"Oh yes, we are prepared to be quite ruthless for Tarragon's sake."
He shook his head. "It won't work, you know." "If it doesn't," she told him calmly, "we will let him go at the end of a week—our finances are extremely limited—and trust that another will turn up."
"Like a vaccination," he said, fascinated. "If the first doesn't take—"
'A most indelicate way of phrasing it," she told him, "but I am not unaccustomed to vulgarity. You seem a pleasant young man, Mr. Oliver."
"Thank you," he said meekly, "and you may call me Andrew." "And you may call me Miss L'Hommedieu," she said with a bow of her head that came very near to ejecting several flowers from her hat.
Gussie, arriving at the door, said, "Dinner's served." Andrew held out his arm to Miss L’Hommedieu and slowly, gravely, she rose from her chair, at which point he discovered that she was almost as tall as his own six feet. He escorted her through the screen door into the kitchen, saying, "I really should wash my hands before dinner."
"There's a basin," she said, pointing to the kitchen sink, and continued on her way without him.
He approached the sink, which had a strange mechanism at its edge that looked surprisingly like a pump of some sort. There was an enamelware basin in the sink; he tipped the water out of it and turned on the faucet. Nothing happened; no water flowed; he realized too late the purpose of the basin he'd emptied, and wiped his hands instead on his jeans. A very odd kitchen, he thought, looking around him and identifying a large woodstove, a small three-burner kerosene camp stove, a huge, well-scrubbed wooden table, and a row of oil lamps on a shelf. Quaint, he decided, and with a shrug he abandoned washing and walked down a hall that smelled of mildew, and into the room on his left.
It was the dining room, and it was dim. Light from its two windows had been all but obliterated by the wisteria outside, and then further diminished by tattered lace curtains that hung like spiderwebs across the glass. In the twilight it was difficult to distinguish the shapes on the table until Gussie brought in a candle and lighted it. Its glow illuminated a white china tureen with steam rising from it in clouds that sent long shadows leaping across the walls.
Gussie said graciously, "I don't believe you've met Leo yet."
Leo, seated at the table, raised his head just long enough to observe Andrew. "Democrat, Republican, or Libertarian?" he snapped.
"Independent," said Andrew.
Leo lost interest and ducked his head again so that only his baldness and the bridge of his nose could be seen. He looked peevish, inquisitive, and very shy.
"You do have electricity," Andrew suggested, his glance returning to the candle as he seated himself.
"Oh my goodness yes," Miss L’Hommedieu said warmly.
"It's just that it's been turned off," put in Gussie.
"Ever since Miss Thale—" It was Leo's voice, and they all turned to stare at him sharply. "—left us," he added lamely.
"Miss Thale?" Andrew was suddenly alert.
"We are her guests," explained Miss L'Hommedieu. "You haven't met her yet, she is away just now."
"Away?" Andrew echoed.
Miss L'Hommedieu picked up her spoon. "Since you have not met her, naturally she is away. Shall we eat now? Gussie's fish stews are delicious."
"Herbs in 'em," Leo volunteered. "Gussie raises 'em—eh, Gussie? Basil in this one, right?"
Tarragon said eagerly, "They have beautiful names, say them for him, won't you, Gussie?" In the candlelight her face had the translucence of a Renoir portrait.
Gussie nodded. "I'll tell a few, I don't mind. There's rosemary and summer savory, damask rose, lemon balm, sage, angelica—and tarragon."
"Tarragon!" exclaimed Andrew.
They all beamed at him, Tarragon looking the most pleased of all. "It was up to us to name her," explained Gussie, adding dryly, "Herbs grow very well in poor soil.. . Tarragon, 'there is nothing good or evil save in the will.' "
"Epictetus," said Tarragon.
"Leo?"
Leo gave Tarragon a stern glance and cleared his throat. " 'Inferiors revolt in order that they may be equal, and equals that they may be superior, and such is the state of mind which creates revolution.' " He did not wait for an answer but ducked his head again and applied himself to his soup.
"Aristotle," said Tarragon.
"She may not have had advantages, Mr. Oliver, but we've seen to it she's well read. Try her on something, go ahead."
