Octagon Magic (8 page)

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.

“Bevis!” 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 pages 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—

Wonderful things—Lorrie's enthusiasm about her budding idea was sharply checked. The doll house—Miss Ashemeade had never mentioned the house to Lorrie, just as she herself had never spoken of it to Miss Ashemeade, or to Aunt Margaret. It was—it was something very private, Lorrie knew without anyone telling her so. But it was part of Octagon House and if that were turned into a museum—Miss Ashemeade and Hallie—where would they live? Did people ever live in museums? But what if—if the house were torn down—then where would Miss Ashemeade and Hallie go? And where would the doll house and Bevis and—and Sabina—go? Lorrie sat up in bed. What
would
happen? She had to tell—to ask Miss Ashemeade. Tomorrow she would get away from school as fast as she could and—

Oh—tomorrow they had the class meeting. But that did not matter, not now. She simply had to see Miss Ashemeade and ask her about the museum idea, about whether it could be done.

Lorrie was impatient. All her life she had always wanted to do at once anything she had planned. But now she must wait through the night, and most of tomorrow, before she could see Miss Ashemeade. She twisted uneasily on her pillow as she lay down again.

She dreamed that she saw the house and over it a big storm cloud. In the shadow of that the red-brick walls began to shrink smaller and smaller until Lorrie was afraid that they would vanish altogether. She ran forward, trying to reach the house before it disappeared. But suddenly the front door opened, and Miss Ashemeade stood there. She was not leaning on Hallie's arm, nor was she depending on her cane for support, but she held out both hands, waving Lorrie back. And she was smiling as if all were well.

However in the morning her plan still filled Lorrie's mind. Kathy pounded on the door and they went off together, taking the shorter way that did not go down Ash Street. Kathy chattered busily as usual but suddenly she broke off and said in a sharper voice:

“Lorrie Mallard, I don't think you've heard one single, solitary word I've said. Where are you anyway? Right here, or about a billion miles away?”

Lorrie was startled out of her own thoughts. “Here—at least I'm walking along this street.”

“You'd never know it to look at you! You're more like one of those robots Rob keeps reading about. I was talking about the Valentine Fair and Open House, Lorrie—
THE VALENTINE FAIR!”

“But Valentine Day's in February, and this is only January.”

“Boy, are you ever a real drippy dope, Lorrie. The Valentine Fair is about the biggest thing at school, it surely is. We're the seniors this year, and that means we plan most of it. And today they are going to elect both committees—girls’ and boys’.”

“You ought to be on it, Kathy.”

“I sure hope so. Look here, Lorrie. Deb Collins said she'd nominate me. Now, will you second it?”

“You mean get up in class and say I want you for the committee?”

“You just say, ‘Second the nomination.’ Lorrie, you've heard them do it before, there's nothing to it. I've some dreamy ideas and I think I have a chance to be chairman. So, you'll do it, won't you?”

“But—I wasn't going to stay for the meeting.”

Kathy stared at her. “Whyever not? And, don't be stupid, Mrs. Raymond won't let you miss it, anyway. Being seniors we're supposed to take an intelligent interest. Don't you remember what she said last week? Or weren't you listening then either?”

“I have something important to do,” protested Lorrie.

“I'm telling you the truth, it's got to be the best excuse in the world or Mrs. Raymond isn't going to take it. You'll be there, Lorrie. Now, will you second me for the committee?”

“Yes.” Lorrie's heart sank. Kathy was probably right, she so often was in such matters. And if she had to stay for the class meeting, she would have no time for a visit to Octagon House tonight. But it was so important!

Kathy was right. Lorrie tried her excuse of an important errand after school. But when the questioning revealed to Mrs. Raymond that the errand was Lorrie's idea and not Aunt Margaret's, she was told that participation in class activities was far more important.

Lorrie returned to her seat with a rush of the same unhappy
feeling that had been hers when she had first come to Ashton. She was hardly aware of Bill Crowder's calling the class to order as president and the rest of the talk at the front of the room. But she came to with a start when she was conscious of a sudden silence. Several of those around her were glancing at Lorrie as if they expected something from her, and she had a sudden thrust of panic—as if she had been called upon to recite and had not heard the question.

Then two seats beyond, Bessie Calder stood up and said, “I second the nomination.”

I
second the nomination!
Why, that was what Kathy had asked her to say! Kathy! Lorrie glanced quickly at Kathy and met an accusing stare in return. Kathy had asked her, and she hadn't done it. Kathy must believe she kept quiet on purpose!

