Octagon Magic (5 page)

She listened. Whatever the boy must have heard, or thought he had heard, she could not. But she wanted to know more— Why had he come to steal food? That was somehow important. Though she crossed to the window she could see nothing. But the window slid up smoothly at her pull. Without stopping to think, Lorrie followed the boy, climbing up to drop to the ground behind a bush. Now she could hear crackling off to her right, around the next angle of the house. Holding up the long skirt of her riding habit, she followed as fast as she could.

There was a brush screen close to the house as far as the next angle. Now she must be directly below that hidden, closed-in space, because before her was the window of the
room with the painted floor. And from it came a beam of light. She saw a black shadow slip across it.

Dark as it was, Lorrie discovered that she was able to follow the scurrying shadow as it flitted from one bush to another. Now it was heading for the fence. The bedroom windows were above, but there were no lights there. Lorrie glanced back and up at the house. On the second floor was a pale gleam in one window, as if a single candle was not too far away, but the rest was dark.

There was a swaying of bushes and Lorrie saw a black figure climb over the fence. She began to run for the gate, but to climb in this long skirt was out of the question. She came to the mounting block. And for a moment she was daunted, for the white horse was gone. Then she heard a noise to her left, and, gathering up her skirt with both hands, keeping to the pools of the shadows, she moved to where the boy had gone over the fence.

He was still keeping to cover. Then behind her she heard a faint creak and she stood still. Someone else was using the gate, a figure not much taller than she. Who?

Lorrie was undecided. If she stayed where she was she would lose the boy. If she kept on with the unknown behind her—Lorrie did not like the idea of being followed. And that other moved as carefully among the shadows as she was doing, as if dreading discovery.

She began to advance in a crabwise fashion, trying to watch both directions at once, which could not be done as she soon discovered. This was not Ash Street but a gravel road, bordered on both sides by trees and bushes. Shortly the
gravel disappeared, leaving only hard-packed dirt.

The one behind her made a sudden dart forward, which brought her level with Lorrie. For it was a girl, a girl who could not have been much older than Lorrie herself. She wore a long, hooded cloak, but the hood was pushed back far enough so Lorrie could see her face. The newcomer passed within hand's distance of Lorrie without looking, as if indeed Lorrie were not there. She ran lightly after the boy.

Lorrie followed. There was a stream with a wooden bridge over it. But the girl from the house did not cross that. Instead she stood very still, her head ber to one side as if she were listening. Lorrie listene too—

She could hear the very faint rippling of the water below. But there was another sound also—someone was crying. And someone else was talking, a murmur that rose and fell but never quite drowned out the crying. To Lorrie's surprise the girl turned her head and now her eyes looked directly into Lorrie's. She did not seem in the least amazed, but as if she had known all along that Lorrie was there. And also as if, Lorrie thought, they were sharing this adventure.

Her finger was at her lips as she nodded sharply at the bridge from under which that crying came. Lorrie understood. She remained where she was, but the other girl crept forward very softly, drawing her cloak about her as if she did not want it to catch on any of the bushes or dried weeds.

The sound of talking below stopped, but the crying, now a very weak whimper, continued. Then, so suddenly Lorrie cried out, a black shadow rose from the weeds and threw itself at the girl. There was a struggle and she fell, the shadow
trying to hold her down. Only she pulled free, leaving her cloak half torn off. Her hair tumbled loosely about her face and she raised her hands to push it back.

“Don't be afraid,” she said.

“I ain't! Not of no girl, anyway.” It was a hoarse boy's voice that answered. “What you doin’, sneakin’ up on—”

The girl gave her cloak a twitch, settling it smoothly about her shoulders again.

“You are from Canal Town.” It was a statement, not a question this time.

“We ain't nobody, missy. You gits yourself outta here afore you gits into trouble.”

“Phin? Where are you, Phin?” The whimpering had become a wail, and in it was a fear so strong Lorrie shivered in sympathy.

The boy moved, but the girl from the house was quicker. She slipped down the bank, under the overhang of the bridge. The boy scrambled after her, and now Lorrie dared go nearer.

