Octagon Magic (4 page)

As Miss Ashemeade closed that case and put is back, Lorrie noted that it was of a dark wood that looked very, very old, and it was patterned on the top with tarnished metal.

“Thank you, Lorrie. Now you may stick those all along the frame where they may be easily reached. You have been sitting still, which I know is hard for one of your years. So, now you are free to explore.”

“Explore?” echoed Lorrie.

“Explore the house. You are free, Lorrie, to enter any room where the door will open for you.”

What a queer thing to say, Lorrie thought. As if a door could choose of itself whether or not to open for her. But to explore the house, yes, that was exciting.

“Thank you.”

Miss Ashemeade smiled again. “Thank me when you return, Lorrie, if you still wish to.”

That, too, was puzzling. But Lorrie did not try to figure it out. She decided to leave by the door opposite the one where she had entered. Miss Ashemeade was bending over the frame, already beginning to stitch the canvas.

Lorrie went into the next room. This was dusky, behind the closed shutters. Unlike Miss Ashemeade's warm and welcoming chamber, this was chill and dark. No fire burned in the fireplace. All the furniture was covered by sheets. Lorrie glanced around. The room had let her enter, but there was very little to see that attracted her. Next was a hallway, and then another room, which must balance the red room. It was a bedroom and it was alive and open, only it was all green— as green as Miss Ashemeade's dress. The bed was very large and had carved posts and a frame at the top of them, from which hung pale green curtains patterned with vines in darker green, the same shade as the carpet under Lorrie's feet. There were chairs and a small sofa, all covered in light green patterned with the darker leaves. Almost, Lorrie thought, one could believe this a wood with things growing.

She stood by the foot of the bed, looking about her. Miss
Ashemeade had said to enter any room that would let her. But Lorrie did not feel comfortable here.

“Merrow—”

Lorrie, startled, looked to her left. There were two other doors leading out of the room, and peering about the edge of the nearer was Sabina. She opened her small mouth again to utter a cry that sounded much too large for such a small kitten, almost, Lorrie decided, as if she were impatiently telling her to hurry.

As Lorrie went toward her, Sabina ducked around the door and disappeared. Then Lorrie entered.

She was in a very queerly shaped small room. The outer wall, which had a single window, met the longer wall to her right at a very sharp and narrow angle. But on the other side, to her left, it was square as an ordinary room. There were no curtains or drapes, so the light came through easily to show what stood there.

Lorrie gasped. The center of the misshapen room was occupied by an eight-sided dais or platform of polished wood. Set in the sides of that were drawers, each marked by a gleaming brass keyhole and handles. And using that base for a foundation was a house of red brick with a wooden trim, an exact copy of the very home in which it stood. If it were a doll house it was larger and more perfect than any Lorrie had seen before. Taller than Lorrie herself, it almost filled the room.

Facing what was meant to be the front door of the house was a rocking horse such as Lorrie had seen pictured in the old volumes of the
St. Nicholas
magazines. It was big,
nearly as large as a pony she had ridden at the park last summer, and it was white, with a silky mane. On its back was a red saddle. Only, Lorrie saw as she went closer, it was an oddly shaped saddle, nor like any she had seen before.

She put out her hand cautiously. Why, the horse felt as if he were covered with real hide! Bolder, Lorrie stroked his mane, and under her touch he rocked back and forth with a faint creak-creak.

“Merrow!” Sabina was standing on her hind legs, as if she were trying to peep into one of the windows. But it was too high above her head. Lorrie went on her knees to look too.

It was as if she were viewing a real house through the wrong end of field glasses, making all smaller instead of larger. There was furniture and pictures, and carpets on the floor. She could even see a little tea table with a service set out upon it, just waiting for someone to pour. In fact, as Lorrie moved around the house, she had the oddest feeling that it was inhabited, and, if she hurried a little faster, she would catch sight of some person who had just this moment left the room into which she was now looking.

Miss Ashemeade's red-velvet room was different, for in the little house it was a dining room, the long table set with a white cloth and dishes ready for a meal. She crawled around to the kitchen side and then on to look into the green bedroom. Upstairs there were other bedrooms—three big square ones. And then there were three triangular rooms that had big cupboards in them, and another, oddly shaped room with a stair opening into it.

All of it was furnished and ready—so ready. The oven in
the kitchen stove was half ajar and she could see the end of a loaf of bread.

