12. THE CRYPT

“Here we are,” intoned her father with pride as they reached the porch of the Crypt. Without ceremony, he raised his wand and boomed the password.

“Gonagalohomora!”

The doors swung inward, and a cold breeze brushed their faces. Minerva swallowed an upwelling of terror. Those final words of Lady McNair�”she’s not told the truth... not the half of it�” resonated with her guilt. She hadn’t told the whole truth. But nothing of what she’d held back could possibly have kept the Thane and his men from finding Petey, could it?

Her father waved his wand in an elaborate tracery of arabesques. Torches flared into brilliance along a tunnel ribbed with wooden arches too impossibly delicate to withstand the force of the rock overhead. Its length seemed endless, but at least there were few shadows here, and no corners or niches or holes where an enemy might hide. All the same, she felt for and clasped her father’s hand, as they walked inside.

He gave her fingers a little squeeze. "Awesome, isn't it? Tons of earth pushed back by magic. But there's no need to fear, lass. The ceiling's held up by invisible wards as well."

"I thought wards were supposed to glow, Da."

"Aye, some mages add a coloring charm, especially if they need reassurance that the power's in place. And others do it just because they like people admiring their handiwork."

At the end of the hallway was a great round metal door embossed at its center with the figure of a rose. A halo of thorny branchlets surrounded it.

“You know the symbology of the Connghaill Rose, do you not, Lass?”

“Aye, Da.” Goodie told her long ago: love comes not easily to a McGonagall, they put up all their thorns against it, but when it takes hold, they cling on fiercely and loyally, like a rambler rose to the side of a mountain. Da of course had his own interpretation. The French, despite their other shortcomings, said it best, he opined: Il n’y a pas de rose sans epines. There is no rose without a thorn, no prize worth having without a struggle, no war worth winning without bloodshed, no goal worth reaching without some loss along the way.

He waved his wand again. Bars, chains, springs and tumblers released themselves, creaking and groaning, and the door swung wide.

The sarcophagi of her ancestors were ranged in concentric circles over a vast area. Those she could see had a niche or a slot in the top containing one or more wands. Some Scots witches and wizards carried several wands for different spell effects: a slender willow switch, perhaps, for a delicate conjuration, a stout, combat-blackened oak faggot for Heavy Defense. It reminded her irrationally of the Muggle game of golf, which she had once witnessed at Inverness. It involved choosing, from a bag full of clubs of various shapes and weights, the one best suited to hit a Snitch-sized ball if it lay in a bog or a sandy patch or in deep grass...

“Where do you feel you should start, Minerva?”

“What? Oh. I don’t know, Da.” She had expected that he would guide her through this, but here he was giving the choice over to her, as if she had a clue where to begin. “Should I try the oldest wands first?”

“Start with Auld Fearghas?” He waved his hand at a large black column in the center, which rose out of the thicket of tombs like a single spike of heather in a field of scrub grass. "Nae, child. We’ve not time for that. There are over a thousand tombs here. All your magical ancestors in an unbroken line and many of its branches. But we can narrow it down a bit. You’ve heard stories about your forbears. Surely you favor some over others, as you like some of your friends better than others. I’ve watched you staring for hours at the portraits in the gallery. Which picture, which stories speak to your heart of hearts?”

Minerva turned shy. Rowdie the buccaneer was her favorite, but she only said, “I’m kind of partial to the folks of Queen Mary’s time, Da.”

“Really? Bunch of Frenchified dandies if you ask me�”except for Lady Anne of course and auld Nicholchannich. Mmmm... Anne McCutcheon. Yes, you’re a bit like her…clever, nervy…” He rumbled on, leading her about the edge of the great chamber. “Down there. Lady Anne’s is." He pointed down a zig-zag pathway between great slabs of sandstone and granite. "You should try whichever one takes your fancy, of course.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, “I may not accompany you, Lass, lest my own vibrations influence the Choice. Go on then. You know what to do.”

She picked her way among the tombs and came quickly upon Jenny Blair’s. It had her name on it, spelled out on a ribbon of stone held up by two fat cupids. She picked up the wand, which lay in a marble, hand-shaped shallow on the top. It was so light and so brittle, she was almost afraid to wave it. But she did, and nothing happened.

It was harder to find Lady Anne’s sarcophagus. It was very plain on top, with just the words Semper Fortis carved in the side, but under it, there was a relief of a witch looking out to sea, her hair streaming in the wind, watching a fleet of galleons sail towards her. Her wand too gave no reaction. Minerva thought she heard a little sigh of disappointment behind her.

She laid it down gently and moved on. The next two tombs held no wands. One was the resting place of an unwanded child. The other was that of a wizard, whose wand a member of her family probably possessed--unless it was one Petey had removed in his ill-timed explorations.

