The Wizard's Map by Jane Yolen Page A

thing?”
    The dog continued to howl.
    â€œI want my talisman,” Molly cried.
    â€œSo does she,” said Jennifer, pointing to the dark-haired girl glowering under the tree.
    It was as if they hadn’t seen the girl until Jennifer pointed her out. Then Molly shut her mouth and Gran’s mouth dropped open.
    And the dog stopped howling.
    The girl repeated the same unintelligible phrase to Gran that she’d said to Jennifer and held out her hand. As she did, the cloak fell away from her arm and Jennifer recognized one of the tattoos.
    â€œLook!” Jennifer said. “Isn’t that tattoo the same bird and snake as on Molly’s stone?”
    â€œIt is indeed,” said Gran.
    The dark girl repeated her demand.
    â€œIs it the Gaelic, then?” called the dog from behind the gate. He was now pacing back and forth. “Is she speaking the old tongue?”
    Gran turned and bade him enter the cemetery, her fingers shaping some kind of warding spell.
    The dog came in slowly and reluctandy, making certain that he did not touch any part of the ironwork. His tail hung down between his legs.
    When at last he got to Gran’s side, she answered him. “Not Gaelic. Not Scots. Not any language I ken. Is it something older, dog?”
    The dog sniffed the air, then he shivered all over. “Older than ye think, carline. Older than even I can guess at.”
    â€œI thought so,” said Gran, nodding her head. “A Ret, by the look of her.”
    â€œDon’t give her my talisman,” wailed Molly. “Mrs. McGregor gave it to
me”
    â€œWhat’s a Pict?” asked Jennifer.
    â€œOne of the oldest races in Scotland,” said Gran.
    â€œIs she like ... like a gypsy?”
    â€œNothing like,” said Gran. “There are still Travelers—gypsies, as ye call them—about in Scotland today.”
    â€œThen what’s she doing here?”
    â€œThat’s what I do not ken, Jennifer,” said Gran, shaking her head. “There haven’t been Picts in Scotland for a thousand years or more.”
    The Pictish girl had obviously gotten tired of waiting to be given the stone, and she made a rush at Jennifer to take it. But Jennifer was older and—if not quicker than the girl—at least a lot taller. She held the stone high over her head and the girl could not get at it, much as she screamed and spat. She aimed a kick at Jennifer’s knee, which—if it had landed—might have done some damage, but Jennifer quickly jumped aside. Her karate lessons hadn’t been in vain, then, she thought with satisfaction.
    â€œMind your manners!” Jennifer told the girl, which was something Mom often said to them.
    Suddenly the dog began to howl again. It was a terrible sound, high and keening, that raised the little hairs on the back of Jennifer’s neck.
    â€œDark!” he howled. “Dark, dark, dark.”
    Gran’s simultaneous intake of breath made Jennifer turn around.
    Behind her, under the tree, the dark grey haar had returned, and the noise as well. It didn’t take a witch—-or a rocket scientist—to know that what was forming was not something good.
    â€œOut!” shouted Gran, pointing to the gate they had come in. “Molly, Jennifer—out of this place right now!”
    The dog needed no telling. Tail still firmly between his legs, he galloped through the gate.
    Jennifer whirled, grabbed Molly by the hand, and raced after him.
    Huffing, Gran followed.
    â€œThe gate!” Gran said as soon as she had gotten through it. “Pull the gate closed. Cold iron will keep it in—whatever it is. Fey things cannot stand cold iron.” She placed both hands on the gate and began to pull.
    Jennifer helped and the gate, again protesting with a high squeal, began to swing shut slowly.
    At the very last minute, the dark girl slipped past the gate as well, running just ahead of the dark mist. Screaming