Amused, Andrew said, " A man who knows he is a fool is not a great fool.' "
"Chuang Tzu," replied Tarragon, smiling.
Leo lifted his head, spoon in hand, to say, "What kind of work you do out there? You have a job?"
Startled, Andrew said, "Me? I work for Meredith Machines, writing copy for the company newsletter." Courtesy of my father, he thought bitterly.
"Like it?"
"No."
A rich chuckle emanated from the man. "Writing happy-news to cheer up the poor bastards?"
"Now, Leo," Gussie said soothingly, and to Andrew, "He's a Marxist, you see."
"Workers of the world unite and all that?" quipped Andrew.
"And all that, yes," said Leo, glaring at him. "Going global aren't they—out there?"
Andrew, glancing around him, thought that "out there" sounded just about right. "But how on earth do you know about global expansion—when it's out there, and you're here. And no electricity," he added.
"Radio," said Leo. "When we've batteries."
"No batteries?"
Leo shrugged. 'At the moment, no. Anything new?"
Andrew considered this. "More wars .., more revolutions.., more mergers—even Meredith Machines."
'Ah, downsizing," murmured Leo. "Going to lose your job?"
"Probably not."
"Damn confident," responded Leo. "Know the boss?"
Andrew said weakly, "Well, yes. My father happens to be a vice president of the company."
"Hah," snorted Leo. "Nepotism."
Out of some irrational loyalty to his father, Andrew said angrily, "It's not my idea to work at Meredith Machines, it's simply that my father—surely this is natural—insists on my having a job with some income. Writing copy isn't creative, not compared to real writing—"
At the word writing Gussie broke in to say, "Miss L'Hommedieu writes. Show him, Miss L’Hommedieu. Read us what you wrote today, please?"
Miss L’Hommedieu said with dignity, "I much prefer my readings to take place evenings."
"Mr. Oliver may not be here," said Tarragon.
Gussie gave her a sharp glance but said only, "Do, Miss L’Hommedieu, you know how much we enjoy them."
"Oh very well." From among the layers of chiffon she drew out a sheet of paper, glanced at it, and cleared her throat. Once sure that she had everyone's attention she read, " 'The fires were burning late that night, small coins of brightness in the darkness. There were no drums, for the night could be full of ears, and what they planned must never be heard. If eyes watched from a distance they would see only four people speaking in low voices and solemnly nodding. Calmly, gravely, they discussed death .. , the death of Basil Hopkins French.' "
She stopped, folded up the sheet of paper, and restored it to an inner pocket.
Andrew, startled, said, "But that's good, what happens next?"
"I write only beginnings," said Miss L’Hommedieu.
"Sometimes endings," pointed out Tarragon.
"Yes, but not often. I find middles extremely dull."
"Yesterday's was ever so exciting," put in Tarragon. "About a woman named Maria Tempest who'd begun having very strange dreams."
Gussie said, "I preferred the one about the heartbroken young girl living near the ocean where she found a message in a bottle, washed in on a wave."
"And when she cleaned the bottle a genie came out," Tarragon told him with triumph.
Disconcerted, Andrew said, "Yes, but surely you want to know more? Want to know what happens next ?"
"Why?" as
ked Miss L'Hommedieu.
Andrew realized that his mouth had dropped open in astonishment as he groped for an answer. He said, "Because," and then he said, "Because—" and then he sensibly closed his mouth.
Gussie smiled forgivingly. "Now if everyone has finished their dinner it's nearing time to watch the sunset. You'll stay the night with us, Mr. Oliver? It's far too late to find a garage ora telephone."
He felt absurdly grateful for this offer, he had expected to sleep in his car. "Thank you, thank you very much," he told her.
"Then we'll retire to the porch now to see the sunset." Impulsively he said, "What do you do when it rains?" It was Leo who answered. "We watch the rain." This left Andrew wondering why everything said here seemed to have a curious logic that struck him as indisputable and yet was scarcely logical at all. By now rather amused, Andrew followed them out to the porch, where he had first encountered Miss L'Hommedieu, and they all sat down to contemplate the sky. He had to admit that it was a very theatrical sunset, a combination of vivid pink, scarlet, and salmon, with a stripe of dull blue to introduce the coming night. He glanced at the faces beside him and found them intensely serious; Miss L'Hommedieu in particular looked ecstatic, almost embarrassingly so. On the other hand, he realized that he'd not noticed the setting of the sun in months and possibly years. In Manhattan the sun rose, the sun vanished, and was noted only when missing.
