Octagon Magic (10 page)

“But, Miss Lotta, this here's a Reb, out a prison. He's des perate and dangerous. They say as how he kilt a man as tried to stop him.”

“They say, they say! Always they say many things, Phineas. No one has managed however, I notice, to mention the name of the man who was killed or even repeat the same story twice. At least not in my hearing. No, I'll ride to the village, Phineas, and what happens thereafter is a matter of fate and fortune. Do not fear for me, Phineas, never for me.”

There was a muttering and then the door swung open. A white horse, twin to Bevis, came through, on his back a woman riding sidesaddle. She did not seem in the least surprised to find Lorrie in the lane, but smiled in greeting.

“A chill night, but light enough, Lorrie,” she said. “Shall we ride?” She brought her mount close to Lorrie and reached down to aid her into the saddle. But Lotta did not speak again as they trotted to that other road, which wound much as Ash Street would run some day.

In the direction of the river, Lorrie saw bobbing lights and once or twice heard a distant shout. She shivered. Again it was as it had been with the men and the hounds who had hunted Chole, a fear cloud touching them even this far away.

“They say that man is the most dangerous animal of all,
Lorrie. But this night the hunters and not the quarry are the dangerous ones.”

“Whom are they hunting?”

“A prisoner escaped from a camp in the North, a beaten man trying to make his way home to ruins and a lost cause.”

“Do—do you know him then?” Lorrie asked.

Lotta looked at her in silence for a long moment. “I know what he is, I can guess what made him so. The man himself I do not know.”

“But you are going to help him, as you did the others?’

“Perhaps—only perhaps, Lorrie. For I cannot govern the choice of the house. It offers shelter by its own desire, not mine. My people have some powers, Lorrie. We can bend and weave, twist and spin. But there are other arts, equal but apart, and these we cannot influence, though we must abide by their results.”

“I don't understand.”

Lotta was smiling again. “Not now, Lorrie, not now. But the time will come that you do. If you were not what you are, then the house would never have opened to you even this much. For it chooses its people. A last choice, however, re mains yours. Now, I think we shall ride the woods path. For those are very noisy hunters down there, and they must have long since driven any game within hearing into other hiding.”

She raised her whip and with it held aside a drooping branch, then turned her mount to the right. Lorrie followed and the branch fell back into place behind them. This was a very narrow way, so narrow they must ride single file, so
shut in by trees and bushes that, leafless though those were, they made two walls. Now and then Lotta stopped. In that shadowed place Lorrie could not see what the older girl did, but she thought that she listened.

All at once Lorrie turned her head. Did she really hear a thin, far-off cry? Or—Again she shivered. Lotta was bearing right, where the brush was thinner. They had to ride bent low in the saddles for this was no path, merely a seeking through the woods. At last they came out by a fence made of rails laid crisscross in angles, and Lotta followed this.

Lorrie dropped Bevis’ reins and held her hands to her ears with a gasp. That shrill cry was inside her head and it hurt! It was too close, much too close.

She heard Lotta speak a word that had no meaning. The harsh sound ended as if silenced by that word. Again Lotta spoke in a kind of singsong, not as she had the night they had found Chole, but in another way, as if she were calling with a firm intention of being answered.

The snow in the field beyond the fence was unmarked by any trail. But farther along, in one of the fence corners, some thing stirred. Lorrie could not help being afraid. When she had been in the sleigh that other time she had known the fear broadcast by the hunters, by Chole, but this was something else. It was as if Lotta, so close Lorrie could almost reach out and touch her, was not there at all, but that Lorrie was alone while something very strange crawled out to meet her.

Now that stirring in the shadows became a man, who pulled himself up to lean heavily against the rails. He did not try to move toward them, but waited for them to come to him.

Lotta did, but Lorrie remained where she was, though she was not too far away to hear Lotta's voice as she leaned for ward a little in her saddle to ask:

“Who are you?”