She had no time to worry over this ugly possibility, however, as the sight of the next tomb gave her a sudden thrill. She could see by the battle scenes of Muggle ships firing into each other that it belonged to her dear Rowdie Guthrie Flynn. She lifted the wand from its niche, which was a slot in the side of the tomb, shaped like a dagger’s sheath. It was short and stubby, of a blond wood--maple perhaps. She gave it a wave, but again, there was no response, not a spark. But for some reason, she held onto it. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, there is such a thing as a delayed reaction.

She moved on to the next tomb. It had astrological symbols all over it and a crystal ball sticking out of its top, Meg of Dundee's, no doubt. She picked up the wand, a slender polished black faggot, and immediately felt a quiver of life course up her arm. A loud, booming discharge from its tip jerked her hand upward and knocked her back several paces. The wand began shooting out arcs of orange smoke, flecked with sparks. She felt that, at any second, it woudl fly out of her hand. But before that could happen, the violent flood subsided to a series of gentle, pulsating puffs. Her father came running up to her. He looked a bit bemused, his nose wrinkling against a smell which lingered in the air, rather like burning metal.

“Och, Meddlesome Meg. There’s a surprise. But one never knows. Perhaps you’re destined to be a Seeress, dearie, and predict the next Muggle War, eh? Though I would have expected stardust or tea leaves from her fag." He sighed and patted her shoulder. "Well, we’ve one more errand left to us."

In a daze, Minerva followed her father to another door, remembering just in time to slip Rowdie’s wand back into its sheath. She had no particular desire to learn fortune telling. Meg of Dundee spent all her time pressing on gallery visitors her cheerful prognostications about victory in battle, successful investments, and great riches, none of which had ever come true, so far as she knew. And Minerva's blithering aunts, Frannie and Philly, were always going on about the glories of palm reading and the Tarot, which alone was enough to make Minerva skeptical of this branch of magic.

The minute they were through the door, Minerva’s inner grumblings were smothered by renewed fear. This was the room hung with banners and pennons that Petey had abandoned her and Gig in. She passed through it in an agony of terror, fearful of reawakening the ghosts they had disturbed that day. Her fear changed to wonder as they entered the other chambers--the Bardic Hall and the Library--marveling that she and Gig had managed to pass through them in total darkness without stumbling or getting turned about. Sheer, dumb luck she thought, shaking her head. If Jupiter McGonagall noticed that she seemed unimpressed with the richness of her surroundings, he didn’t let on.

But when they walked by the Hole, she had to ask the question that had been most on her mind over the past week. "Da," she whispered, "what--what's that?"

"They call it Bearach's Borehole. You've heard the tales of Auld Fearghas."

"Many times, Da. He lived high on a cliff. And he loved animals, especially birds."

She knew well the early history of her clan. Fearghas mac Bearach, sech clenni Conn'ghaill, was the root and trunk of the family line, and as such, a staple of Goodie Gudgeon's bedtime stories. Born on an island off the coast of Ireland to thoroughly unmagical parents, young Fearghas showed his gifts early on, innocently, wishing birds out of the sky or crabs from the sea to delight his playmates. He spent much of his time among the nesting colonies of kittiwakes and puffins on the stoney north cliffs. From here, on an occasional mist free day, he glimpsed the coast of Scotland, whence, he was told, came his ancestors.

At some point in his youth, townsfolk and members of his family became frightened of his prowess and drove him away. He made a home of sorts in a cliff cave, lived on kelp and turtle eggs, and learned to converse with all manner of creatures of land, sea, and air. Goodie's favorite story was of a mob of drunken sots who came upon him dozing on the beach one day and beat him almost insensible. He managed to Transport himself to his cave before collapsing. Sympathetic spiders wove webs across its mouth and all over its interior, blanketing even his inert body. The mob, searching for him, was fooled by the friendly camouflage.

After healing up, Fearghas determined to leave the island. He felt a pull towards the land of his forbears across the North Channel. One day, in a fit of longing, he Summoned a huge bird of a type he had never seen before--an erne from the western sea. It bade him, in the language of the raptors, to climb onto its back. This he did, though he was afraid, and it bore him across the channel to a finger of land--the Mull of Kintyre.

Her father broke into her meditation. "This place is the crater of an ancient volcano, long since collapsed and filled with debris. Yer ancestor came here in his old age looking for something, in response to a voice only he could hear. You ken the story?"

"No, Da."

"You know that as a lad, he escaped his wretched home and made his way across Kintyre, and up through the mountains as far as Kingussie. There he met a wizard. We know not his name, but undoubtedly he was a Merlin of great learning. The Merlin made young Fearhas a wand from the ash wood of the Old Forest and taught him the use of it.

"One of his first spells saved a Highland chieftain and his hunting party from a Gryphon attack. The chieftain declared Fearghas to be mac Conn'ghaill--a 'son of high valor', and granted him land in a lush hidden glen--along with the hide of the Gryphon.

"He used magic to scoop out this crater from its top and then to re-form a roof over it." He gestured to the ceiling overhead which Minerva now saw was of a different consistency than the walls or floor, smooth and glossy like candle wax. "And here at its bottom," continued her father, "he blasted out a tunnel, which led him to discover a most puissant artifact. And that's where we're headed."