“I am Lotta Ashemeade.” That was the girl from the house, her voice calm. “You are afraid of something, bad afraid, aren't you?”

“Matt.” There was a gulping sound. “Matt Mahoney. Dada died, and Matt, he says I must go to th’ poor farm—”

“Close your trap, Phebe, close it tight! You want to be walked there straight off?”

“Stop it!” Lotta ordered. “You want so scare her to death, boy? She doesn't have to be afraid of me. Phebe, there's no reason to be afraid. Nobody's going to find you.”

“No?” The boy again. “An’ how kin you promise that, missy? You gotta army maybe to slow up Matt? Cause it'll take about that to stop him.”

In answer the wail broke out louder than ever.

“I said to stop it!” There was authority in Lotta's voice and the wail became a whimper. “Come on, Phebe.”

“An'jus’ where're you thinkin’ of takin’ her, missy? Back to that big ol’ house of your'n? Keep her there an’ send for Matt. Or maybe, her bein’ an orphan, send her to th’ pore farm yourself?”

“She's cold and she's wet and she's hungry. Oh, I know you got food, out of our kitchen, for her. But see how she's shivering and she hasn't even a shawl. If she stays here tonight she'll be sick before morning.”

“So—she ain't stayin’.”

“How far do you think you can take her now?”

“What's it to you, anyhow? We're from Canal Town, we ain't big house folks. I'll do for Phebe, never no mind from you, missy. Come on, Phebe, we'll jus’ move on a bit.”

“Phin, I can't. My foot hurts so. I jus’ can't! You—maybe you better run for it. Matt, he said he'd take th’ horse whip to you, ‘member? Oh, Phin, you jus’ cut along. Missy, Matt he wants Phin to work for him. Only Phin, he thought we might jus’ find some movers goin’ west and maybe hide in a wagon—or somethin’.”

“Spill it all now, will you, girl? Anyway, I has nowheres to go without you, Phebe. I keeps my promises. Ain't I always?”

“Then if you want Phebe to be safe, you'll come with me.”

“An’ why, missy? Why would you care?”

“I do.”

She did, Lorrie knew that for the truth. Perhaps the boy recognized it also.

“Please, Phin.”

“All right. Maybe I believe her, but there's other folks in that there ol’ house an’ they maybe ain't feelin’ th’ same way. Specially as how I helped myself pretty free to some o’ their vittles a short while back.”

“No one needs to know about you and Phebe. You'll be safe.”

“What'd you mean, missy? You gonna fix us so no one kin see us, like we is ghosts or somethin’ like?”

“Not that, Phin,” Lotta answered. “But I do know of a safe place, at least for tonight. And it is wanner and dryer than under this bridge.”

“Phin?” There was a pleading note in Phebe's voice.

“It ain't safe, I tell you.”

“Please, Phin. She says it is. An'—an’ I believe her, Phin.”

“'Cause you want to!” he flared up. “'Cause you're cold an’ hungry an’ you want to! Ain't I told you a hundred times, it don't do no one any good to believe nothin’ ner nobody?”

“I do her, Phin, somehow I do.”

“All right. But I don't! You hear that, missy? I don't believe, an’ I'll be watchin’ for any tricks.”

“Fair enough. Now help me, Phin.”

They came down the road again, Lotta, with her arm around a much smaller girl wearing a torn dress and with feet as bare as Phin's. She limped along slowly, though Phin and Lotta supported her more and more as they reached the
gate. Again they made the journey around the house. This time they did not go as far as the kitchen, but instead to the window of the doll-house room.

Lorrie heard them whispering together and then saw Phin push at the window. When he had it open he helped Lotta over the sill, and a moment later they had boosted Phebe through. Lorrie moved in closer. She could see them all inside. Phebe was squatting on the floor as if she did not have the strength to stand, and Phin was staring about him warily, a scowl on his face, as if he believed he was in a trap.

Lotta had gone to the side by the window, out of Lorrie's sight. Then Phin exclaimed aloud in surprise.

“What's that there? A cupboard?”

“Bigger than a cupboard,” Lotta answered him. “It's a safe hiding place for now.”