"There!" said Gussie abruptly as the brilliance vanished behind the trees. "Tarragon, we've very little to entertain Mr. Oliver, it would be hospitable of you to show him the view from Bald Hill."
He said quickly, "Thank you, but I really must visit my car. I brought an overnight bag in the trunk, thinking I might be late returning to New York."
"Holding what?" demanded Leo.
Andrew said crisply, "Pajamas, toothbrush, swimsuit and towel, change of shirt."
This appeared to appease Leo. "Later," Gussie said with authority. "Tarragon—Bald Hill."
Bald Hill it would be, but since he was to be accompanied by Tarragon he made no further resistance. A farmworker she must not marry, he thought firmly, and perhaps he could explain to her the idiocy and the risks of an advertisement in the newspapers for a man. He followed her across the empty field and into the woods until the trees thinned and a very steep and cone-shaped hill presented itself—and bald it was, with not a tree on it. With a sigh he climbed the hill behind her, the only sound his quiet panting and the crunch of pebbles underfoot. He would have liked to stop and rest halfway up the hill, since it was steeper than he'd realized and he was out of condition, but Tarragon shamed him by going out of her way to climb joyfully over the occasional boulder rooted in the earth and then to proceed tirelessly toward the darkening sky at the summit. He was relieved when they reached the crest, and after catching his breath sat down on a rock to look.
The hill had brought them high above the mist that was stealing over Thale's Folly and was already settling in the valley below. From where they sat a group of smaller hills around them rose like islands out of a moving sea of cloud, and when the mist thinned, he could see dozens of twinkling lights, like stars, shining in a town somewhere below. New York seemed a thousand miles away. He said, "It's beautiful, it's like looking at the world upside down."
Tarragon turned and smiled at him. "I thought you'd like it."
He nodded. "I do, very much," but he was looking at her now, seated on the ground not far away and hugging her knees as she looked down into the valley. In the sky that had been filled with sunset, the moon was emerging now from behind clouds to shed a ghostly light, and in this play of light and shadow Tarragon's face was dark but the moonlight had turned her hair as pale as spun silver. "Tell me," he said. "Tell me how you ever came to live at Thale's Folly. You've been here a long time? '
"For as long as I can remember."
"That long?"
"Oh yes." Her smile deepened. "I think I'm rather like the others—someone nobody wanted."
He stared at her in astonishment. "What on earth makes you think that?"
She said cheerfully, "Because Miss Thale had the naming of me, and my birth certificate reads Tarragon Sage Valerian. I have the very strong suspicion that she found me abandoned on somebody's doorstep."
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "And named you that?"
She nodded. "Miss Thale was very into herbs, you know. She studied them, planted them, loved them." She laughed. "Of course when I was very little they told me that my mother was a beautiful heiress who eloped with a circus magician, after which both were killed falling from a tightrope .., a little hard to believe, don't you think?"
He said cautiously, "It does sound rather exotic."
She nodded. "Gussie and Miss Thale collected people the way others collect stray cats. I mean really collected them; they'd drive around Pittsville once a week in their old Ford car looking for homeless people and people in trouble. When I was five or six there was a boy to play with—his name was Jake—and then an out-of-work Shakespearean actor—we called him Hamlet because he gave wonderful speeches from Hamlet—and a man who we called Merlin because he told fortunes, and there was Mr. Omelianuk who had only one leg, and Trudy who had run away from a husband who beat her, and a little girl named Jane. There have been all sorts of people staying with us, it's never been lonely."
And now you have me for a night, he thought, and hoped he wouldn't wake them with a nightmare. "But they've all left?"
"When they were ready to leave, yes."
"And you, are you ready to leave?" asked Andrew. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"You don't have to be married at nineteen, you know, the idea's positively medieval." It suddenly seemed important to impress this upon her. Very important.
