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

Mum waves.

I could swear she’s enjoying herself.

“I’d better take Sybil to Mrs. Mac’s,” I say when the traffic’s cleared. I can hear Mr. Briggs muttering something with “council” in it as he shuffles off home.

“Not on your own,” says Mum. “You’ve had a shock. We’ll all go. James, take Rachel’s bag inside, will you? And fetch that packet of Tim Tams from the pantry.”

We wait for him at Mrs. Mac’s gate, which is slightly open. There’s no sign of her; I hope she’s okay. James returns with the biscuits, but when we’re heading up the path he hangs back.

“Mum?” He sounds unusually serious.

“What is it, James?”

“Mr. Briggs let the little dog out. He opened Mrs. Mac’s gate.”

We stand in silence for a few moments. Then Mum says, “How do you know?”

“I saw him. From Rachel’s window.”

Mum looks at me, a question in her eyes.

“Mrs. Mac wouldn’t leave the gate open,” I say. “And there’s nowhere else Sybil could get out, even though she’s so small.”

“It’ll be James’s word against Mr. Briggs’s if someone complains to the council,” Mum says.

“I took a photo,” says my brother, “before I ran downstairs.”

I grin at James as we go up to the door. “The boy detective solves another crime!” A photo. That’s pure gold.

We knock; Mrs. Mac is slow to open the door.

“So sorry, I was just wrapping up an online tutorial… Sybil! Finn! What have you been up to? Come in, please…”

Mum tells the story as we go through to the kitchen. They introduce themselves properly and I learn Mrs. Mac’s first name: Morag. I hand Sybil over and make tea for everyone. James goes around patting all the dogs.

“You might get a visit from the ranger,” says Mum. “Briggs is the complaining type. Though no harm was done. Your dogs are very well behaved.”

“They are. I do have a council permit to keep more than the regulation two. Oh, chocolate biscuits, how thoughtful! I should be rewarding you, not the other way around.”

“Any time,” Mum says. “You were giving a tutorial? In what field?”

“Folklore. For the University of Aberdeen. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I can teach from anywhere, though I am semiretired now. What field are you in, Mrs. Gordon? Or may I call you Alison?”

“Alison, please. I’m an accountant.”

Mrs. Mac nods. “And do you enjoy that?”

“It’s a job,” Mum says, fiddling with her cup. “Funny, thinking back. When I was Rachel’s age, I wanted to be a dancer. I was offered a scholarship, but my father put his foot down. It meant going to live in France, and he thought I was too young. Maybe he was right. How often do those childhood dreams come true?”

Only when you make them come true, I think. The conversation feels somehow dangerous. I drink my tea and let the two of them talk. Mum has surprised me today, and not only by taking control out there on the road. A dancer. Why had she never mentioned that?

“Rachel,” says Mrs. Mac, “your brother might like to see Frankie’s contraption in use.”

We put the wheels on the little dog and take him into the hall, where he shows off his speed. Now that we’re out of earshot I ask, “What were you doing in my bedroom, James? When you took that photo?”

My brother turns pink in the face. “Reading,” he mumbles.

I lay my palm against the wood paneling of the wall and imagine the house is making me calm and strong. When I ask, “Reading what?” I manage not to sound angry.

“That story about the dragon that gets woven into a carpet. I read some of it yesterday before you got home and I had to finish it.”

I swallow harsh words. You know you’re not allowed to go in my room without asking! Who said you could read my story? But I did leave a printout on the desk where anyone could find it. And it sounds as if he enjoyed it.

“Sorry,” my brother says. “I know you don’t like people reading your stuff. That story’s really good.”

“Thanks.” He’s just a kid. And as brothers go, he’s not bad. “It’s just as well you did go into my room, I guess, or Sybil might have been run over. And there would be no evidence.”

James flashes me a grateful smile. “Have you got any more stories I’d like?”

“Maybe. But ask first next time, okay? Some of them are too grown-up for you.”

I can hear snippets of conversation from the kitchen, and I’m glad we’re not there, because it’s really personal stuff from Mum, and the occasional comment from Mrs. Mac.

She held onto my Washing the Plaid story overnight; I still don’t know if she thought it was any good. Is she telling Mum about my writing? I hope not.

After a while, we take Frankie back to his bed. Mum and Mrs. Mac are still talking, but Mum looks at her watch and gets up.

“I should be making dinner. Thank you so much, Morag. It’s been wonderful talking to you.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue. Has she been crying?

“You’re welcome to drop in any time, Alison,” says Mrs. Mac. “You too, James. The dogs love a play. And thank you again, all of you. You saved Sybil’s life today.”

I’m considering this as Mum and James go out ahead of me. Thinking of a story in which Mrs. Mac made the whole thing happen—the gate, Sybil’s escape, my family’s intervention, the kindness of strangers. Wondering why.

“Wait a moment, Rachel,” says Mrs. Mac.

“I’ll catch up to you!” I call to the others.

Mrs. Mac waits until they’re out of earshot. “I loved your story, and not only because it’s about the Cailleach. It’s a remarkable piece of writing. I made a few notes, not corrections, just possibilities. I’d like to read it again tonight, if you don’t mind collecting it after school tomorrow. Writing is hard work, isn’t it? Frustrating sometimes. But there are moments of sheer magic. Like your story.”

I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

“I’ll find you a link to the course I teach at the University of Aberdeen. Folklore and Ethnology. A possibility for the future. It’s a postgraduate degree, so you’d have a good while to convince your father that a year of overseas study wouldn’t turn you into a wild creature.”

And I think, down deep, I’m wild already. Trying my hand with the plaid. Freeing the dragon. Stirring the cauldron.

“You could enter that story for the Young Writers’ Awards,” says Mrs. Mac. “You’d need to show it to your English teacher. Think about it. Another monster to be confronted. One that might prove very helpful. Now you’d better go, your mother would probably appreciate some help in the kitchen.” A pause. “I like her.”

“She likes you. Bye, Mrs. MacEachern. I’m so glad Sybil is okay. And thank you for reading the story.”

“It was a joy, Rachel. See you soon.”

As I cross the street, I sense the presence of the Bridge House behind me. There’s no sound but distant traffic and the warbling of sleepy magpies, but I feel the house sigh and settle, like someone who’s done a good day’s work. I glance back. The neat, white-painted walls gleam in the warm afternoon light. Freesias bloom in Mrs. Mac’s garden; their sweet scent fills the air.

It’s springtime.

Every so often, there’s a chance for reversal.

For a thread pulled to drag things backwards .

For the drowned places to rise. For the dead to walk again. To breathe air rather than water.

Sometimes, there’s a chance.

Adie Kane came home last week—just as she has done once a year for a decade of searching—to visit Nessa’s View. She took a room in the tidy little bed-and-breakfast at Ganymede, unpacked her suitcase, then got back in her rental and drove up to the lake (dam). She parked, and went to sit by the shore, careful to ignore the spillway and great curving concrete wall to her left. She sat on a rock (the same one, each and every time), and stared into the same black, unmoving waters— surely, it’s the same liquid, nothing flows, nothing shifts, not since that first flood settled —and thinks about the end.