He strode forward, also to disappear from Lorrie's sight.

“A trap—maybe jus’ a trap—” She could still hear his voice.

“Please.” Phebe raised her head to look as Lotta. “I don't believe it, I don't believe you is goin’ to send us back, missy. We ain't no kin to Matt. Jus’ like Phin's no real kinfolk to me neither. Only he stood up to Matt when I got coughin’ sick an’ the shakes. An’ Matt, he beat up Phin ‘cause he traded some corn for medicine. Then Matt says he'd see I go to the pore farm. An’ Phin says never, no to that an’ we'd run. But we ain't far away and Matt he'll be after Phin does he stay here.” She coughed, her thin body shaking with the effort.

Phin stepped back where Lorrie could see him again. “You ain't got th’ little sense you was borned with, Phebe. Little missy here, she ain't a-carin’ ‘bout all that. Maybe
Matt's got a poster out on me—Phineas McLean—ten shillin's reward—or th’ like, but that ain't sayin’ as how he'll ever lay his belt on me agin. ‘Less missy here talks.”

Lotta was at the door of the room. “If you truly believe that, Phineas McLean, you can go. The window's open.” She gave him a long look and Phin made a gesture to push away his overgrown forelock but did not answer her. Then Lotta went out.

“Phin,” Phebe choked out between coughs. “Phin, you'se always bin powerful good t’ me. If you think Matt'll git you, you'd better go. Only I don't believe it—I don't. I think she's tellin’ it true, we'll be safe here. I feel good, real good, right here. I truly, truly do, Phin!”

Once more he pushed back his hair, then he dropped on his knees beside Phebe and threw his arm about her shoulders.

“I ain't goin’, girl. Leastwise, not tonight.”

“Phin, don't you feel it, too? That this be a safe place?”

He was looking around, a rather puzzled expression on his bruised face.

“Maybe you is right, Phebe. Only it's right hard to believe in any place bein’ safe for the likes of us—Canal Town trash, as they is always so quick to sing out.”

“This is.” Lotta was back. Across her arm was a quilt and a thick blanket. She nodded to the portion of the room Lor-rie could not see. “Take these. And you had better get in there for now. I'll come when it is safe. And here—” Phin had taken the coverings from her, now Lotta picked up the tablecloth bag Lorrie had watched him fill. “Take this with you, I'll bring more later.”

Wind was rising in the trees, the light in the room winked out.... Sunlight lay in a bar across the floor and in it lay Sabina asleep. Lorrie was not crouched down outside the window but she sat on the floor beside the doll house. Once more the side of the house hung a little open. She drew it the rest of the way to look into that small space with no proper door. It was empty.

In the kitchen the two dolls stood just as she had posed them. Carefully she took them out, knowing now who they were. Phineas McLean, no longer dirty, ragged, bruised— but she supposed that a doll would not look that way. His clothes were neat and whole, maybe this was meant to be Phineas truly safe and happy.

And Lotta—but no, this other doll did not have Lotta's features. This was Phebe, plumper, much happier looking. So maybe the house had welcomed them and continued to be their home. Why she thought that, Lorrie did not know.

She laid them back in their drawer and closed it. There was a click. The key on the chain—it was gone! When she tried the door again it was locked.

Phineas and Phebe were gone and the house— Now that she looked again Lorrie saw that the side of the house was once more tightly closed. Though she searched carefully for the latch, she could not find it.

Sabina awoke, yawned, got to her feet, stretched first front legs and then hind legs, and trotted to the door. More slowly Lorrie followed her, looking back once more at the baffling doll house.

A Collar for Sabina

Hey Canuck—”

Lorrie had paused at the mouth of the alley to take a tighter grip on the dress box. It was hard to manage that and her book bag too. Aunt Margaret had wanted to drive her to school this morning, but the car would not start. And Lorrie would have to hurry if she was going to get there in time.

It was just her luck that Jimmy and his gang were also late. Of course, maybe she could take refuge in the yard of Octagon House. She was somehow sure Jimmy would not follow her there. But such a detour would make her really tardy.

