Martin Greenberg: The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

When she’d also slammed the front door behind her, I looked at Mags. “Sorry,” I said.

“That’s lame,” she replied. But she rubbed her finger thoughtfully, looking at the white band of skin that had lain beneath the ring for years. “She’s a strange old woman,” she added.

“Tell me about it.”

After the loss of the ring, things changed with Maggie. I didn’t notice it all that much at first, which gave Gran several opportunities to wax eloquent about my intelligence. But shedding the ring, she seemed to shed some of her helpless, bitter anger. She wasn’t as constantly tired. She even helped with the yardwork, although it took much longer with her help than without it, because Connell could crawl into everything, and Shanna insisted on helping too.

Connell discovered that dirt melted when you put it in your mouth. He wasn’t impressed. Maggie picked him up with affectionate disdain, helped him clean out his mouth, and put him down again; he was already off on another spree of discovery.

She became happier, I think. Stronger.

And then, one day, when the Winter had come and everything was that white brown that snow in a city is, she invited my grandmother over. I came as well.

We sat down in the kitchen-all meetings of import were to be held there-around a pot of dark tea. Too bitter for me, it seemed perfect for Gran. Maggie herself hardly touched it.

She said, “I know I’m biased,” which was usually the signal for some commentary about her children, “but sometimes it seems to me that my children are the most important thing in the world.”

“It seems that way to all mothers,” I said. “About their own children.”

But Gran simply nodded. Quietly, even.

“Was that ring really made from a Unicorn’s horn?”

“What do you think?”

She shrugged. “I think that once I was willing to let it go, I was happier. But there are a lot of men-and women-who could make money telling me that.”

Gran nodded. “Too much money, if you ask me.” Which, of course, no one had. Before she could get rolling, Maggie continued. She chose all her words carefully, and she didn’t usually trouble herself that way.

“I feel,” she continued softly, “as if, by protecting them and raising them, I’m somehow… preserving the future.”

Again, not uncommon. But something about Mags was, so I didn’t point it out.

“That I’m somehow helping other mothers, other sons, other daughters.”

Gran nodded broadly, and even smiled.

“Which makes no sense to me,” Maggie continued, dousing the smile before it had really started to take hold, “because it isn’t as if other mothers aren’t doing the same. Protecting the future.” Smart girl, Mags. “And it isn’t,” she added, with just a hint of bitterness, “as if other children aren’t dying as we sit here drinking tea.”

“We aren’t the arbiters of death,” Gran said quietly.

“What in the hell are we?”

“You’re the mother,” Gran replied. “I’m the crone.”

“And the crone is?”

“Knowledge. Experience. Wisdom, which usually follows. Not always,” she added, sparing a casual glare for me.

“You said I was the mother.”

“You are.”

“For how long?”

“Good girl!”

Gran can be embarrassing at times.

“Who was the mother before me?”

The old woman’s eyes darkened. “You’re the first one in a long time.”

“Why?”

She spit to the side. “If I had to guess,” she said, with just a trace of fury, “I’d say those damn Unicorns have been up to no good. Again.”

“You mean there were other mothers?”

“Like you, but not as strong. I should have known,” she added. There is nothing worse than Gran when she’s feeling guilty.

“What happened to the last one?”

“She failed.”

“How?”

“Her son died.”

Maggie closed her eyes.

“Wasn’t her fault,” Gran added. “But it doesn’t matter. Her son died, and she died as well. Left a daughter. It should have passed on, then.”

“It’s like a public office?”

Gran shrugged. “Sort of. It should have passed on. Maybe it did. I’m not as sharp as I used to be.”

“But you’re older. Isn’t wisdom-”

“Shut up.” She lifted her cup, drained it, and thunked it back down on the table top. “Even the old get tired. Especially the old.” She hesitated for just a moment.

I didn’t like the sound of the silence.

“I’m better at hiding than I used to be,” she finally said. “And I never answered your question.”

“Hiding? From what?”

“You’ll find out, girl. And that’s a different question. You’re the mother until your children are old enough to have children of their own.”

“And then… my daughter?”

“Probably not. It doesn’t pass down blood-lines. But when they are, you’ll be free.”

Maggie said, “You’ve never had children, have you?”

And Gran’s voice was surprisingly bitter. “Oh, I’ve had ’em,” she answered. “Outlived them all.”

Maggie reached out and placed a hand over Gran’s in something that was too visceral to be called sympathy. “When is it over, for you?”

“I get to choose,” the old woman replied.

“And I don’t.”

“No. I often thought the mother got the rawest deal. No choice at all about having the children, only a choice about how they’re raised. Raise ’em well,” she added, “and the world changes.”

Maggie looked openly sceptical. “The world?”

“There’s a lot of difference between 1946 and 1966,” the old woman replied softly. “And trust me, you wouldn’t have liked living in either year.”

“You’re going to be with me for a while?”

“While you learn the ropes,” Gran replied. “But don’t be an idiot. Learn quickly.” She got up and headed toward the front door.

Maggie’s voice followed her. “If there’s a mother, and a crone,” she said, the growing distance forcing her to speak loudly and quickly, “what about a maiden?”

Gran’s snort carried all the way back to the kitchen.

“She’s a strange woman,” Maggie said at last. “How old is she?”

I shrugged. “I asked her once.”

“What’d she say?”

“She almost made me wash my mouth out with soap. It wasn’t considered a polite question.”

Mags laughed. I love it when she laughs.

“She’ll probably answer that one later. She likes to parcel out information.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s sadistic.”

Winter passed. Darkness made way for longer days and the snow melted.

Maggie started to garden, which scared me. Not only did she start, but she took to it with a passion that was only slightly scarier than the ferocity with which she watched out for her children.

Things grew when she touched them. Me? I’m no black thumb, but green isn’t my colour either; it takes work. I envied Maggie, the way I envy someone with a natural singing voice. I would have put my foot down when she started collecting stray cats, but hey, it wasn’t my house. And the kids seemed to like the cats-Connell even managed to survive pulling out a whisker or two from one of them.

But it wasn’t until the height of Summer that Gran chose to answer the question about the maiden. She invited herself over to Maggie’s. Apparently, all conversations of import were to be held at Maggie’s. I think this is because Gran didn’t particularly care to have children destroying the knick knacks in her house. Either that or because Gran’s cats weren’t as tolerant as Maggie’s.