Again Lorrie ceased to listen to what was going on as she thought furiously of how she could explain her lapse to Kathy. She would have to tell Kathy about Octagon House and the thruway. Now she shifted impatiently in her seat, waiting only for the end of the meeting so she could get to Kathy and explain.

Only Lorrie was not to have the chance, because, as she started toward Kathy's desk, the other girl called:

“Bess! Chris! Wait up! I've some groovy ideas. Just wait until you hear them!”

Lorrie pushed her way determinedly to Kathy's desk. “Kathy—Kathy!” she called, intent on making Kathy turn her head and acknowledge her being there. She made some impression, for Kathy did turn and look around. But her face was set and cold.

“What do you want, Lorrie Mallard? You broke your word. Think I want you on
my
committee now?”

“But Kathy—”

“I said"—Kathy leaned over her desk—"get lost, Lorrie. You wouldn't help me, I don't need you—and don't you forget it! Come on, gang, we've got a lot to do!”

With that she joined a waiting group of girls and was gone. Lorrie pulled her book bag back to her locker. There was no hurry now, she did not have time enough to go by Octagon House, and she was not about to leave so fast Kathy would believe she was trailing along behind her. As Kathy had pointed out, they did not need each other—not at all. Lorrie kept holding to that thought as she zipped up her ski jacket. Someone banged the door of the locker next to hers and she looked up.

“Lizabeth—”

“Out in the cold again, Lorrie?” Lizabeth asked. “What did you do this time to upset her royal highness?” There was such sharpness in Lizabeth's voice that Lorrie was startled.

“She asked me to second her nomination for the committee and—well, I was thinking about something else and I forgot all about it. She has a right to be mad.”

“Now”—Lizabeth set her hands on her hips and looked at Lorrie—"now just what could be more important than this committee? What deep thought, Lorrie?”

Lorrie felt a little embarrassed. Lizabeth did not like Kathy, not one little bit. And she made it so clear now. Lorrie thought back to the theater party and her own uneasiness about how Kathy had acted over the seating. Lizabeth had so quickly withdrawn then into a shell of her own.

“I was worried.” Suddenly she had to talk to someone and she liked Lizabeth, or the usual Lizabeth, not this sharp-tongued one. “Lizabeth, do you know the Octagon House?”

“That old place over on Ash Street? Sure. Daddy says it's the only one of its kind anywhere around—has eight sides. What about it?”

“They say it's going to be torn down for the thruway.”

“Yes, the line runs through from Gamblier Avenue to the State route, and that's three blocks beyond Ash.”

“How do you know so much?”

“Daddy's on that project, he's an engineer with the highways. But what about you, why do you care where the thruway goes?”

“They can't tear down Octagon House!” Lorrie protested. “I thought—Suppose people wrote to the papers and said not to—Or someone talked on the TV about it. Wouldn't that stop them?”

“They've been doing that for over a year now,” Lizabeth returned. “Oh, not writing about Octagon House, but about other houses. This Friday they're having a big meeting about it before the Commissioners. But it isn't going to do them any good. There's a river underground a little to the north, and they can't build the thruway over that, so it will have to go this way.”

“A river?” Lorrie repeated. Was it perhaps the stream that the bridge had spanned in the past, under which the fugitives had hidden?

“Yes. It used to be above ground, just like any other. Then
they began to build more and more houses out here. So finally they put the river in big pipes and built right over it But they can't lay the thruway over that.”

“But Octagon House—”

“And what makes that so wonderful? They're going to tear down the old Ruxton House too. And Mother says that's a shame. A man came all the way from England more'n a hundred years ago to plan that. It's beautiful.”

“So is Octagon House,” countered Lorrie stubbornly.

“Now? It's an old wreck on a piece of wild land.”

Lorrie shook her head. “It only looks wild from outside the fence, Lizabeth. Inside there's a garden, and in the house—Oh, Lizabeth, it's wonderful!”

“How do you know? Lorrie Mallard, have you been
in
the witch house, have you really?”

“There's no witch!” Lorrie flared. “There are Miss Ashemeade and Hallie and Sabina! And my aunt says it's like a museum there. Yes, I've been in, and so has Aunt Margaret. I go there to learn sewing from Miss Ashemeade, and Aunt Margaret's been there to Sunday tea, and we were there on Christmas. It was wonderful! You ought to have seen the tree and Hallie's gingerbread people and—” Lorrie launched into a confused description of Octagon House, its inhabitants and treasures—all but the horse Bevis and the doll house. And Lizabeth listened with flattering interest.