“Canuck, walks like a duck!”

Lorrie held the box tighter. It had her Puritan dress in it, and she had sewed a lot of that herself. Aunt Margaret had been surprised at how well she could do it. And Lorrie had pressed it and folded it neatly. She must not let it get wrinkled now.

“Canuck—”

Lorrie stared ahead. She was not going to run and let them chase her all the way so school. Boys—mean old boys!

She glanced to the house on her right. If only Hallie would come down to the back gate now. But every window was blank; it might have been deserted. Only—just looking at it—

What had Phin said? “Canal trash as they is so quick to sing out.” Lorrie did not know why that flashed into her mind now. But for a moment it was almost as if she could see Phineas McLean pushing back his hair to glare at Lotta Ashemeade. She could hear Lotta's calm voice, see her refused-to-be frightened face when she answered him. Why, just a moment ago Lorrie had been ready to run to the house for safety herself.

“Canuck—What've you got in your box, Canuck? Give us a look.”

Lorrie swung around.

Jimmy, yes, and Stan, and Rob Lockner. Jimmy in the lead as always, and grinning. For a moment Lorrie was afraid, so afraid that she thought she could not talk past the dryness in her mouth and throat. Then she thought of Lotta and Phineas, and Phebe who had so much worse to fear.

“My dress for the play.” Lorrie hoped her voice did not shake as much as she thought it did. “Where's your Indian suit, Jimmy? You certainly got a lot of feathers for your headband.”

“He sure did,” Rob Lockner broke in. “Know what he did? His uncle knows a man down at the zoo, and the birds
there, they lose feathers. So he got real eagle feathers, didn't you, Jimmy?”

“Sure. That's what Indians wore, eagle feathers.” Jimmy answered, but he was looking at Lorrie oddly, as if before his eyes she had turned into something quite different.

“The zoo.” Lorrie did not have to pretend interest now. “I've never been there.”

“Me, I go ‘bout every Sunday,” Jimmy returned. “My uncle, he got me a chance to see the baby tiger last year. They keep the baby animals in a different place, see, and you have to look at them through a window. But if you know somebody there they'll let you. This year they got a black leopard cub and two lions. I haven't seen them yet, but I'm going to.” Jimmy's teasing grin was gone, he was talking eagerly. “They're just like kittens.”

Kittens! For a moment Lorrie had a fleeting memory of Jimmy hunting Sabina through the tangled grass. She gripped her box more firmly and made herself walk at an even pace. Jimmy fell into step with her.

“You ought to see the snakes,” he continued. “They got one as long as this alley.”

“Aw, it's not that big,” protested Stan.

Jimmy turned on him. “You say I don't know what I'm talking about?”

Stan shrugged and was quiet. But Jimmy continued, “And the alligator, you ought to see him! I had a chance to have an alligator once. My uncle was in Florida and he was going to send me one, a baby one. Only Mom said we didn't have any place to keep it.”

“Boy, you know what I'd like to have?” Rob broke in. “A horse, that's what. Gee, I'd like to have one just like they used to keep in that stable over there.”

“Hey, you know what's still in there?” Stan pointed back to the tumble-down carriage house. “There's a sled, only it's for horses to pull. Neat, eh? Be fun to ride like that.”

“It is,” Lorrie agreed.

“How do you know?” Jimmy demanded.

“It used to snow a lot in Hampstead and there was a sleigh at school. We had sleigh rides sometimes.”

“That true? A real sleigh with horses?” Jimmy sounded skeptical.

“Yes. It was old but they kept it fixed up and people used to rent it sometimes for parties. You'd ride out in it to the lake to go skating.”

“Ice skating?” asked Rob. “You ice skate, Lorrie?”

“ ‘Most everyone did. I was learning figure skating.” She thought that that was just one more thing she had lost.

“Hey"—Stan pushed up level with Jimmy and Lorrie— “there's the ice rink down by Fulsome. They let kids in Saturday mornings. Last year Mr. Stewart talked about it in gym, said we might like to learn. We saw a picture about the Olympic skaters in assembly. They sure were neat!”

