Octagon Magic (7 page)

It stood there, bare and green and fragrant, between the two windows. And it must have been placed on a box now wrapped with green cloth, for it was not a full-sized one. As if reading Lorrie's thought, Miss Ashemeade shook her head.

“We used to have a proper tree, tall enough to top all heads. But I did not believe we could manage to trim such a one now. We shall have work enough to dress one this size.”

She was pulling away the paper and cotton wrappings from things she took from the box, setting each with a gentle touch, as she freed it, on the table Lorrie had moved close to her. There was a row of tiny baskets, some with lids. Next came walnut shells, gilded and fastened half open so that one could peep inside. Lorrie did, to discover that they cradled tiny, brightly colored pictures of flowers, animals, boys and girls. Then there were flat ornaments of cardboard, velvet-covered and edged with gold-and-silver paper lace, in the center of each a larger picture.

Miss Ashemeade held some a little longer than others, as if they brought her memories. One of these was a cage of fine golden wire, within it a bird fashioned of tiny shells. And there were more baskets, made of cloves strung on wire with a glass bead inset on every wire crossing.

“Oh, I had forgotten, almost I had forgotten.” Miss Ashemeade held a small round box on her hand. “Look at this, Lorrie. When I was younger this was a dear treasure.”

In the box was a set of four bowls, bowls so tiny Lorrie did not see how anyone could ever make them. But the greatest wonder was that in each of those minute bowls rested a silver spoon!

“So little!” marveled Lorrie.

“They are carved from cherry stones, my dear.” Miss Ashemeade carefully set aside the box. “See, here are some similar carvings.” She uncoiled a piece of thin cord. Fastened
to it at intervals were baskets, only one or two as big as Lorrie's finger nail. “These, and these, are from cherry stones. And that—that is a hazel nut, and that an acorn. This is sturdy enough to hang on the tree. But the bowls—they are too easily lost.”

“I never saw such things.”

“No,” Miss Ashemeade agreed, “perhaps you have not. You see, once people made all their own decorations. We did not have the fine glass pieces that were for sale. So we used our imagination and made our own pretty things.”

“I like these better than the store things.” Lorrie did not touch the peep-show walnut shells, the cord of nut baskets, or any of the treasures Miss Ashemeade had set out. She wanted to, but she did not quite dare.

“So do I, my dear. But then I have known them for a long, long time and old things grow into one's heart and memory until one cannot lose them, even when one can no longer do this.” She picked up one of the walnuts and smiled down at it. Within a dove fluttered white wings above blue and pink flowers.

“Now.” She put aside the walnut and picked up a needle case from the other table. “We shall need some long thread, Lorrie, as long as might go around the tree at least once.”

Lorrie cut the thread and put it through the needle eyes. Miss Ashemeade took a cranberry and speared it neatly, drawing the thread through it. Three more cranberries went on and then a grain or two of popcorn before more berries.

“That is the way to do it,” she said.

Eagerly Lorrie set to work with another needle. As they
made the chains Miss Ashemeade told stories. They were Christmas stories and now and then she touched some ornament on the table as she spoke.

So many Christmases, all in this house. And every one Miss Ashemeade spoke about as if she remembered it for herself. But to Lorrie that did not seem strange, though surely Miss Ashemeade could not be as old as that!

But though she talked of the house and the things in it, of how this or that was made or used, she never spoke of the people in the house. She only said “we did” this or that.

They had quite a pile of chains finished and all the cranberries were gone from the bowl when Hallie came in with a big tray that she set on one end of the long table.

“Here they all is, Mis’ Charlotta. An’ they turned out jus’ fine.”

“I see they did, Hallie. The red eyes for the mice were an inspiration! What do you think of Hallie's contribution to the tree, Lorrie?”

“This ain't all—” Hallie was already on her way back to the kitchen. “I has the candies for the baskets, an’ the gingerbread—”

But Lorrie hardly heard her. She was too amazed by the tray on the table. Mice, three rows of white mice, all with red eyes, small pink cardboard ears, and string tails! And behind them another three rows of pink pigs!

“Sugar mice and pigs.” Miss Ashemeade laughed. ‘They are good to eat, too, Lorrie. Hallie has always been a master hand at mice and pigs for the tree. We shall make some ribbon collars for them to hang by. That very narrow red-and-green
ribbon over there ought to do. And I think, I really think, Lorrie, you might test Hallie's proficiency by tasting one of each.”

Lorrie selected a very plump pink pig and nibbled up its hind legs. It was sugary and good, so good the rest of the pig vanished very fast indeed. But she set the mouse aside to look at, determining to take him home to show Aunt Margaret.

