silenced him with a glance.
    â€œTaken …” Jennifer said again. “That’s not right. Magic must be given, not taken. Gran told us that on our very first day here.”
    â€œWhat’s lost is not taken,” Maggie said. “What’s found is given.” Then she put her head back, closed her eyes, and spoke a verse in a quavering voice that made the hairs on Jennifer’s neck stand on end.
    What be lost can noo be taken.
    Mists of time will all awaken.
    Wrongs and errors long mistaken
    Noo from time can all be shaken.
    Peter, who was now finally and fully warmed up, shook his head. “That makes no sense,” he said. “It’s just a bunch of rhymed words.”
    â€œThey make every bit of sense,” said Gran.
    Jennifer smiled. “What be lost can now be taken is simple. It means the talisman, of course. Lost in the garden, taken up by Mrs. McGregor, and given to Molly before Fiona could get her hands on it.”
    â€œExactly,” Gran said, smiling at Jennifer.
    â€œAnd we know the mists of time have awakened. You”—Jennifer pointed at Peter—“even let them in twice.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to,” Peter grumbled. “No need to remind me. Not you, Jen.” He turned away.
    But as they were talking, the dark had begun to gather again. It was Ninia who noticed it first. Since she hadn’t understood a word they were saying, she’d been gazing through the window and drawing Pictish symbols with her finger on the glass.
    Suddenly she gave a cry and pointed toward the cemetery. It did not sound like a cry of fear or terror. Rather she seemed sad. Even lonely.
    â€œShe’s homesick,” Molly announced.
    â€œBut her home is many centuries away,” Gran told Molly.
    â€œAnd full of wars. And people dying,” added Jennifer.
    â€œThe world is still full of wars,” Peter said, with irritating logic. “So she ought to feel right at home here.”
    But Molly answered with irrefutable four-year-old reasoning, “Even with wars. Back then is her home.”
    Jennifer clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh!” she said.
    â€œWhat is it, lass?” Gran asked.
    â€œWrongs and errors long mistaken. Could that mean what happened when the Scots killed all the Pictish leaders? We read about it in the museum. Maybe we’re meant to go back and shake things out of time and change them so that the Picts win.”
    â€œAnd poof !” said Peter scornfully. “We’d all go out like a