“It's hard to learn the fancy things,” Lorrie answered. “There was a girl at Miss Logan's, she was good. But she had been skating since she was five and she practiced all the time. I guess you have to, if you want to be good.”

“We went to the Ice Follies last spring,” Rob volunteered. “They had this guy, he was dressed up like a bear, see, and
he chased another guy who was a hunter all around. Gee, it sure was funny!”

“Dad said he was going to get us tickets this year,” Jimmy cut in.

They had reached the school crossing, and Lorrie looked to the clock over the main door.

“We're going to be late.”

Jimmy followed her gaze. “Not if we zoom—”

“Yah, yah! I'm a Purple Hornet, zoom, zoom, zoom!” yelled Stan.

“Me, I'm riding the fastest horse on earth! Get going, Paint!” Rob took out after Stan.

“Gimme that. You're going to have to run, Canuck!” Jimmy grabbed at Lorrie's book bag.

They ran for the door as the clock boomed out and they heard the ring of the warning bell. And Lorrie was not sure how it happened that she entered the school with Jimmy Purvis carrying her book bag, somehow not minding at all that he had called her Canuck as he pounded along beside her.

The Thanksgiving weekend was exciting for Lorrie because Aunt Margaret had two whole days free. They went shopping for a new best dress for Lorrie, and had lunch in the big restaurant at the very top of Bamber's store, from which you could see all over the city. Aunt Margaret had gone out with her on the terrace to look down at the buildings and streets that made up Ashton.

“There will be some changes next year,” Aunt Margaret said. ‘The new thruway will pass not far from us, you know. The world moves fast nowadays, Lorrie. See, down there—”
She pointed to a narrow strip leading into the river. “That is all that is left of the old canal. And only a little more than a hundred years ago travel on that was as exciting as travel by jet plane is for us today. Why, Ashton was built because of the junction with the river.”

“Where was Canal Town?” asked Lorrie suddenly.

Aunt Margaret looked surprised. “Canal Town? I never heard of that, Lorrie. Where did you hear it mentioned?”

“At Octagon House.” Lorrie was alert to her mistake. She did not know why, but she was sure that her adventure with Phineas and Phebe was something to be kept to herself. Why, she had not even spoken of it when she had gone back to join Miss Ashemeade on the afternoon when it happened. Yet of one thing she was sure—Miss Ashemeade had somehow known all of what had happened to her.

“Yes, Octagon House,” Aunt Margaret said slowly. “It is a pity.”

“What is a pity?”

“They have not quite decided on the linkup with the thruway, but they believe it will cross the land on which Octagon House stands.”

Lorrie held hard to the terrace railing.

“They—they couldn't take the house—pull it down— could they?” She stared out over the city, trying to see the house. But, of course, it was too far away.

“Let us hope not,” answered Aunt Margaret. “Now it is cold here, isn't it? And I want to look at those blouses on sale, if we can get near enough to the counter. Most of Ashton
appears to be doing their Christmas shopping this weekend.”

Christmas—she wanted to get Grandmother's gift today. Aunt Margaret said it must be mailed this coming week. For a moment Lorrie forgot the threat against Octagon House.

“Lorrie,” Aunt Margaret said that evening. “Do you suppose that Miss Ashemeade would care if I asked to see some of her needlework? You've talked so much about it that you've made me curious. Would you take a note over for me tomorrow?”

Lorrie was surprised at her own feelings. There was no reason in the world why Aunt Margaret would not want to see all the treasures in the red room. But—but it was as if her going there spoiled something—what? Lorrie could not say, and she knew, she told herself, she was being silly.

“All right.” She hoped her voice did not sound grudging.

She wrapped Grandmother's scarf ready for mailing. Then she spread out all Aunt Margaret's gift paper and examined it piece by piece. There was one sheet she set aside. The background was green, not quite the green of Miss Ashemeade's dress, but close to it. And the pattern over that was a big golden-purple-green of peacock feathers. Lorrie was entranced by it. There was gold ribbon that was perfect against it. She slid the white handkerchief box onto it and turned the paper up and around with all the care she could. Then the ribbon was looped, as Aunt Margaret had shown her, in a special bow. Yes, it looked almost as pretty as she had hoped. And the handkerchief—she had been lucky to
find it among all the rest—so many ladies had been picking and pulling them around. But this was white and it had a narrow border of lace with a big A in the corner. Lorrie had added a little wreath about that with her best stitches.