While Miss Ashemeade measured and cut lengths of ribbon, Hallie brought in a second tray. There were gingerbread men wearing coats of white frosting, trousers of red, with currant eyes and squiggles of chocolate frosting for hair. And gingerbread ladies in their company with skirts striped red-and-white and blouses of white with red buttons. There were horses with frosting manes and tails, and half a dozen cats with frosting whiskers and eyes of bits of candied green cherry.

“Well, Hallie, these are the best yet!” Miss Ashemeade put aside the ribbon and leaned forward in her chair.

“I thought as how it should be, Mis’ Charlotta—considerin’,” Lorrie heard Hallie answer.

“Quite right, Hallie, quite right. I do not think we shall try to hang these, Lorrie. But we can set them about in the branches.”

“I'll get the candies now, for the little baskets—” Hallie was gone again.

Lorrie continued to study the gingerbread people. “I never saw anything like them. They're precious!”

“Very dashing, those gentlemen,” Miss Ashemeade commented.
“Quite the beau. But the ladies, they look flighty to me. However, elegant, very elegant. They all have quite an air of high fashion, I would say.”

“Here's the candies.” Hallie came back with a third tray, even larger than the first two. And Lorrie quickly moved a pile of folded material to make a place for it on the table.

Just as the mice, pigs, and gingerbread company, here, too, works of art were set out. Tiny sugar flowers, miniature chocolate drops, a wealth of little things, too many for Lorrie to see all at once.

Miss Ashemeade pulled toward her some of the small baskets.

“They go into these, Lorrie. Let me see now, it was always the peppermint drops in the green baskets, and the chocolates in the white and the sugar flowers in the red—”

“An’ the candied peel in the clove ones,” Hallie added. “But maybe better have lunch now, Mis’ Charlotta, before packin’ all those.”

By twilight the tree was trimmed and Lorrie sat on her stool, pleasantly tired from stretching, bending, walking around and around it to set some basket, ornament gingerbread piece, or cranberry string in just the proper place.

It did not look very much like the trees one could see in other windows up and down Ash Street. There were no lights, no sparkling ornaments, no trickling tinsel strips. But to Lorrie it was the most wonderful tree anyone could ever imagine. She said so.

“I think so, too, my dear. But it is out of another time and perhaps it has no place in the world outside these walls.”
Miss Ashemeade's hands lay quietly in her lap as she also looked at the tree. Sabina sat at the edge of her mistress’ skirts, staring round-eyed at the strings of cranberry-popcorn, at some spinning ornaments that turned now and then, hanging beyond the reach of her claws.

Lorrie heard the chime of the mantle clock. Reluctantly she stood up. Then she looked from the tree to Miss Ashemeade.

“Thank you, oh, thank you!”

It was not only for the fun of trimming the tree, but also for this whole, long, beautiful day. Lorrie was not quite sure of her feelings, but she knew that she would remember all of this, and that memory would be something to treasure.

“Thank
you,
Lorrie. Yes—” again she seemed to read Lorrie's confused thoughts “—some memories are very good. They are a fire to warm one's heart. Do not forget, Lorrie, Christmas is coming.”

“Christmas is coming,” echoed Lorrie. Why had Miss Ashemeade said that? Of course, Christmas was now only three days away, everyone knew that. But the way Miss Ashemeade said it, it sounded as if she were making a promise.

Lorrie said good night and struggled into her ski pants, jacket, and boots in the hall. Hallie had the mouse in a little bag and she let Lorrie out into the bare garden where the unhappy dragon pointed its snout at a dark sky.

As Lorrie came opposite the windows of the room, she stopped for a last glimpse at the tree. Several branches were in her range of vision. A gingerbread lady leaned on one of them, her rounded arm looped in a cranberry strand to anchor
her firmly on that perch, though she must view with alarm the close-by swing of a white sugar mouse.

Lorrie chuckled. The gingerbread lady had a surprised look on her flat face. Hallie had given her very arched eyebrows of frosting above her eye currants. Perhaps she was just about to swing away from the menacing mouse, using the chain for transportation. What would Miss Ashemeade or Hallie think if the lady gave a screech and flew out into the room?

A cold wind reached Lorrie. She trotted on along the brick walk. In the front yard the deer had a ridge of snow on his back, some touches of it in the curves of his antlers. But that did not seem to bother him. He seemed as proud and important as he always was. Lorrie waved her hand to him and closed the gate carefully behind her. The Christmas tree lights were bright along the street. If she hurried she could arrange a surprise for Aunt Margaret, a live-looking sugar mouse under her supper napkin! Lorrie began to run.

Chole and Nackie

“Of course, properly trimmed, there would be candles,” Miss Ashemeade's voice made a calm whisper in the room. “But such candles would be difficult to find, and even more difficult to guard against fire. We used to keep a bucket of water standing on hand, just in case.”

