Octagon Magic Page 10

  About her a whirling flurry of snowflakes drove between her and the house. Then the snow cleared and Lorrie found she was not on the back of a horse as she had thought she would be, but cuddled down in a sleigh. There was a white fur rug pulled up almost as far as her shoulders, and her head was snug in a fur-lined hood. She shared the seat of the sleigh with someone else, and Lorrie turned her head quickly to view her companion.

  She, too, wore a fur-bordered hood. In the late afternoon that shone red, the ruff of fur about her face white. Lotta was driving the sleigh with practiced ease. It was a small sleigh in the form of a swan with a proudly curving neck and a high-held head. The horse speeding alone before that curve of swan neck was white too, but his harness was as red as Lotta's hood, and tassels and silver bells bounced and rang as he trotted briskly along. There was a smell of pine from some boughs resting across their laps, a Christmas-y smell.

  “Merry Christmas, Lorrie!” Lotta's voice was clear even above the ringing of the bells. She was not a little girl any longer, but a young lady. But she was still Lotta, and Lorrie smiled back.

  “Merry Christmas!”

  It was so exciting, this dash along the snowy road with the ringing of the bells, the smell of pine, and all the rest of it. But ahead Lorrie did not see the rise of the red-brick walls as she expected. If they were bound for the shelter of Octagon House, they still had some distance to go.

  “'Deck the halls with boughs of holly,’” Lotta sang. “We have pine if not holly, Lorrie. Ah, this is a good day.”

  “Yes!”

  The snow spattered up from the horse's flying hoofs. Some of it stuck against the arching wings of the swan that protected the riders. It was crispy cold, but all but the tip of Lorrie's nose was cheerfully warm. She wriggled her hands and discovered that under the sleigh robe they were not only mittened but also protected by a muff.

  “Where are we going?” Lorrie dared to ask when Octagon House still did not come into view, though they rounded two curves and could now see a good stretch of open country through which the road was a pair of ruts deep cut in the snow.

  Lotta shook the reins as if to urge the horse to a brisker pace. “I—” she had begun when there sounded a long mournful howl. Their horse neighed. Two dogs bounded toward them, and behind rode men on horseback. Again the bells on the harness tinkled as Lotta pulled on the reins. The horse slowed to a walk and finally stopped.

  Lorrie felt a chill she had not known earlier. There was something about those dogs, the mounted men behind them—She did not know why she had that shiver of fear, but she heard Lotta say softly:

  “It is their thoughts you feel, Lorrie, reaching as shadows across the snow, darkening, spoiling it. It is what they have done, and what they would do, that we see coming before them—a taste on the wind.”

  There was a puff of wind in their faces and Lorrie smelled what was a ghost of an old and evil odor. Lotta continued:

  “What you smell is the seed of fear, Lorrie. Never forget that fear has a seed, and it is cruelty. There are hunters and hunted, those who run and those who pursue.”

  One of the hounds had almost reached the sleigh. It raised its head and bayed. Lotta whistled, only a note or two, high and shrill, and the hound whined and leaped away.

  “Your servant, ma'am.” Lorrie had been watching the hound so closely she had not seen the first rider gallop forward to Lotta's side of the sled. The man in the saddle leaned forward a little as if to see them both better.

  He wore a broad-brimmed hat tied on his head with a scarf that went over the top of his hat and down over his ears, being then wound and tied about his throat. His thick coat had the collar well turned up, and he had heavy gloves on his hands.

  “Your wish, sir?” Lotta had given him no greeting.

  “Not to disturb so lovely a pair of ladies, ma'am.” He had a mustache that curled up at the tips stiffly as if, Lorrie thought, he had used hair spray to set it so, and a little pointed beard that waggled up and down before his checkered muffler as he spoke. “Have you passed anyone on the road?”

  “And your reason for asking?” Lotta counter-questioned.

  “Miss Ashemeade, ma'am.” A second rider had come up to join the first. His face was round and reddened with the nip of hours in the cold. Some spikes of fair hairs stuck out raggedly from beneath his fur cap, which was old and had bare and shiny spots where the hair had fallen out.

  “Constable Wilkins,” Lotta acknowledged.