She went to put it away in the drawer that was kept for Christmas. There was one other thing among those already there. She had finished it last week and she hoped Aunt Margaret would like it, though now she wondered. In Octagon House when she had made it, it looked pretty and amusing. But in this room would a plump red-velvet heart pincushion with a white lace frill fit? Aunt Margaret liked old-fashioned things though. And Lorrie had a bottle of her favorite cologne, too.

Octagon House—and the thruway. Lorrie went back to the living room.

“When will they know?”

Aunt Margaret looked up from her book. “Know what, Chick?”

“Know about Octagon House?”

“There will be a meeting late in January, I believe. All the people whose property will be affected will have a chance to meet with the Commission.”

Lorrie wondered if Miss Ashemeade knew. Could she go to the meeting? Twice only had Lorrie seen her walk. Both times she had moved very slowly, one hand on Hallie's shoulder, the other on a gold-headed cane. She never went out of the house, Lorrie knew. Once a week a boy came up from Theobald's grocery and got a list from Hallie. Lorrie herself had taken that list in when the boy had the flu. Hallie
did not go out either. So what would happen if Miss Ashemeade could not go to that meeting and protest about Octagon House's being torn down?

“Miss Ashemeade's lame, she can't walk very much.” Lorrie put her fear into words. “What if she can't go to the meeting?”

“She may send a lawyer, Lorrie. Most of the people will have lawyers to represent them.”

Lorrie sighed. She hoped that was true. But tomorrow she would ask Miss Ashemeade, tell her about the need for a lawyer to go to the meeting.

Only, when she was settled by Miss Ashemeade the following afternoon, her workbox open beside her and Miss Ashemeade's regiment of needles all waiting to have their gaping eyes filled, Lorrie somehow found it hard to begin.

“You are unhappy.” Miss Ashemeade adjusted the embroidery frame. It was dark outside, grayish, but she had candelabras, each bearing four candles, perched on high candle stands to either side. “Has Jimmy Purvis been a problem again?”

Lorrie drew the soft strand of cream wool through the needle and stuck it carefully on the side of the canvas.

“He still calls me Canuck, but I don't care anymore.

“So?” Miss Ashemeade smiled. “ ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.’ Is that it, Lorrie?”

“Not exactly.” Lorrie added a needle with a burden of pearl-pink to the first. “Only I think he does not mean it the same way. He likes to talk a lot.”

“And you do not find it hard to listen? When he's such a mean and hateful person?”

Lorrie carefully chose a strand of wool of rose color. “Maybe—maybe he isn't so mean and hateful anymore. He's changed.”

“Or you know him better and do not see only the outer covering. Things do change, Lorrie, and sometimes for the better. One time, many years ago, some people lived just a little way from here. The men had come to work on the canal. But they had come from another country so they spoke differently, they went to another kind of church than the one in the village. Because they felt so different they kept to themselves. And the village people did not welcome any of them who tried to be friends. Then there was often trouble—fighting.

“Some of these men later brought their families here because there was a famine in their own country and nothing left for them there. Others had wives from other parts of this land. But when they came here to live there was ill feeling. Because they did not know each other a wall grew higher and higher, until both the canal people and the village would believe any sort of evil of the other.”

Lorrie put another cream-threaded needle into the side of the frame. “You're talking about Phebe and Phineas, aren't you, Miss Ashemeade?”

“Phebe and Phineas, and many others like them. Though they did not know it, the night they came here Phebe and Phineas made the first small break in that wall. They trusted someone on the other side. But it meant changes on both
sides. People had to learn not to look for what they feared to see.”

Lorrie unwound a strand of coral wool, measured the proper length, and cut it with small scissors fashioned in stork shape, the long bill being the sharp blades.

“You mean—I was afraid of Jimmy so I saw him that way. But why did he—”