The firelight was warm, the many candles in holders about the red room were warm too, friendly with their light. Miss Ashemeade's table and frame were still against the wall, well out of the way. Now the room seemed centered about her and the tree.

Again she had changed her usual green dress for another. This was of garnet velvet. The wide skirt hung in soft folds over her knees, about the chair, to drape a little onto the floor. The lace collar was about her shoulders again, with cuffs to match at her wrists. She had no lace cap perched on her braids, but a high comb set in garnets winked there. And more of those red stones sparkled on her fingers and in the
brooch pinning her collar. Nor was she wearing her black apron today. She looked, Lorrie thought, exactly as a fairy godmother should.

“But it is just perfect as it is!” Aunt Margaret sat on a footstool, aiming her camera at the tree. “I only hope that these pictures
do
turn out well. Those gingerbread figures and the ornaments—If I can
only
get a good shot!”

Lorrie nibbled as a piece of Hallie's candied peel, and blinked rather sleepily. She watched Sabina, a small black shadow, slip under the tree to where some parcels were laid, and reach a black paw for one.

“No!” Aunt Margaret cried and tried to wave the kitten away.

Sabina stared unblinking at Aunt Margaret for a moment, and then turned back to her own concerns. She took the package delicately between her teeth, brought it back to the hearthrug where she began to remove its wrappings in long strips of shredded tissue paper. Miss Ashemeade laughed.

“That one knows her own mind. Well, perhaps she is right, it is time for the gifts. You know, one used to give presents on New Year's Day. Christmas was for churchgoing and family gatherings. On New Year's one's friends came visiting and then presents were exchanged. And, my, how cold some of those visitors might get on the way! It was usually the gentlemen who came, ladies stayed home to do the receiving. Afterward young ladies counted their cards, to see who had the most and the prettiest—all pictures and silk fringe—”

Miss Ashemeade was looking at the tree, but Lorrie thought she was really seeing things she remembered.

“What kinds of presents were there?” Lorrie asked after a pause.

“Presents? Oh, when one was very young a jumping rope with wooden handles, or a porcelain slate. Dolls, to be sure, and a bangle bracelet. Once, Lorrie, that workbox you use now, all correctly fitted with scissors, silver thimble, stiletto, needlecase, penknife, thread—Once the music box. And always candy, maple cakes, animals of barley sugar, gingerbread people—

“Then, when one grew older, there were other things.” But Miss Ashemeade did not list those. Instead she reached out with her cane and neatly snared one of the packages under the tree by placing its tip through a ribbon bow. Balancing it with ease, she held it out to Aunt Margaret.

“See what tricks infirmity can teach one? I am proud of such sleight of hand.” She slid the package off her cane to land on Aunt Margaret's knees.

“Now, let us see if I can continue to do as well.” She fished to catch a second bow, and with the same success transferred to Lorrie's hold another package.

Miss Ashemeade's gifts for them were wrapped in white tissue and tied with bright red ribbons. Lorrie laid hers carefully on the floor and went to take those she and her aunt had brought with them from under the tree. Two she handed to Miss Ashemeade, the other two she carried to Hallie sitting in one of the chairs beside the fireplace.

“Ah.” Miss Ashemeade held up the one wrapped in the peacock-feather paper. “These new gift papers are works of art, are they not? Peacock feathers—those recall memories, do they not, Hallie?”

“Nackie's mats, Mis’ Charlotta. It's easy rememberin’ those. They was the sun ‘n’ moon ‘n’ stars to Nackie, an’ maybe he was right.”

Sabina growled. She had brought a catnip mouse out of what she plainly considered entirely unnecessary wrappings and was tossing it high in the air, to be pounced upon and shaken vigorously.

“Sabina! Sabina, remember in this room you are a lady!” But the kitten paid no attention to Miss Ashemeade's warning.

“Alas, who among humans has ever impressed his will upon a cat.” Miss Ashemeade laughed again. “We must just ignore her bad manners.”

Moments later Lorrie stared down at the contents of the package Miss Ashemeade had handed her. Miranda? No! Miranda's body, yes, with Miranda's dress upon it. But not Miranda's head. For Miranda, for all her age and her dearness to generations of small girls, had been just a doll, with staring blue eyes, rigid ripples of painted hair, a rather expressionless face.

Lorrie touched the cheek of this new Miranda. It was as smooth to feel as Miranda's china had been, but it was far more like her own skin in color. And the hair on the small head, braided and looped somewhat in the same style as Miranda's modeled and painted locks had been, was, or felt like, real hair. The expression was real. Now she
looked like one of the doll-house people—a little like Phebe—as if she might suddenly come alive, shake free of Lorrie's hold, to move and speak for herself. Lorrie drew a long and rather shaky breath, then she looked to Miss Ashemeade.