  “We'se huntin’ runaways, ma'am. These here are lawmen from down'cross the river. Two o’ them runaways, ma'am, a woman an’ a boy. It's the bounden duty of all law-bidin’ folks to turn ‘em in, ma'am.”

  It seemed to Lorrie that Mr. Wilkins was uneasy and grew uneasier still as Lotta continued to look at him calmly, just as she had once looked at Phineas when he had raised suspicious objections to her offer of help.

  “We have been advised of that law several times, Constable Wilkins. A woman and a boy, you say. This is cruel weather through which to be hunted.”

  “By their own choice, ma'am,” the other man broke in, “entirely by their own choice. You have not seen them, of course.” But Lorrie thought that was not quite a question, it was almost as if he expected Lotta to say no, and refused to believe that she spoke the truth.

  “We have seen no one. And now, the hour grows late, and the wind grows colder. If you will permit me, gentlemen,” Lotta slapped the reins, and the white horse settled to his collar. Lorrie thought that the man wanted to say more, but the sleigh was already on its way again. When she looked inquiringly at Lotta, she saw that the happy look had vanished from the older girl's face.

  “It seems that trouble does walk the world, even on this night, Lorrie. And we are summoned to take a hand. So—” She clicked her tongue and shook the reins again and the white horse quickened pace.

  Lorrie looked back. She could still see the men as black dots and she heard the dogs yelping. The trees of a long finger of woods were reaching out for the sleigh. And as the sleigh came into their shadow, Lotta pulled in the horse to a walk.

  “Watch for a tree that is storm-split, Lorrie,” she said. “That is our trail marker.”

  Lorrie saw it to their right among others and called out. Then they turned off the road into a way where the snow lay soft and unbroken, but where there must be some sort of trail, for Lotta drove confidently forward.

  “A short cut, Lorrie. I do not think they will backtrack to follow us, but if they do we shall have an excuse for taking this way. Now—” She began to sing. That tune—Lorrie thought she had heard the tune—but the words she did not understand. Only, after some moments she found herself humming the melody. Up scale and down went those notes as they drove out of the woods again, down a slope, and turned into another marked road. Now they turned right, taking a direction that led back the way they had come.

  Still Lotta sang, sometimes so low her voice rose hardly above a murmur, sometimes louder than the chime of the bells. Then, all at once, she stopped, and Lorrie thought she was listening, as if she expected some answer from the bushes and trees lining the road ahead.

  Once, very far away, there was the bay of a hound. And then there was a faint smile about Lotta's lips for an instant. But still she watched the way before them intently. They pulled up a hill and paused on its crown for a moment while the horse snorted and blew clouds of white breath, bobbing his head up and down.

  The road sloped again before them, crossed a bridge, and then—yes, to the left ahead Lorrie saw familiar red bricks. That was Octagon House. And when she sighted it, the small nipping fear that had been with her since they had met the horsemen vanished.

  “Slowly, Bevis!” Lotta called.

  As if he understood her, the horse neighed and nodded his head vigorously. They went down the far side of the hill at a much slower pace. And still Lotta looked as if she were listening, expecting to hear something besides the thud of hoofs on the packed snow.

  “B
evis!” They had come close to the bridge when Lotta's voice rang out and the horse halted. Now Lotta flung aside the fur robe in the sleigh and climbed out. Though she did not summon Lorrie to join her, the girl pulled out of the tangle of cover to follow.

  Lorrie's long skirts dragged in the snow as she tried to hold them up, moving far slower and more clumsily than Lotta, who was peering down into the shadows beneath the bridge, just as she had on that other night when Phineas and Phebe had taken refuge there.

  Lorrie heard no crying this time. But there was something else. Just as she had sniffed that evil smell when the riders had met the sleigh, so now did she feel fear—not her fear but one that spread to her from the dark by the water. And she stopped, uneasy.

  “They are well away—” Lotta's soft voice carried. “Their hounds are running straight now on the wrong scent. Come out while there is time.”

  There was no answer. It seemed to Lorrie that the fear wave came more strongly. Now it hit her so that she could not move. But Lotta held out her hands to the dark pool of shadow.