"Is it d-down there? The Pleezant Ardavak?" She pointed to the hole-within-a-hole where she had last seen the face of the Erkling, twisted by fear, as it plunged into darkness.

"Down the Borehole? Och, no, there's only a warren of old lava tubes down there, each one a blind alley. One of his early efforts, they say. No, the way is through here." He led her through the Wardrobe and on into the Armoury.

But Minerva was thinking about his last words. Can there really be other tunnels at the bottom of the Hole? That's not the way Magnus described it. Surely if he saw even one opening, he would have reported it to the Thane, and the search party would have explored all those tunnels down to the last dead end.

But the light of her father’s wand, blazing bright, recalled her to the task at hand. It penetrated every corner of yet a new chamber. She recognized it: the Mirror Room.

Now Jupiter’s wand-tip powered down to a twilight glow. The Mirror's edges flickered with squirming tendrils of light. He looked at her expectantly in the near darkness.

“What, Da?”

“Do you see anything unusual?”

She hesitated. Of course, he meant the Mirror. But it wouldn’t do to recognize it too obviously. “Ah... that wall has little... erm... glowing worms... or some such, crawling on it.”

He chuckled. “Worms. Och aye, Minerva, so they may seem to a newcomer. But this is not an ordinary wall. No, it is a magical artifact of incalculable worth. We call it The Seeking Glass. It is the thing Auld Fearghas was looking for. I believe it was created out of the heart of the mountain by some nameless deity, long since gone to rest or ruination. Many secrets and much history are stored up in this grand artifact.”

History. Stored secrets, she thought. That explains a lot. “How does it work, Da?”

He waved his wand, and the glass grew bright. “This is a kind of window into the Beyond. Any clan member can use it to observe past moments in the life of anyone--whether magical or Muggle, so long as she brings to it something that belongs to the person she wants to see. But the more important thing for you to know, here and now, my dearie, is that, with The Seeking Glass, you can actually bridge the gap to the Beyond and speak to the person whose wand you share. In a moment, you’ll be able to talk to our Meg. Wave your wand, Minerva, and see your patroness in all her glory.”

She did as he asked, and, just as had happened in her last encounter, the mirror filled with a tornado of magnesium light, shooting out forked strings of lightning. Color suffused the whirling mass and a figure formed out of it, but it was not the plump Seeress Meg of Dundee. No, this person was tall and well-built, a man, in fact, brawny and dark, dressed in Tudor doublet and tights, a plumed hat cocked at an angle on his head. The face she recognized by its slight smirk, which she had passed so often in the Gallery�”Rowdie Flynn!

She let out a squeal of delight, but her father was aghast. He grabbed Minerva's wrist and raised her wand to eye-level, squinting. “Why, this is no witch’s stick. How could this have happened?”

Minerva bit her lip. She knew just how. She knew Petey had handled some of the wands in the Crypt. In his haste to escape when the spirits appeared, he must have mixed them up. But she couldn’t tell Da that, not now.

Unfortunately, she had never been good at making up stories, especially if it meant adding new lies to the old, and most especially when she knew her father’s formidable logic could easily catch her in a contradiction. But there just might be something she could use to her advantage. Something Gig had told her about grown-ups. They’re always impatient, Giggie said. And the smarter they are, the harder it is for them to resist finishing your sentences. That was the answer. If she could only stay calm and noncommittal, her father’s own fertile imagination might just pump out an appropriate story for her to react to.

Her hesitation was looking more and more suspicious under her his questioning gaze. “What do you know about this, Minerva?” he rumbled.

“Ah... I suppose... maybe... the wands got mixed up?”

“Well, yes, I can see that, but how?”

Silence.

“Oh you little devil, you did it yourself, didn’t you?”

“Da, how can you say such a thing?”

“Because I know you, lass. Aye, I remember now. I never actually saw you return Rowdie's wand to its sheath. You could have easily carried it along with you.” He let go of her hand and thought a minute. “The only thing I can’t see is why there was no evidence of the Choosing when you first picked it up. No fireworks or nothing.”

“Oh... ah... there was, Da, a sort of... erm... vibration.” It was easy to embroider the story he had so generously supplied. “But it startled me so, I dropped it, and it... erm... slipped into my robe pocket, and then I got this idea to�””

“�”to fool your auld Da into thinking you were chosen by Meg’s wand.”

“Ah... something like that.”

“But why?”

“Why?” Minerva looked blankly at him. “I…I…”

Her father’s expression softened and he put his hand on her shoulder. “Ah, my dearie, it’s all right. I understand. I know your aunts have always made fun of old Rowdie, calling him a damned black-Irish Squib.” He had lowered his voice, as if fearful that the figure in the Glass might hear them and take offense. “But whatever the stripe of his magic, he was a brave chappie, and well worthy to wear the Connghaill Gryphon. ‘Tis no shame to be carrying his wand. But now, see here, he’s waiting for us.” He turned her to face the vision in the glass.