"I know that," she told him seriously, "it's just that it would make them so happy to see me settled before"—she hesitated—"before Mr. Thale comes."
"Mr. Thale . . . Have I met him?" he asked innocently.
She shook her head. "You may not believe we could be so unscrupulous, Mr. Oliver, but nobody knows we're living here—except the mailman, of course, who brings Leo's checks each month. We could be found out at any moment. We'd like to believe Miss Thale is away visiting friends, but really she died five years ago and the farm belongs to her relatives now. They'd be ever so shocked to find us here."
"They would, yes," Andrew said truthfully.
"It's why they've advertised for a young man to fall in love with me."
"If he comes. If he falls in love."
"Oh, he will," she said confidently, "and then I need only select. That's very important, you know, to choose what's yours and reject what isn't. They've taught me that."
Amused, he said, "Such confidence!"
"Well, you see," she confided, "Gussie is very gifted, she knows how to cast magic spells." She added scornfully, "It's very rude when people call her a witch, but she does do wonders with our potatoes. We have to plant them at the dark of the moon and sprinkle ashes over them and—"
"Tarragon—"
"Mmmm?"
"For heaven's sake, there are no such things as magic spells and witches."
She laughed delightedly. "Then you'd be very unhappy if you stayed long, Mr. Oliver. You should see our sunflowers, they're almost as high as the bean stalk in the fairy tale."
"The one that Jack climbed?"
"Yes."
He wanted to explain to her there was no such thing as magic, and that he was certainly proof of that. He wanted to tell her of the weeks—months now—that he'd moved through each day smiling and nodding, saying all the correct words, thinking too much and feeling nothing at all, but the moon had brightened the mist and was casting its own spell of enchantment over the hill, and the stars were coming out of hiding, and it was wonderfully restful, at least for the moment. He had never expected his mind and his nerves to be tranquilized and soothed by a moon, a star, a girl, and a treeless hill.
Tarragon said, "Shall we go back
now?" When he didn't stir, she said, "You wanted to go to your car, didn't you? For pajamas?"
He sighed. He had no desire to move; he had even less desire to leave Bald Hill now that he'd arrived here. "Yes, we'd better go," he agreed, and relinquishing the rock on which he'd sat—or been glued, he thought wryly—he followed her out of the moonlight into the mist below, his sense of calm leaving him with every step. It would, as usual, be a sleeping-pill night.
The mist had cleared when he set out on his mile-long return to the car. It was a lonely walk, and when the moon disappeared behind a cloud it was a dark one, enlivened only by the cheerful sound of crickets. When he reached the Mercedes, he was pleasantly surprised to find a flashlight in its compartment and regarded it with a new interest: imagine, he thought, one need only press a button and there was light, no matches needed at all; a very remarkable invention, he thought, except for its need of batteries. He remembered that Leo's radio needed batteries. Before he left Thale's Folly tomorrow he would make a point of buying a package of them for him, a fair exchange for those moments of peace on Bald Hill.
He shouldered his knapsack and headed back. Walking at a brisk pace—the flashlight helped—the trees lining the road seemed almost to be marching along with him, tall sentinels guarding the silent forest behind them that could—might, surely—be inhabited in this dark night by ghosts, a headless horseman, or—he thought with a smile—a witch who cast spells. Or possibly, as in Miss L’Hommedieu's story, he might find four people huddled around a campfire, planning the death of—what was his name—Basil Hopkins French? An owl suddenly broke the silence with a mournful hoot, the moon emerged again in the west from a bed of pale stars, and Andrew suddenly laughed aloud and couldn't think why.
Reaching Thale's Folly the house loomed black against the indigo-blue night sky, the turrets at each corner like twin exclamation marks. A solitary light shone in the kitchen window, no doubt a kerosene lamp but more likely a candle, he thought, and prayed the mattress they'd promised him for sleeping had not been chewed by squirrels or mice, because in the morning he had a long walk ahead of him to find a telephone and a tow truck. Opening the door to the kitchen he found Gussie waiting for him, and he was touched to see that she'd brewed a cup of tea for him.
Thales's Folly Page 2