Doll houses opened, so this must. How else could all the furniture have been put in? But when Lorrie tried to find any hinge or latch on the outside she could not. Baffled, she sat back on her heels. Then she tugged at the pulls on the base drawers. But not one gave to her urging. They had keyholes, perhaps they were locked.

Once more she circled the house. It was just a little taller than she was, counting the base. But the attic rooms were so dark she could not see in through their slits of windows. If there were any rooms behind those they remained a mystery. Maybe the house was to be respected as Miss Ashemeade had warned her, something to look at with the eyes but not with the fingers. And there was plenty to look at, tiny marvels in each room every time she peered anew.

Lorrie stepped back. She could not rid herself of the belief that this was no ordinary doll house to be played with. It was so much like the house in which it stood that somehow it was alive, really more alive than those parts of Octagon House she had found sheeted and covered. And there remained her feeling that all of the smaller house, not just part of it, was in use—by someone.

Used by what—whom? She hurried around the corner to look into another window, then raced to the next room. If she could just move fast enough to catch a glimpse of the tiny person who only that moment had gone out! Then she stood still and looked at Sabina, who had settled down in the full light of the window, to wash a back paw with deliberation
and much attention to the space between two well-spread toes.

“It's—it's just a doll house, isn't it, Sabina? No one
does
live there. No one could.”

Sabina did not even flick an ear in her direction. Lorrie took another step back and her shoulder struck against the rocking horse. He swayed, and under the rockers the floor creaked. Lorrie drew her hand down his mane. Just—almost as good as a pony.

She eyed the queer saddle. Why was it made that way? But—it would be fun to take a ride. Rocking horses were for little kids, but this was such a big one.

Lorrie climbed on and tried to sit astride the saddle. But you could not do that comfortably, it had bumps in the wrong places. Somehow, she did not know how, she found herself sitting the horse in another way, her knee hooked over a big horn, both of her feet on the same side of the horse. And he began to rock, faster—

There was a wind blowing and leaves whirled up—leaves? Lorrie blinked. This was not the room, it was a road with trees on either side and the wind in their branches. She was not on a rocking horse at all, but on a real one. And she wore a long skirt flapping in the wind. For a moment she was stiff with fright, and then that fright vanished. Dimly she had a strange feeling she had done this before, that this was just as is should be.

The white horse moved easily as a steady trot, and Lorrie rode him as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Not too far ahead was a brick house. The Octagon House!
Lorrie's heart beat faster. Something, someone was waiting there for her and it was most important.

Then the horse flung up his head and shook it. He stopped beside a big block of stone by an iron gate. Lorrie slipped out of the saddle to the stone and then to the ground. She had to gather the long folds of her skirt up over her arm or she would have tripped on them. But she opened the gate and walked up to the front door.

There was a brass knocker there and Lorrie lifted it, letting it fall again with a loud bang. Only—there was no answer. No one came, and when she tried the door it was locked. Her happy excitement was gone, suddenly she shivered and was afraid.

The wind blew dust at her and she closed her eyes. When she opened them there was no big door. She stood in front of the doll house. Her long skirt had vanished, everything was as it had been. Lorrie blinked rapidly. It was a dream, that was what it had been. But—she looked about the room—she did not want to stay in here any more.

Nor did she want to explore any further. Swiftly she retraced her way back to the red room. There was only one threaded needle still unused at the side of the frame. Miss Ashemeade looked up as Lorrie hurried to the light of the window. It seemed to Lorrie as if in that glance Miss Ashemeade had learned all that had happened. She did not want to talk of the small house, or of the horse, not even to Miss Ashemeade.

“Well, my dear, see, I have almost finished my morning's stint. Do you know what a stint is?”

“No.” Lorrie sat down on the stool.

“When I was young every little girl had a piece of needlework on which she did an allotted portion of work each day. That was her stint. It was an excellent way in which to learn both discipline and sewing.”

She took up the last of the needles Lorrie had threaded. “Now, just this last small bit—”

“Oh!” Lorrie cried out in admiration.

In the picture there was now a small fawn standing beside the tree that had marked the edge of the filled space when she had come that morning. It was so real! Lorrie felt that if she put out a finger she would touch sun-warmed hide.

“You like it?”

“It is so real.”