“Who has the Call?” a hoarse voice answered. “Not what you think I am, I am afraid. I was given the Call to use when all else failed me, as this night it has. But any power was not mine, but another's. I do not claim to be more than I am.”

“Which is well for you. To make rash claims to such powers—”

“Could not bring me into more danger than I know, lady. Raise your voice a little and those louts beating the river banks will be up to dispose of the problem I am. And at this point I do not believe I care very much any more.”

“Can you walk?” To Lorrie, Lotta's voice sounded cold and demanding.

“After a fashion, ma'am. I've run and I've crawled, per haps there is enough strength left in me to walk—but not far.”

The shadow lurched away from the fence, stumbled to ward Lotta, caught at her skirt. There was a ripping sound as the man almost went to his knees. Lotta reached down and caught at him.

“Hold to my stirrup!” There was a note of command in her voice. “Lorrie, go back to the road, watch—See that they do not come from the bridge without warning.”

Lorrie edged Bevis around in the narrow space between the edge of the wood and the fence. Could she find her way back to the road? She was not at all sure. But Bevis started
confidently on and she thought she might leave it to him. That choice proved right, for he went through the trees to that very narrow path. Lorrie listened for any shouting, any sound that the searchers by the river were moving up to the house. She reached the screen of boughs that hid the en trance to its path, and looked down the road.

Torch lights moved together, as if the men who carried them were gathering into a single party. What must she do if they started up toward the house?

“Lorrie?” came a soft call from the path behind her.

“They are gathering together by the bridge,” she answered.

“We must cross the road before they come any closer. It is only a little farther, you must make it!” Lotta must be talking to the man.

“Tell that to my legs, ma'am. This is a case of the spirit being willing, but the flesh very weak.”

“Hang on. Lorrie, move Bevis between us and the bridge as a screen. Do you understand?”

“Yes!” Lorrie caught up the branch marking the end of the path. Lotta moved into the open, her horse coming step by cautious step, that dark figure stumbling painfully beside her. Then they were on the road, and Lorrie came to the other side, Bevis matching step to Lotta's horse so that the stranger staggered between them.

Back they went to Octagon House. When they reached the lane that led to the stable, Lorrie could hear the man breathing in harsh gasps, saw him wavering as if he could hardly stand. Lotta kept a grasp on his shoulder.

“Get Phineas,” Lotta ordered. Lorrie broke away, urged Bevis into a leap forward, scrambled out of the saddle by the stable, and ran for the door.

“Phineas!”

He came out in a rush, passing Lorrie as if he did not see her, but ran down the lane to Lotta.

“Here!” He was beside the stranger, pulling at him.

“Lorrie—the horses—into the stable! They are coming!”

Lorrie caught the reins of Lotta's mount as Lottadis mounted and held to the stranger's other side, turning him with Phineas’ help to the garden path that led to the back door. She took Lotta's horse and Bevis, pulling them into the stable, shutting the door on them, before she ran back to that slowly moving trio on the walk.

Now she could hear only too clearly the voices on the road. Lotta was right, the hunters were coming.

“Up here!”

“I can't—”

“You must!” That was Lotta.

Somehow he must have found the strength, for they did get him up those four steps, through the door into the back hall.

“Hurry!”

They pulled him on, Lorrie following. Something dropped to the floor as they came into the kitchen and Lorrie caught it up. Chole stood by the table, but at the sight of them she ran and pushed open the door to the back hall, went before them to open the way into the green room, and then to the chamber with the painted floor. Phineas and Lotta lowered
the man into the chair and his head fell back against its high back, his beard-matted chin pointing to the ceiling. He was heavily bearded and his eyes were deeply sunken. Under dirty rags his body was very thin and he shivered as if he had not been really warm for a long time. Lotta turned to Phineas.

“Look to the horses!”

“I will that—” And he was gone.

Then she spoke to Chole. “Some soup—and blankets—”

But Chole stood staring at the half-conscious man. Then she looked at Lotta.

“He's—one of
them
.”

