Кейт Форсит - Relics, Wrecks and Ruins - Anthology of Speculative Fiction Short Works

“She doesn’t look hideous there. She looks as if nothing in the whole world could scare her.”

There’s a pause while Mrs. Mac pats Minnie and Paddy, who have come in quietly to sit on either side of her. “That’s how we need to be, Rachel,” Mrs. Mac says. “Unafraid. Unapologetic. Like the Cailleach. You’ll find that story at the end. It’s called ‘Washing the Plaid.’ Read it now, if you like.”

She doesn’t speak while I look the story up in the contents and find the right page. The title has a little wreath around it—half spring flowers, half snowflakes.

Then Mrs. Mac says, “She’s young like you. Brigid, a springtime goddess. And she’s old like me. The Hag, bringer of winter. That tale is about the way things keep changing, yet stay the same. How they renew themselves after turbulent times. How we stand strong, no matter what.”

I glance across, and for a moment I see not elderly Mrs. Mac with her white hair and wrinkles, but the woman in the author photo: a traveler, an adventurer, fearless and joyful. She’s young and middle-aged and old, all at the same time. Magic.

With a shiver, I bury myself in the book. It’s weird reading the story right after I’ve had that thought, because when the Cailleach washes her plaid in the whirlpool in late autumn, the tartan colors fade to white, and winter creeps over the land. When it’s time for spring a young goddess, Brigid, takes the Cailleach’s place, and things warm up and start growing again.

A note at the end tells me that in some versions of the story Brigid and the Cailleach are the same person. Young and old, spring and winter. In others, they’re separate goddesses. Either way, it’s about changes being part of a long steady pattern. That makes me think of how Mrs. Mac came to the Bridge House. And how you can’t judge things on the way they look at any given time, though lots of people do just that.

My mind fills up with ideas. I’m bursting to write about this.

I write at home. I write at school, and when people make snarky comments, I ignore them. I write at the Bridge House, after school or on the weekends, while Mrs. Mac works on her computer. But although I get deep into writing, I’m not blind to what’s happening around me, some of it seriously weird.

It started with the blue front door, and it keeps happening: fresh paintwork, wobbly steps fixed, broken windowpanes replaced. Inside, the house seems lighter, fresher, the curtains clean, the colors of the dragon carpet no longer faded. No cobwebs in the high corners, though there are still lots outside the kitchen windows. Mrs. Mac doesn’t ask me to sort the books, but someone’s doing it, because from all mixed up they’ve moved into library order. The jackets look brighter.

I don’t ask how it’s happening. I don’t want to break the spell

Each time I go home, I tell my parents I’ve been helping Mrs. Mac fix up the house. As long as I do my homework, they don’t seem to mind. I’m not ready to show them my stories yet. And if I told them I want to be a writer, they’d probably say Mrs. Mac was a bad influence, and make me stop visiting the Bridge House.

Why don’t I want anyone to read my stories? Because I couldn’t bear to be told they’re rubbish. It would be even worse if someone tried to be nice and I could tell they actually thought my stuff was terrible.

But I remember how Mrs. Mac gave me her book to read when she hardly knew me, and I think about the gazillion great story ideas I’ve had since visiting her, the house, and the dogs. She’s a writer too, a real writer. If there’s anyone I should trust to look at my stuff, she’s it.

I do have one story I’m fairly proud of. It’s my version of “Washing the Plaid.” Will Mrs. Mac like it, though? I imagine the Cailleach standing out there in the whirlpool, strong arms wielding the plaid like a banner, and I know it’s time to be brave.

I print a copy and give it to her the next time I’m at Bridge House. My hands tremble and I run home before she opens the first page.

The story starts like this:

You know me. But you don’t see me. I’m the shuffling bag lady in her worn-out shoes, the muttering derelict whose disturbing smell turns your head away and speeds your footsteps. I’m the wife and mother who one day, without explanation, throws a few things in a suitcase and walks out the door forever. I’m the snowy-haired grandmother, wizened as an apple left too long in storage, who stares at you with knife-sharp eyes, daring you to call her a little old lady.

I’m a witch. I’m a wisewoman. I’m a force of nature, a power to be reckoned with. I have a thousand names. I’ve lived a thousand lives. I am the spark of being, the flame of courage, the danger and the choice. I’m in every woman, deep down. Sometimes blinding bright, sometimes a steady glow, sometimes the merest flicker in a cavern of uncertainty. Disregard me at your own cost.

The next day I’m nearly home from school when I hear the shouting. There are people on the road outside our house and cars everywhere. I see James and Mum and Mr. Briggs, our neighbor. He’s the one doing the shouting.

I start to run, my schoolbag bouncing on my back. As I get close, I spot something tiny darting around on the road. Oh, God, it’s Sybil.

“Wait!” I call out, gesturing wildly, but nobody’s looking at me. Sybil’s in a panic, zigzagging all over the place. A driver coming the other way has stopped. People behind her honk their horns. A car comes up behind me. The driver slows; I step off the curb and put a hand out. Stop . With a grimace, he hits the brakes.

When I turn back, Mum has moved out to face the opposite line of traffic, signaling to the drivers to wait. I dump my bag on the footpath outside our house. James is crouched beside the lead car, trying to see underneath. The driver opens her door and gets out.

“It’s under here,” says James.

“Stay where you are. I’ll go on the other side,” I tell him.

The driver moves to the front of the car and gets in position for a quick catch.

There’s still an exit for Sybil—at the back. If she goes out that way, her path will lead straight under the line of vehicles with their impatient drivers. Mum stays right where she is, making sure nobody tries to drive through. Her expression startles me. Disregard me at your own cost.

“We need someone at the back of the car!” I call out.

In a moment, there’s Finn, come from nowhere to station himself exactly where he’s needed. I kneel on the road, peering under the car. Sybil’s right in the middle, out of reach, hunkered down on the ground, trembling.

“We need a broom or something,” says James, peering at me from the other side.

“How about I release the brake and we roll the car slowly forward?” suggests the driver, getting back in.

“Get that vicious brute off the road!” yells Mr. Briggs. “Should be muzzled and locked up!”

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” Mum snaps. “Right now, we need a couple of people to push the car gently forward. Thanks,” she adds as other neighbors come over to help. “Slowly. That animal must be terrified. Ready? One, two, three—now.”

The car moves forward to reveal Sybil, now lying motionless on the road. Oh God, she’s had a heart attack or something. But no—she raises her head. She’s up on her feet, gathering herself for a sprint. Finn steps forward and places a majestic paw on her back, and she relaxes. I gather her up, holding her tight against my chest. My heart’s thumping super quick and so is Sybil’s. I feel dizzy, as if I might pass out.

“Thank you so much,” Mum is saying to the crowd. “It looks as if the little one’s fine. Thanks, everyone.” She ushers Sybil, Finn, James and me onto the footpath, then signals to various drivers that they can be on their way. One or two of them toot their horns briefly before they drive off, as if to say, Well done .