“Would you like to learn to do this?”

“Could I? Could I really make something—a picture?”

Again Miss Ashemeade gave her one of those long, piercing looks. “Not without a great deal of patience and hard work, Lorrie. And no haste, you must understand, no haste.”

“Could I try?” Lorrie was only a little daunted.

“We can always try—anything,” Miss Ashemeade answered. “Yes, you may try, Lorrie. You may begin this afternoon if you wish. But in the beginning you do not do this kind of work. Beginning is sometimes very dull and takes learning and practice.”

“I would like to try, please,” Lorrie said.

“Then you shall, and we will see if you have any gift for it. Now, dear, will you tell Hallie we are ready for lunch?”

Phineas and Phebe

After that Saturday Lorrie found she was living two lives. But it was not confusing. In one she was Lorrie Mallard who went to school, who did her homework, who walked home with Kathy now and then, who had household tasks to do. But to be that Lorrie was not too hard because there was escape into Octagon House. She did not go too often, of course, though she tried to take the alley route by it each morning and evening, hurrying before and after that one stretch of walk so she could go more slowly there. And twice Hallie had been at the chained back gate with a note for Aunt Margaret, inviting Lorrie to more afternoons in Miss Ashemeade's big room.

Miss Ashemeade had been very right in her warning that to learn to sew was a task. The needles and silks and wools never seemed to prick
her
fingers or tangle when she used them. Sometimes she worked on the canvas in the frame, or again she mended lace or one of the pieces that lay waiting on the
table. But she was never too busy to look over Lorrie's strip of linen on which were shaping rows of different kinds of stitches. That “sampler” would serve Lorrie later, Miss Ashemeade said, as a pattern for all the stitches one must know.

Sometimes as they worked together Miss Ashemeade told stories. And sometimes Lorrie talked about Grandmother Mallard and Miss Logan's, and once even about Mother and Father. And sometimes about school.

“I'm to be a Puritan,” she announced on her third visit. “It's for the Thanksgiving play. I don't have anything to say. I just bring in a big dish of pretend corn for the table. We're supposed to be giving a feast with the Indians as guests.”

Miss Ashemeade was working on the lace, using the finest of thread and needles. Even Lorrie's bright eyes had had trouble in finding the holes in those.

“Indians and Puritans. So you are beginning to learn your American history now, Lorrie? Perhaps with less trouble?”

“Some. I still get mixed up once in a while though. And then that Jimmy Purvis always laughs.”

“Jimmy Purvis.” Miss Ashemeade took another almost invisible stitch. “Ah, yes, he is the boy who chased Sabina.”

“He's mean, just plain mean and hateful!” Lorrie burst out. Since she walked now and then with Kathy, Jimmy and his gang were not quite so much on her heels, but she still was a little afraid of him. “I don't like boys anyway, they're always doing mean things.”

“How many boys do you know, Lorrie?”

“Well, there's Rob Lockner, he's always tagging along with Jimmy, doing what Jimmy tells him to. Then there's
Stan Wormiski. He's another. There're all the boys at school. But I don't bother with them—they're all mean.”

“All mean,” repeated Miss Ashemeade thoughtfully. “That is quite a severe judgment, isn't it, Lorrie? But perhaps you have reason to make it. Now—” She looked around. “Sabina seems to have vanished. I wonder if you would find her for me, Lorrie?”

Since Sabina came and went at will and apparently Miss Ashemeade did not care, Lorrie wondered a little at such an errand. But she obediently put aside her sampler and went to hunt the kitten.

Through the room with the shrouded furniture she called, “Sabina, Sabina!” with no mew of answer. Then the half-ajar door brought her on to the green bedroom and finally to the strangely shaped room of the doll house and the rocking horse.

Sabina was there, all right. She was standing on three legs, while with her right forepaw she patted at one of the drawers in the base. From the keyhole there something dangled, swinging back and forth. Lorrie got down to look. And Sabina jumped to one side, as if Lorrie's coming had caught her in some mischief that she must now pretend she knew nothing about.

What swung from the keyhole was a chain, a gold chain, and it was fastened to a key set in the drawer lock. On impulse Lorrie turned the key, and the drawer pulled out easily.

Two dolls lay within upon their backs, staring up at her. One was about five inches high, the other four, and their heads were modeled with very lifelike expressions. But they
were not made of china, Lorrie noticed, though they were quaint enough to seem as if they were as old, if not older than, Miranda.