“So? In this room, in this house, do you question, Chole?”

For a moment they stared at each other, and Lorrie had the feeling that though they made no sound, yet they spoke together in a way she did not understand.

“Would he be
here
,” asked Lotta in a less stern voice, “if what you wish to believe was true?”

Slowly Chole shook her head. Then she, too, went.

Now the man in the chair seemed to rouse a little. He moved his feet, and Lorrie saw there were great holes worn in his boot soles. His hands lifted from the arms of the chair and went to the front of his coat, which was tied together with bits of string through holes.

“Where—where—” He opened his eyes and pulled at the front of his coat as if he hunted for something he carried there and now could not find. “Where—”

For the first time Lorrie glanced down at what she held in her hands. It was a very shallow wooden box or tray, about
six inches square. Glued within it were shells, a great many small shells, along with shiny seeds. It was a picture, a heart of brown-red seeds surrounded by flowers of shells and, in the middle, spelled out by seeds, two words: “Truly Thine.”

“Is this what you want?” Lorrie held it out to him.

His eyes opened wider as he looked at what she held. Then his lips twisted and he made a queer sound.

“We—cling to things,” he said. “Too long sometimes. To make something keeps a man alive. Even in the hell camp it kept my mind alive. But—no—not any more. There is no need now.” He took the shell-and-seed picture from Lorrie.

With it in his hand, he sat a little straighter in the chair and looked about him, last of all at Lotta. “For what it is still worth in this mad, troubled world,” he said, “I am Charles Dupree, at your service, ma’ am. And I believe, unless I have totally lost all count of time, that this is something of a feast day.” Ragged scarecrow that he was, he leaned forward in a gesture that had the ghost of grace about it. “perhaps"—he coughed and then smiled at Lotta—"Perhaps, I should now say it. Madam, will you be—my valentine?”

Lotta caught the shell picture as it fell from his hand. And he would have gone to the floor if she had not pushed him back in the chair.

“Lorrie—the wall!” She was holding Charles in the chair. “Press the two ends of the middle shelf, both of them together!”

Lorrie stretched her arms wide, her finger tips just touching the points Lotta indicated. She pressed as hard as she
could. Then she jerked back as the wall moved. There was a tiny triangular closet beyond with a very thin slit of window.

Chole stood at the other door. She carried a mug from which a curl of steam rose. And then there was a heavy rap ping that echoed through the whole house.

“Them!” Chole flashed across the room and set the mug in the closet, dropped a blanket from her shoulder to the floor, was back again. “Leave him to me, Mis’ Lotta. You go an’ talk t’ them!”

Lorrie started forward to help Chole, but she never reached the side of the chair. Light and dark whirled to become moon light and shadow around the doll house. She turned slowly to face the other wall. There was no opening there. But—she had to know. Slowly she went to the empty shelf where books had stood it seemed only seconds earlier. She put her finger tips and pushed, then moved back. There was no quick out ward swing this time, but the shelf wall had moved a little. Lorrie put her fingers into the new crack and pulled.

There it was—a bare little three-cornered closet, empty of all except shadows. But it was there. Lorrie pushed the wall back into place. All at once she was cold and the shadows seemed larger and blacker, the moonlight strip thinner and weaker. She wanted real light and real people. So she ran, Sabina streaking before her, back into the house of her own time.

One Golden Needle

“For you, with all the thank you's from the committee.” Lorrie held out the tissue-wrapped package to Miss Ashemeade. “And here is the scrapbook too. The girls were all very careful. We know it is a precious thing. You were kind to talk to Aunt Margaret about our borrowing it.”

Miss Ashemeade smiled as she took the package. “If I had not known you would cherish it, Lorrie, I would not have lent it to you. Nothing, child, is too precious to give or lend to one who has need of it, always remember that. And now, let us see what this is.”

She drew off the ribbon, put aside the tissue paper, and looked at the offering from the committee.

“It was the prettiest one,” Lorrie said. “We all worked on it.”

