Octagon Magic

by Andre Norton

  “ ‘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—”

  “Begin to call you Canuck and chase you? Well, perhaps Jimmy thought it a joke at first and if you had laughed, that would have been the end of it. Then, as some people are very like to do, he found he enjoyed chasing you because you ran, or showed that you disliked and feared him. When you began to treat him as if you were not afraid, he stopped hunting you. You may not want Jimmy for a close friend, that is true. But I do not believe you dislike him so much.”

  “No, I don't.” Lorrie chose a reel of golden tan. “Miss Ashemeade, what happened to Phineas and Phebe afterward?”

  There was such a long moment of silence that Lorrie looked up in surprise, the needle in one hand, the end of the wool in the other. Miss Ashemeade was no longer smiling. Instead she was looking at something she had taken out of the sewing table, turning it around between her fingers. It was the box that held the golden needles.

  “They made a choice, Lorrie, and thereafter they lived by it. Some can be so hurt by the world that they choose to turn their backs upon it. My, look at the snow!”

  Lorrie turned to the window. Flakes were whirling down, to be seen in the crack between the lace edges of the curtains. There was a soft mew and Sabina leaped to the sill, to stand on her hind legs, patting the panes furiously, trying to get at those fluttering crystals.

  “No more needles, Lorrie,” Miss Ashemeade said. “I think there is other work to be done this afternoon. Sabina is very good at reminding one.”

  Lorrie helped her set away the frame and then watched curiously as Miss Ashemeade got to her feet with difficulty. She moved forward impulsively and Miss Ashemeade accepted her help, putting her hand on Lorrie's shoulder as she had on Hallie's arm.

  They began a slow progress to the big table on which lay the materials, the various pieces of half-finished mending work Miss Ashemeade kept at hand. She did not pause by the lace, or by the moth-holed tapestry, or by the beautiful coat of silk that had the wonderful birds embroidered on it (and that Miss Ashemeade said had been made a very long time ago in China for an emperor to wear). Instead they came to the far end of the table where there were no pieces waiting for repair, but rather rolls of cloth and ribbon, each neatly packaged and tied with leftover twists of wool. Miss Ashemeade stood there for what seemed to Lorrie a very long moment. And then she said:

  “That red-velvet ribbon, Lorrie, there next to the blue. That is what I need.”

  The velvet was very thick, but silky feeling. And the color was that of the garnets Miss Ashemeade wore. Once it was in Lorrie's hand, the old lady made a slow progress back to her chair. And when she was again seated she kept the roll of ribbon on her lap while she examined intently all the spools and reels housed in the compartments of the table top. Finally she lifted out a spindle of black wood. Wound about it was a glistening thread, as brightly silver, Lorrie thought, as the trimming of a Christmas tree she had seen in Bamber's.

  Then Miss Ashemeade took up a little box from another compartment and when she moved it, there was a faint tinkling sound.

  “Merrow!” Sabina jumped from the window sill, came in two leaps to Miss Ashemeade's side, and now stood on her hind legs, her eyes fixed upon the box that rang so.

  Miss Ashemeade lifted the lid.

  “Bells!” Lorrie had been as curious as Sabina.

  “Bells,” agreed Miss Ashemeade. She took out one about as big as the nail on her little finger and shook it gently. The tinkle was faint, but pretty. There were bells even smaller, but none larger. “Do you approve, Sabina?” Miss Ashemeade held the velvet ribbon in one hand, the bell box in the other, for the kitten to see and sniff.

  It seemed to Lorrie that Sabina studied them carefully, as if they had a meaning for her.

  “Merrow!” Sabina rubbed her head against Miss Ashemeade's hand, and then was back at the window again with a whisk of her tail.

  Miss Ashemeade picked up the box that held the golden needles. As she opened it she spoke to Lorrie.

  “My dear, will you play the music box for us?”