The taller doll was a boy with black hair. And his clothes were odd. He wore long trousers of gray material and a short jacket fastened with a single button under his chin. The little girl had her brown hair parted in the middle and pulled back of her ears where her braids were turned up and under, pinned in a coil. She had a dress that was wide across the shoulders and veed in a point from the yoke to the high waist, and there were small frills of lace showing at neck and wrist. The skirt was full but not floor length, and under it showed pantalets much ruffled.

With great care Lorrie picked up the boy doll. The clothing was so carefully made that, having become so conscious of stitchery, she marveled at the patience taken in its making. She was going to lay him back in the drawer when she heard a faint squeak and looked up to see Sabina claw at the side of the house.

“No—”

But Lorrie was too late. The little claws touched some hidden spring and half the house moved, swinging back— the walls that covered the green bedroom and the kitchen. It moved easily though Sabina did not touch it again, but sat back to watch.

Now Lorrie could see the interior in detail, much clearer than she had through the windows. And for a long moment or two she simply looked. One of the portions now revealed was the very room in which she sat. But it did not in the least
mirror the modern room. There was no rocking horse in miniature, no second doll house. Instead, on the now empty shelves along the wall were tiny books, and rows of minute jars and crocks. There was one chair in the corner—could it be a copy of the high-backed one Miss Ashemeade now used? And on the floor was a painted design instead of a carpet or rug. That resembled a star, Lorrie thought.

But the oddest thing revealed by the opening of the outer wall was a three-cornered space between this room and the kitchen. When the house wall was shut that must be completely closed, as there was no opening into it from either this room or the kitchen. What was it meant for, Lorrie wondered. A cupboard? But then why no door to it?

The kitchen absorbed her attention the most. It was in such detail. There were even baskets of vegetables and eggs on the table. All she could see the bread waiting in the oven. All it needed was a Hallie busy there to bring it to life.

On impulse she put the boy doll by the fireplace. He was able to stand, Lorrie discovered, if you fixed his feet properly. Then she added the girl and lifted the egg basket from the table to hang on her arm. There!

Carefully Lorrie swung the side of the house shut and crouched way down to peer through a window. Why, they looked real, as if they were going to move about their own business any minute. They belonged somehow just where she had put them.

There must be a reason—

Not understanding why, Lorrie got up and went to the horse. It was easier to get into the queer saddle now and she
settled herself on the horse with more confidence. Under her weight he began to rock....

No wind blew today along the gravel road, but it was fall and leaves lay about. The white horse trotted toward Octagon House and again Lorrie felt that rise of excitement. Something was going to happen, something important—

This time when she slid off onto the mounting block she did not go to the front door that had refused to admit her before. But, gathering her skirt up over her arm, she took the brick walk around the side. The trees and bushes growing along the fence were smaller and not tangled all together, but they made a screen. And it was a dark day with heavy clouds hanging overhead, cold in spite of the lack of wind.

Lorrie came to the back steps and held her long skirt higher so she could climb them. But when she raised her hand to knock on the door it swung and she opened it. No Hallie stood there to bid her welcome.

It was the same triangle with the two doors, one to Miss Ashemeade's room, one to the kitchen. The one to the red room was tightly closed, and when Lorrie tried to raise the old latch, it did not move. She remembered what Miss Ashemeade had said:

“You may go through any door that will let you.”

But Miss Ashemeade had said that about the other house. Or had she? Which was this, a doll house in the Octagon House, or the Octagon House itself in some strange way?

The kitchen door, on the other hand, was standing ajar and Lorrie took that for an invitation. She came into warmth and good smells, and a feeling this was a good place to be. There
was a big black pot on the range and from it came a soft bubbling noise. Lorrie sniffed the odor of fresh bread, and an even more mouth-watering spicy smell. On the table were all the things laid out to make a pie—a rolling pin, a waiting plate, a jug, some butter in a dish, a bowl with flour in it. And a pan of apples stood ready for the slicing knife. But where were the boy and girl? Or the cook who must have been busy here?

Lorrie looked around, knowing once more the feeling that someone had just stepped from the room as she entered. There was another door, but it was shut, and when she went to it, it was as tightly closed against her as Miss Ashemeade's had been.