  “You need not fear us. Come while there is time. I can promise you a safe hiding place. But how long we have, I do not know.”

  Again silence. Then Lorrie saw a flicker of movement in the shadows. Out of them crawled a bent-over figure, hands and knees in the snow. It dragged behind it what might have been a cloak or shawl on which lay a heap of rags.

  “I'se got to believe.” It was a cry of pain. “I'se purely got to believe that, mis’.”

  Lotta ran forward, her outstretched hands falling to the shoulders of the crawling figure. “Lorrie!” she called, and Lorrie struggled through the drift to join her.

  Together they brought to her feet a tall skeleton of a woman, who shivered with great shudders running all through her too thin body.

  “Nackie! Nackie!” She tried to stoop again to the bundle on the shawl and nearly fell until Lotta steadied her.

  “Come!” she urged. “We have so little time! Lorrie, bring the baby.”

  Baby? Lorrie looked down at the bundle, which had neither stirred nor cried. Baby? Not quite believing, she stooped awkwardly and picked up the heap of rags on the snow-wet shawl. She did hold a small body and there was a tiny movement against her shoulder as she struggled against the weight of her skirts back up to the sleigh.

  Somehow they all crowded into the seat and Lotta snapped the reins. Bevis trotted on, across the bridge, up the lane, turned past the horse block to come to the door of a stable. Someone ran through newly falling flakes of snow to meet them.

  “Miss Lotta?”

  ‘Take care, Phineas. We may have visitors later.”

  The boy nodded. “If they come, I'll have some answers for ‘em. Do you need help?”

  “Not now. You're better out here for a while.”

  Lorrie still carried that small light bundle as she went up a shoveled path behind Lotta and the woman they had found to the back door. Light shone in the windows and, as she came into the back hallway, she heard the murmur of voices. They turned into the kitchen. From beside the stove a girl turned to face them. Her eyes widened as she saw the woman Lotta supported. Then she ran to open the other door into the hallway, asking no questions. They made a swift journey across the green bedroom, then were in the room with the shelves and the painted floor. Lotta lowered the woman into the chair. For a moment she was limp, and Lorrie was afraid she would slip to the floor. Then with a visible effort she straightened up and held out her arms.

  “Nackie—give me my Nackie!” Her demand was fierce and she stared at Lorrie angrily. Lorrie hastened to lay the baby in her arms.

  Only, as the woman pulled the tattered coverings from around that small body, Lorrie saw it was not a baby she had carried. It was an older child, with large eyes in a pinched face. He put up his hands and stroked the cheeks of the woman bending over him, and he made a sound, a rasping little cry that was no word or any normal child's call.

  “Nackie!” The woman rocked back and forth in the chair, holding him close. Lotta went to the door. The girl from the kitchen—it was Phebe—stood there holding a tray with a bowl and a mug on it.

  Lotta brought them to the woman. “Drink. It is hot and nourishing and you need it.”

  The woman stared at her and took the mug, sipped from it, then held it to the child's lips. He drank greedily, and over his head she looked again to Lotta.

  “We'se runaways, from ‘cross th’ river.”

  “I know. But here you are safe.”

  It was almost as if the woman could not understand. “Nackie—they was goin’ t’ sell me ‘way from Nackie! They never did want him. He can't talk ner walk. He couldn't live weren't he with his ma. But he ain't trash like you throw ‘way. He can do things with his hands. Looky here, mis’, jus’ looky here. Nackie made this all by his ownself!”

  She took the cup away from the boy and put it on the tray Lotta still held, to search in the front of the shapeless garment she wore. Then she brought out a small square of woven mat. Its edging caught the light to glisten brilliantly. Feathers, Lorrie saw—peacock feathers.

  “Nackie—he made me that—made it all by himself for his own ma who loves him! He ain't lackin’ in th’ head, no, he ain't! No matter what ol’ mis’ said. I ain't losin’ my Nackie! I heard ‘em tell as how they was goin’ to sell Chole—that's me, mis’. An’ so I jus’ took Nackie an’ I ran—I ran as far an’ as fast as I could.”

  “There will be no more running,” Lotta said. “Now drink this good soup in the bowl, Chole. You are safe here.”