  The music box had its own table. It was of polished, dark red wood, and its lid was bordered with small white blocks of ivory. You pressed a small lever after you raised the lid, and the music came. Like the bells it was a soft, tinkling music, but Lorrie loved it. She started it now and the tune filled the room.

  “Quite right and proper—the ‘Magic Flute,’” said Miss Ashemeade. “This is an afternoon for magic, Lorrie. Some days are, some days are not.”

  “Because it is snowing? I never thought of snow being magic.”

  “Much of the magic of this world does not seem to exist just because we are too blind, or too busy to look for it, Lorrie. Blindness and unbelief, those are the two foes of magic. To see and to believe—those who do have many gates to enter, if they choose.”

  She measured out the velvet ribbon, doubling it into two thicknesses when she had the length she wished. Then she cut off a piece of the silver thread.

  “Do you want me to thread it?” offered Lorrie.

  Miss Ashemeade shook her head. “Not this thread, not this needle, Lorrie. This can only be my doing at this time.”

  It was one of the golden needles she used. The thread went in smoothly and she began to stitch the ribbon double. Lorrie, so used to seeing her at the exacting work on tapestry or lace, had never watched Miss Ashemeade sew so swiftly. It was not a straight hemming stitch either, for the needle worked a pattern along the edge. Also, Lorrie thought, the gold needle was brighter in the candlelight than the silver ones, flashing in and out, so sometimes it appeared as if Miss Ashemeade was not using a needle at all, but a splinter of light.

  Lorrie brought out her own sewing. This was for Christmas and she had been happy with it. But now that she looked at the simple design of white flowers across the red apron, she was not satisfied. The flowers seemed coarse and big, and she was not certain the pattern was even straight.

  In the room the music box played and Miss Ashemeade's needle flashed in and out. Sabina gave up trying to reach the snowflakes and came back to sprawl out on the hearthrug. All at once, Lorrie, in spite of her misgivings about the apron, was happy. She was safe—safe—safe— There was warmth here, and happiness, and all the good one could wish for. Outside lay cold and dark, but here was warmth and light-

  It was moments before she
realized that the music box had stopped. But there was still a murmur of sound and it was Miss Ashemeade singing. Lorrie could hear what she thought were words, but she could not understand them. The song went on and on and the needle flew. Now every once in a while Miss Ashemeade chose a bell from the box, using only the smaller ones, and fastened it to the velvet strip to fringe it, and their tinkling was a part of the song Lorrie could not understand.

  Lorrie's own stitches seemed to come faster and easier too, and her thread did not tangle. And somehow she found she was putting in her needle and drawing it out in time to certain repeated notes of the song. When she did it that way, her needle flashed almost as quickly as Miss Ashemeade's. She was humming and, though she did not know the words, she could follow the tune.

  “Ahh—”

  Lorrie started, picking her finger on her needle.

  Miss Ashemeade held up the belled strip of velvet so Lorrie saw it plainly for the first time.

  “A collar?” she asked.

  “Just so, my dear, a collar. Sabina must have a Christmas gift also.”

  “But will she want to wear it—some cats—” Lorrie knew that much about cats.

  “Some cats are not Sabina, she is a very special cat. As for collars, this one she will want to wear, when the time comes. And—it is four o'clock. Hallie has some gingerbread and Chinese tea. I think we would be refreshed by both.”

  The golden needle was gone, the case that held it back in its compartment. Miss Ashemeade rang her little bell. Then she smiled at Lorrie.

  “It seems you have spent the afternoon profitably also, Lorrie. Only a stitch or two more and your apron is complete.”

  Lorrie was surprised when she looked at her work. She had done most of it! And it had seemed so easy too, once she had begun. She folded it carefully into the lower section of the workbox.

  “Miss Ashemeade,” she said slowly, “do you know a lawyer?”

  “In my lifetime, Lorrie, I have known several. Why? Are you now at odds with the law?” Miss Ashemeade smiled as she closed her worktable.

  “Because—Aunt Margaret said that there was going to be trouble about the thruway—that—that they might want to run it right here!”