Miss Ashemeade held the valentine up so that the sunlight fell across the lacy paper and the center bouquet of flowers, touched the golden letters Lizabeth had so skillfully cut from the gilt paper in the shape of a twisted rope.

“To Our Valentine,” Miss Ashemeade read. “You have done well, all of you, Lorrie. I shall give you a note for the committee. And so these are what you are going to offer for sale at your fair?”

“We made fifty,” Lorrie answered with pride. “Oh, they're not all as large as this one. But we tried to copy the ones in the book we liked best. And Mrs. Raymond said they were ‘works of art,’” Lorrie quoted.

Miss Ashemeade set the valentine carefully up on top of her embroidery table. Lorrie watched her and then paid more attention to the room. It was different. Now, with a sharp stab of fear, she knew why. The long table was bare, there were no longer any piles of materials and ribbons, any piece of work waiting the repairing needle.

The embroidery frame was empty and put back against the wall. Though there was a fire on the hearth this late Fri day afternoon and Sabina lay curled before it, and there were candles lighted, for the first time Lorrie did not feel the old safe welcome. She looked to Miss Ashemeade troubled.

“You aren't cleaning now—” She wanted that to be a question, but it sounded more a statement of a fact she did not want to believe.

“No, Lorrie, the cleaning and the clearing are almost done.”

“The house! Miss Ashemeade, that meeting—Couldn't the lawyer do anything to help you? They are not going to tear down Octagon House! They can't!”

She had been so busy with the committee, with end of the term lessons and tests—she had been too busy to care!
Maybe—maybe she could have done something—There had been her idea of trying to get people interested in saving the house. If she had only paid attention, tried—The chill within Lorrie spread. She shivered as she looked about the room again and noticed all the familiar things now gone from it. What—what would happen now?

“Lorrie.” Miss Ashemeade's quiet voice drew her attention from the room to its mistress. “In this much you are right, the time of Octagon House is fast drawing to a close. But that is the natural course of life, dear child. Nothing re mains unchanged, unless it withdraws from life itself. By man's measurement Octagon House has had a long life, well over a hundred years. It has seen many changes around it, and now it shall be changed in turn.”

“It will be torn down! Gone—not just changed. It's—it's all wrong!” Lorrie had jumped to her feet and that denial came out of her in a shrill voice.

Miss Ashemeade no longer smiled. She gazed at Lorrie very soberly and intently.

“Lorrie, one cannot say no to life and remain the same. When you first came here, you were trying to say no to change. You thought you could not find anything good in a new way of life, was that not true?”

She paused, and Lorrie tried to remember back to the days before Octagon House opened its doors for her.

“Then the house had something to offer you. It is, and it has always been, a refuge, Lorrie. Do you understand what I mean?”

“A safe place,” Lorrie answered.

“A safe place. And some who found their way here, child, were so beaten and hurt by life that this refuge became a home. In this house there is a choice one may make—to re-enter life again, or to stay. You thought you were unhappy and alone. But were you ever as unhappy and frightened and alone as Phebe and Phineas, Chole and Nackie, and Charles Dupree?”

Lorrie did not know quite what Miss Ashemeade was trying to tell her. “They came—Lotta brought them—because they were being hunted—people after them—”

“They were hunted, yes. Two orphan children, and two escaped slaves, and a prisoner of war. The house chose to shelter them, and in turn they chose to remain in the house. You thought you were being hunted, too, but what were you running from, Lorrie?”

“Jimmy Purvis—the boys—” Lorrie began slowly, trying to think why. Somehow it all seemed so silly now. “And I guess everything else—missing Grandmother and Hamp-stead, and being lonely. I was silly and stupid"—she felt her face grow hot—"just as they said I was.”

“These things seemed big to you then, Lorrie. But how do you find them now?”

“Small,” Lorrie admitted.

“Because you have learned that time can change some things?”

Suddenly Lorrie asked a question of her own. “Miss Ashemeade—the doll house—this house—are they the same?” She herself did not know quite what she meant, yet it was important.