So, only the kitchen and the back wall were open to her.

Lorrie moved slowly around the room. There was a big, polished brass pan hanging on the wall and it was almost as good as a mirror. She saw a reflection in it and stopped short to view herself. Of course she knew she was wearing the long skirt, which seemed fit and proper for riding here (where was
here?),
but now she saw other changes in Lorrie Mallard. Of course, she still had black hair and greeny eyes. But that hair was tied in a tight, turned-up, half bun at the back of her neck, and she had on a hat with a wide, curly brim and a soft feather drooping in the back. And instead of a zippered windbreaker she had worn outdoors a couple of hours ago, she now had a brown jacket, tight fitting and trimmed across the chest with rows of red braid, buttoned from her chin to her waist. She looked so different she could only stand and stare at that rather murky reflection.

She was Lorrie Mallard, Lorrie repeated to herself, Lorrie
Mallard, eleven and a half years old. She lived with Aunt Margaret in the Ashton Arms apartment and she was in the sixth grade, the last year at Fermont School—that was the truth.

A sound broke through Lorrie's absorption and she turned around. Something outside the window—surely she had seen movement there! Quickly Lorrie hurried around the table. My, how dark it was getting! A bad storm—no, it must be night! That could not be true, it was only the middle of the afternoon. But Lorrie had to believe it was almost night now.

The pot continued to bubble comfortably, but no one came to see how it was doing. Once more Lorrie went to try the other door of the kitchen, to find it as firmly fixed as ever. As she stood by it she again heard that sound. There was a tall cabinet here and it was dark in this corner. Lorrie pressed back against the door and watched the far window.

There
was
a shadow there! She could see it against the small panes of glass. Now—that sound—the window was rising a little at a time. Suddenly Lorrie crouched at the end of the cupboard. She did not know why she went into hiding, only that she was afraid and excited, and wanted to see without being seen.

For what seemed a long time to Lorrie nothing happened, except that the window was now open. Then a pair of hands gripped the sill, and behind them Lorrie made out a hunched outline that could be head and shoulders. Someone was climbing in!

It was darker in the kitchen than it had been when she had first entered. But there was a lamp on the table near the range. And, though its circle of light did not reach all the
way to the window, Lorrie made out the figure huddled on the floor directly below the sill.

A boy! He had bare feet protruding below a pair of patched trousers all ragged at the ends. His hands and arms were bare almost to the elbow, and his shirt sleeves were tattered. There was no collar on the shirt, only a band fastened with a ragged strip of cloth. When he moved, it sprung open farther down his chest and Lorrie could see bare skin there also. He must not have anything on under that shirt, in spite of the cold.

His hair was an uncombed, unclipped mop that kept falling forward over his eyes, so that he was constantly raising his hand to push it back. And his face was very dirty. Around one of his eyes skin was puffed and dark and there was a greenish-blue bruise on the side of his jaw. Except to brush the hair out of his eyes, he had not moved since he dropped over the sill into the kitchen.

Now his head turned from side to side as he looked round the room. Lorrie thought he must be listening as well as looking, for now and then he stiffened and was still for a moment or two as if he could hear what she did not.

Then he got to his feet. He was very thin, his arms so bony and his waist—where his trousers were belted with a piece of rope—so flat that Lorrie thought he certainly had not had enough to eat for a long time. He reached the side of the big table in a single stride and grabbed at the apples, putting them one after another into the front of his shirt where they made lumps under the grimy material.

The bowl emptied, he made for the half-open door of the range. His hand went to jerk the door farther open. Then he
cried out softly and held his fingers to his mouth, but kept turning his head as if in search of something. He took up a poker and reached within the oven, pulling the bread pan forward, and then a second pan from which came the spicy smell. As those reached the door the boy hesitated. To pull them farther would dump them on the floor and apparently they were too hot to hold in his hands.

Again he looked around for a tool and caught a towel from a wall hook. With the towel wrapped around his already singed fingers, he brought the pans to the top of the stove before he snatched the red-and-white-checked cloth from a smaller table. He dumped into it the loaf of bread and the sheet of gingerbread, digging the latter out of its pan in great broken hunks. His head went up and he looked to the hall door. Jerking the cloth into a bag, he made for the window through which he had come, bundled out his loot first, and dropped after it into the night. The window slid down and Lorrie was alone.