“No, not Miranda.” Miss Ashemeade said. “Miranda has had her life and she was very old and tired. I think she deserves her rest, do you not? This is someone else. I will let you decide just who—you will know, when the proper time comes.”

“Why—” Aunt Margaret stared at the frame she had unwrapped. “You can't mean to give this—it is too much of a treasure!”

“Treasures are born of cherishing,” Miss Ashemeade spoke almost briskly, as if she wanted no thanks, did not even consider it polite for Aunt Margaret to offer them.

Aunt Margaret met her eyes for a long moment. “This shall continue to be cherished.”

Miss Ashemeade smiled. “Did you believe I needed such assurance? Ah.” She slipped off Lorrie's carefully tied ribbons, unfolded the peacock paper with small deliberate movements of her fingers. Then she lifted the handkerchief. The lace and the big A—they had been on in the shop. But the wreath about that A—did any crooked stitches show? Lorrie frowned anxiously. “Thank you, Lorrie.” Miss Ashemeade tucked the handkerchief in her belt, frilled up its edges, and Lorrie was content.

Hallie admired her potholder, with its marching line of little figures, each carrying a bowl, or a knife, or a fork, a spoon, a kettle. She drew her finger along under them.

“My, this heah's a whole army of cooks. Can't never say now I need me some help in the kitchen!”

It had been dark and dreary when they had come to Octagon House, but now the sun flashed through the pointed spears of icicles hanging over the windows. Aunt Margaret caught up her camera and turned it upon Miss Ashemeade.

“May I?” she asked.

There was again a smile on Miss Ashemeade's face. “If you wish to.”

Sabina startled Lorrie by rubbing against her. Having so attracted the girl's attention, she made for the door to the hall and pawed at it, looking back at Lorrie, her wishes made very clear. Lorrie went to open it and Sabina flashed across the hall, to paw at the kitchen portal in turn. Once more Lorrie obeyed her urging.

But the kitchen did not content the kitten either. She was through that in a flash, and the door she now wanted to open was the one Lorrie had found locked during her back-in-time visit.

She followed Sabina on into a short hall from which spiraled the stairway hugging the big central chimney of the house. But Sabina called with a note of irritation in her “merrow” at another door.

Now they were in the green bedroom and Lorrie realized she had made the other half circuit of the house. The door of the doll-house room was Sabina's goal and Lorrie hurried to that.

There was no fireplace in the doll-house room, yet it did not seem cold in there, in spite of a huge icicle and several small ones half barring the one window. It was light, also,
though there were no candles or lamps here and the sun shone on the other side of the house.

Lorrie looked about her. The other times she had been here the horse and the house had claimed and held her attention. Now she was trying to see how like was this room to the one into which Lotta had brought Phineas and Phebe. There was no chair, but there were still shelves fastened to the walls. No books or jars, crocks, bottles were there now. No bunches of dried plants hung on strings. She looked at the floor. The house and its base took up a large portion of the room, the horse more. But she still could see the faint outlines of the painted design that had been so much clearer in the doll house.

A faint tinkling drew Lorrie's attention to the house. Once more Sabina pawed at a chain dangling from one of the drawers. Lorrie moved forward, as if Miss Ashemeade were telling her she must do this. She knelt and turned the key, and pulled open the drawer. It was not the one that held the Phineas and Phebe dolls, but the next. And Lorrie was not in the least surprised to find another pair of small figures.

One was taller than either Phineas or Phebe, the other much smaller. She lifted out the larger one. The skin of the face and hands was a creamy brown, and the hair, just showing a little under a ruffled cap such as Hallie wore, was black and curly. The dress was like Hallie's too, except for the color, for this was a pale yellow and scattered over it were white flowers hardly larger than the head of a pin. Like Hallie she wore an apron that reached almost to the hem of her full skirt.

The second, smaller doll was a boy, much younger than Phineas. He wore a red-and-white shirt of minute checks,
and blue jeans, with a red handkerchief tied, three-cornered about his throat. He had the same creamy-brown skin as the woman doll, and his head was covered with tight black curls.

Lorrie laid the woman doll on her knee and took up the boy. Again the fine stitching on the clothes amazed her. How could one sew so perfectly on such small things? There was a small creaking sound—

Lorrie looked up. Perhaps Sabina was not responsible this time, but the side of the doll house swung slowly open. Once more Lorrie faced the kitchen, the green bedroom, and the small room of the painted floor, twin to the one in which she sat.

There were no preparations for pie making on the table now. Instead it seemed as if a dinner must be in progress, with a course waiting ready to be served. Dishes and platters were set on the big table and on a smaller one on the side. The top of the stove was covered with pots and pans.

Lorrie put the woman doll by the tall dresser with its burden of dishes, and tried to stand the boy by the stove. Only he would not, or could not, stand. At last she settled him on a small stool.

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.”