Miss Ashemeade shook her head. “That I cannot tell you. It's not that I will not, but I truly cannot. But know this much: if you had not had the power within you that opened the doors, you would not have seen what you did. The house chooses, it always does. And now that you have seen some things, there is reason to believe that time may open more doors for you, if you wish.”

“Miss Ashemeade, if Octagon House must go, where will you and Hallie live?”

Once more Miss Ashemeade smiled. “Dear child, that is a worry no one need have. And now I believe you have one last row on your sampler to finish. Shall we sew for a while?”

She put aside the valentine and opened the top of her table. Lorrie picked up her own workbox and got out the strip of linen with its rows and rows of stitches. A little surprised, she surveyed the record of her learning. Why, it was longer than she had thought, beginning with simple outline stitching and French knots, and going on to featherstitching, chain stitching, into more complicated work.

Miss Ashemeade had taken a small package out of one of the table compartments and was unfolding a strip of cloth.

“Will you set the music box, Lorrie?” she asked.

As the tinkling notes sounded through the quiet of the room, Lorrie was not surprised when Miss Ashemeade began to sing in that unknown other language. But she was not stitching tapestry, or mending lace, or making a collar—

Collar, thought Lorrie in sudden surprise. Miss Ashemeade had made that velvet collar for Sabina for Christmas.
But Sabina had not worn it then, nor had Lorrie seen it again since the day it had been fashioned.

What was Miss Ashemeade making now? Lorrie leaned forward a little to see, for it was small. Yes, that was the golden needle flashing, though there was no sun to light it today. But—she was making a doll dress!

And as she sewed on, she glanced now and then to a small picture that had been wrapped up with the material. By leaning forward just a little farther Lorrie could see the picture clearly, and with a start of surprise recognized the lady in it.

That was Lotta as she had seen her last with Charles. Only instead of a riding habit she wore a lovely dress of lace that spread out in rows of ruffles from her small waist. And Miss Ashemeade was copying that dress, sewing on such tiny ruffles that Lorrie would not have believed anyone could make such invisibly small stitches unless she had watched them in progress. Miss Ashemeade sang. Again Lorrie found her own needle moving in time to that singing, with ease and pleasure in what she was doing.

When her last row of sampler stitches was completed, she folded the length of material and placed it neatly in the bottom of her box, beneath the tray that held the needlecase, reels, and spools. She sat quietly, content to watch the flashing of the golden needle in and out, and then she found her self repeating the words of the song along with Miss Ashemeade, not knowing what they meant, except that they were a very necessary part of what Miss Ashemeade was now doing.

How long they sat there Lorrie did not know or care. For
her the warmth and the safe feeling had returned to the room. But at last Miss Ashemeade set a final stitch and cut her thread. The dress was finished. She smoothed it with her fingers and then further unrolled the large square of material. Within lay a second dress of soft rose-pink and with it a ruffled apron.

“Oh!” Lorrie cried in distress. “You broke your needle— the gold needle!”

Miss Ashemeade no longer sang. And as she put down the needle it no longer flashed. It was broken in two, and some how it no longer seemed gold, but lay in dull pieces, as if the stitching it had just done had drawn out of it all the life it had once held.

“Its work was done, my dear.” Miss Ashemeade did not sound sorry. “It was very old and its usefulness was finished.”

Lorrie eyed the doll dresses. She wanted to ask why Miss Ashemeade had made them, but somehow she could not. It was as if such a question would have been rude.

Miss Ashemeade put them away, rolled up in the material. She shut down the lid of the sewing table.

“Now, Lorrie, if you will fetch pen and paper. I do want to thank the committee for their charming gift.”

As Miss Ashemeade wrote, Lorrie moved to the fireplace. Sabina sat up and began to wash. It was so quiet in the room that the faint scratching of pen on paper could be heard, even the lick-lick of Sabina's rough pink tongue against her black fur. Suddenly Lorrie did not like that quiet. Hallie—where was Hallie? She listened for any noise from the kitchen. But
perhaps the walls of the old house were too thick, for if Hal-lie were busy, no sound could be heard here.

