Free The Bagpiper’s Ghost by Jane Yolen Page A

brought Gran into the room.
    â€œHsst,” she said, “is Peter gone?”
    Jennifer nodded.
    â€œAnd got oot the door how?” Gran looked puzzled. “I thought the cold iron latches would stop him.”
    â€œSo that’s why the washcloth was by the front door” Jennifer mused. “He must have used it to shield his hand.”
    â€œI said he was canny,” the dog put in.
    â€œThen we must follow,” Gran said. “Nae one minute must be lost.”
    â€œ Now you’re rushing?” Jennifer asked.
    â€œNoo 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.”
    â€œFer nose drips,” the dog commented.
    â€œAre 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?”
    â€œAsleep,” Gran said, her right finger making a circle in the air.
    â€œAnd Molly?”
    Gran made a grimace. “Likewise.”
    â€œAnd if they wake?”
    â€œThey 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.
    â€œOof,” Gran said. “Getting too auld fer sech.”
    â€œCould 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.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œRide ’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.
    â€œGran!” she cried, turning her head to tell the old woman behind her.
    But Gran had already seen.
    â€œGae 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.
    â€œOot o’ my way, McGregor,”