Free The Bagpiper’s Ghost by Jane Yolen Page B

Andrew shouted, waving his hand dismissively at the big man.
    â€œYe’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.
    â€œCan 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.
    â€œStanes,” he mumbled. “I hate them. A stane in the paw is the worst.”
    The word pierced Jennifer like an arrow.
    â€œâ€˜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.
    â€œRemember,” Gran said.
    â€œStane,” 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.’”
    â€œWhat’s a stane?” Jennifer asked.
    â€œA stone,” the dog said, looking up at them.
    â€œThen 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?”
    Trembling, Peter shook his head. “Never!”
    The piper’s face got grim, but Jennifer cried, “Don’t kill him. He’s the only one who knows which stane the token is in.” She shook the hankie at them.
    â€œI’ll die first,” Peter said in Andrew MacFadden’s voice.
    â€œYe coof, yer already dead,” the dog said.
    â€œI’ll find the stane,” Jennifer promised. “Let me try.” She handed the hankie back to Gran and, without another word, squeezed past the piper