  “Is I, mis'? Be there any safe place for me an’ Nackie?”

  “There is.” The firmness in Lotta's voice was convincing. “Lorrie, will you take this to Phebe?” She held out the tray with the now empty mug and bowl.

  Lorrie went back to the hall. There were no candles or lamps here—it was very dark. She was a little afraid of that dark, for it seemed to move about while she stood still. Then the dark was gone and she sat on the floor before the doll house once again.

  Storm Clouds

  “Aunt Margaret.” Lorrie held open on her lap one of the costume books her aunt kept for reference. “How old do you suppose Miss Ashemeade really is?”

  Aunt Margaret glanced up from her sketching pad.

  “I haven't the slightest idea, Lorrie. From things she says—” Aunt Margaret's voice trailed off, and she looked puzzled.

  “Look here, see this dress? It's like those Miss Ashemeade wears. But the book says it was worn in 1865! And that's over a hundred years ago. Why should Miss Ashemeade wear a dress over a hundred years old?”

  “Probably because she wants to, Chick. But her dresses are not over a hundred years old, they are just made over from the old patterns. Miss Ashemeade does not go out, you know. Perhaps she likes dresses of older periods and sees no reason why she cannot suit herself and wear them. They are very beautiful. And materials such as those cannot be found nowadays.”

  “Then where does Miss Ashemeade find them?” persisted Lorrie.

  “Perhaps she has stored lengths of material to use. It was often the custom to buy dress material by the bolt and store it for future use. In a house as old as hers, there must be a good supply of things from the past. Octagon House was built back in the mid-1840's.”

  “Who built it?”

  “The Ashemeade family. Miss Ashemeade is the last of them now, at least the last of that name in Ashton.”

  “Hallie wears dresses like these, too.” Lorrie went back to her first line of questioning.

  “Hallie greatly admires Miss Ashemeade, and she must be as old, so she likes the same styles. I must admit, on both of them those dresses are very becoming.”

  Lorrie turned back the pages of the book and looked at another illustration and at the date beneath it. Miss Ashemeade wore a dress of 1865, but the little girl in this other illustration had a dress like that of the doll Phebe. And the date under it was 1845.

  She began to turn the page
s carefully in search of something else. The full skirts were common and she could see no small detail to date the dress Lotta had worn during that journey by sleigh. And—who was Lotta?

  Once or twice Lorrie had believed she knew. Only that could not be true! Or—could it? She turned back to the page of Miss Ashemeade's dress.

  “What a wonderful house!” Aunt Margaret was no longer working, but looking rather at the wall where hung her Christmas gift from Miss Ashemeade. It was a picture of a lady and gentleman standing stiffly in a garden where flowers grew stiffly also. The gentleman had long curls that hung down on his shoulders, and a sword at his side. Aunt Margaret explained that it was stump work, a kind of embroidery very seldom seen, and that the picture must be close to three hundred or more years old. “It is really a museum, Lorrie.”

  “Then, why doesn't someone make it one? They couldn't tear it down for the thruway if it were a museum, could they?” demanded Lorrie.

  “Perhaps.” Aunt Margaret picked up her sketching pencil again as if she did not want to talk about that. “Don't you have some homework, Chick?”

  Lorrie put the costume book back in its proper place. “Math,” she said briefly and with no relish. But it was hard to think of math when this other idea had taken root in her mind.

  If Octagon House was made important they could not pull it down. How did you make a house important? A story in the paper—maybe talking about it on TV? But how did one get a story in the paper, or someone to talk on TV? Did you just write a letter and ask?

  “Lorrie, you don't seem to have done very much,” Aunt Margaret observed as she gathered her own papers together and slid them into her brief case. “I don't believe Mrs. Raymond will accept such scribbling. If I remember rightly from my own school days, once Christmas was over it was back to work, and hard work, before the end of the term.”

  “Yes, I guess so.” Lorrie tried to push Octagon House out of her mind and concentrate on the dreary figures that she never liked.

  But in bed that night she thought again about Octagon House. Suppose she, Lorrie Mallard, could write a letter to the newspaper, all about the house and Miss Ashemeade, and the wonderful things—