Miss Ashemeade sealed her envelope with a small wafer, and then brought out from some inner pocket of her wide skirt another envelope.

“Lorrie, I am going to ask you to do something that is very important to me. And I shall also ask you not to question it. I believe I can trust you.”

“Yes, Miss Ashemeade.”

“As you leave here tonight, you will find the key in the lock of the back door. You will lock the door, then you will put the key into this envelope, seal the envelope, and mail it at the corner post box.”

“Miss Ashemeade!” Lorrie dared to catch and hold the hand offering her the envelope. “Please, Miss Ashemeade, what are you going to do?”

“I said no questions, Lorrie. And do not be afraid, because there is nothing to fear, that I promise you. I told you once that belief was needful. Believe me now.”

Lorrie took the envelope. “I do.”

“And now, Lorrie, it grows late.”

But Lorrie did not turn at once to the door. “Please—I will see you again?”

Miss Ashemeade smiled. Sabina came running lightly across the room and jumped into her lap.

“I believe you will, Lorrie. Remember, belief is very important—belief and the need for seeing with the heart as well as with the eyes. Always remember that. And now, goodbye for a little while, Lorrie.”

“Goodbye.” Lorrie could linger no longer after that dismissal, but somehow she was almost afraid to go, afraid that if she went out of this room she would never see it again. She turned as she reached the door to look back for the last time.

Sabina lay at ease across her mistress’ lap and Miss Ashemeade was stroking her. The shadows were gathering darker and darker in the far corners of the room, beginning to creep out toward its center.

“Please, may I say goodbye to Hallie too?” Lorrie asked.

“Of course, my dear, if you can find her.”

Lorrie closed the door and crossed the hall to the kitchen. The door was shut and did not open to her pull. What had Miss Ashemeade once said, on her first exploration of the house—go anywhere the doors will open. This one would not.

Lorrie rapped on it, but there was no answer. But she must say goodbye to Hallie! Somehow, tonight especially, that was important. With her knuckles still resting against the stubbornly closed panels, Lorrie called:

“Goodbye, Hallie, goodbye!”

Still that did not seem enough. Alarmed, why she was not quite sure, Lorrie turned to the door through which she had come only moments earlier. She would ask Miss Ashemeade. But that door could not now be opened either. She lifted her hand though she did not knock. After her last goodbye, Lorrie somehow felt she must not disturb the mistress of Octagon House again.

She put on her wraps and boots. The key was in the lock, just as Miss Ashemeade had said it would be. She let herself
out, then turned the key. For a long moment she stood on the top step, holding it in her hand. She had locked Miss Ashemeade and Hallie inside—why? The key was big and old and heavy. But perhaps they had another key. Maybe Hallie was tired and had gone to rest, and Miss Ashemeade wanted to spare her having to come and lock up.

But then why put the key in an envelope and mail it? Lorrie turned the envelope over in her hand. There were papers inside to make it fat. She dropped the key in quickly and licked the flap shut. The name and address on it—it was meant to go to a Mr. Ernest Thruston—the lawyer!

Belief was important, Miss Ashemeade had said—and don't ask questions. But questions buzzed in Lorrie's head as she walked to the mailbox and dropped in the heavy letter.

Lorrie continued to think about that key and the big envelope while she got supper for Aunt Margaret, who would be late tonight. She kept remembering things that made her more and more uneasy, just why she was not sure. Miss Ashemeade's precious golden needle, dull and broken. And the locked door when she left—Miss Ashemeade certainly could not have risen and walked across the room all by her self to lock the door of the red room in the short time Lorrie had been at the kitchen door! Then who had? Hallie, coming around the other way through the unused parlor?

But always her thoughts came back to the key and why Miss Ashemeade had wanted her to mail it to Mr. Thruston.