by Andre Norton
It was noon when they got back to the school. Holly singled out Judy, who seemed reluctant to come. She was talking with that same Debbie who had wanted to share lunches with her before, as Holly bore grimly down upon them. Judy ought to know better; Holly had told her often enough what to expect. Now it looked almost as if Judy was not going to come along, even when Holly beckoned to her to hurry.
“I don’t see why,” she burst out, “you never want to be friends with anybody. I like Debbie—”
“Be friends!” Holly exploded. “They don’t want to be friends! Just like this morning—that Becky Eames was quick enough to say we had no right to be part of Sussex, we don’t belong!”
“She said that—right out?” Judy looked troubled. “But—why, Holly?”
“You know why.” Holly scowled. Of course, Becky had not said quite that, but it was certainly what she had meant. The sooner Judy realized the truth, the better for her. “We live in a junkyard, and we’re black.”
“But Jimmie Little, and the Woods girls”—Judy stopped and pointed across the room—”they’re black and no one seems to care. Jimmie goes around with Ralph Bingley and Jud Torrey all the time. And Sally and Betsy Woods sing in the junior choir and—look at Crock, he’s over there now with Phil Noyes and the Byfield boys, and they like him!”
“He’ll find out,” Holly said grimly. “And Jimmy and the Woods—they lived here a long time—maybe people forget. They don’t live in a dump, either.”
Judy looked mutinous, but she sat down beside Holly with a sigh and opened her lunch box. “You decided,” she asked as she unwrapped her topmost sandwich, “what you’re going to do for your special project? I have. I told Mrs. Dale, and she thought mine was good enough to write up on the board—the first one.”
“What is it?” Holly delayed answering, by asking a question of her own.
“Herb gardens, like Tamar’s—”
“Judy, you didn’t tell?” Holly demanded.
“ ’Course not! But Grandma uses herbs, and lots of people do now—Grandma has some real, real old books about how they used such things even more in the olden days. I’m going to make rose beads, when there’re roses, and one of those clove oranges which smell nice, and maybe sugared mint leaves. And I’m going to learn about those you can use as medicine like Tamar did to help people.” She was smiling again, her disagreement with Holly forgotten. “I can write about Tamar’s garden, even if I don’t say where it was—”
Holly was surprised, and inwardly a little uneasy. Judy was so sure of herself now. Back in Boston she had listened to Holly, and she would have asked Holly what she thought before telling Mrs. Dale about her subject project. She was doing a lot of things for herself lately. There was the way she had taken command and found how to plant Tamar’s gifts in what Holly acknowledged was a clever manner. Judy had always been the follower where Holly led; now it appeared that she was finding new paths for herself.
“You’d better be careful what you say,” Holly said with more emphasis than she really planned.
Judy’s smile faded. “There you go again, Holly Wade. Always telling me what to do! I’m getting tired of you—”
Holly’s irritation became alarm. Judy, if Judy was going to be stubborn—They had always done things together, things Holly had planned. Judy had seemed content enough to agree. Holly knew there were instances when Judy could not be pushed, but those had been rare and had not lasted long. What if Judy was going to be that way all the time? Quickly Holly tried to make matters better.
“I just was afraid you might say something without thinking.”
“The way you talk, you’d believe I wasn’t any older than Lissy Jones back home. And she’s three whole years younger than me. I don’t go blabbing around everything I know, Holly Wade.”
“I know,” Holly answered. Judy might have to be coaxed back into line again. “It’s just that even if we stood up, all of us, and told all about Tamar, no one would believe us.”
“I suppose so. But she’s real, I know that, Holly. And I’m going to learn some of the things she knows. Mrs. Dale said there’re a lot of books about herbs and I’m going to ask Grandma to tell me, too. What are you going to take as your project?”
For a moment Holly hesitated. She was still very sure that she had a good plan—to show up that old Sexton Dimsdale, and make people living right here today understand what it meant to call people names which weren’t true. Though Becky hadn’t, of course, called any names, Holly could imagine right now the ones she might have used, and those made her madder every time she thought of them.
“What are you going to take? Or is it such a great big secret that—” Judy was beginning to get prickly again.
“I’m going to take witches,” Holly said in a rush. “How the people in the old times made trouble for people like Tamar and called them witches, and how the Dimsdales were cursed because they did—”
“You said not to tell about Tamar. And now you’re going to!” Judy accused.
“I won’t tell about us seeing her, nothing like that. I’m going to look it all up in the old books, and ask around. Miss Noyes, at the library this morning, she showed us a journal which she said had been written by Seth Elkins—”
“That Seth who came to see Tamar?” Judy interrupted, her eyes wide.
“I suppose so. Maybe he tells just what did happen. Not that queer story about Tamar and the house disappearing and all.”
“But will Mrs. Finch let you write about witches?”
“I’m not going to tell her that I am going to do witches. I’m going to say I want to write about the people who were at Dimsdale, the man who built the big house that burned down.”
“I wish we could find out what happened to Tamar,” said Judy slowly.
“I know what we do have to do,” Holly replied with her old assertiveness. “We’ve got to get back there somehow and warn Tamar, let her know what Sexton Dimsdale is going to do on Halloween.”
“But that was a long time ago,” Judy objected. “He’s already done it and you can’t change anything now.”
“Maybe we can. Look here, Judy, we must have gone back in time to a day that was before Halloween—it was summer, wasn’t it? Well, if we can get back to that day, we can tell Tamar to watch out—”
“Oh!” Now Judy was nodding vigorously. “Yes. I’ll take the pillow Friday night and we’ll go back again and tell her.”
I’ll take the pillow this time, Holly assured herself. Judy had had her turn. Anyway it was her idea, not Judy’s. Yes, if anyone slept with the herb pillow this week it was going to be Holly Wade.
She handed in the description of her project, the history of Dimsdale, and Mrs. Finch noted it down in her project book with a nod of agreement.
“It’s a pity Miss Dimsdale’s family papers were all destroyed in that unfortunate fire,” she commented. “The board of the historical museum had asked her several times to deposit them at the library, but she seemed to have a distaste for letting anyone see them. Yet the Dimsdales were a very important part of Sussex. It was on a tract obtained from King Charles by the Dimsdales that Sussex was laid out, you know. You must consult with Miss Noyes; she will know several excellent references for you to use, Holly.
“I wonder if any of the old garden still exists—it was the first formal and carefully planted garden ever to be laid out here, you know. And there is a legend that there even was a maze!”
“Grandma said it’s all grown up so tight no one can get in,” Holly answered quickly. Mrs. Finch was showing such an interest in her idea that she began to fear she might be too interested. Enough to ask some questions Holly was neither prepared to answer nor wanted asked at all.
Mrs. Finch gazed a little beyond Holly, as if seeing the wild part of Dimsdale rather than the wall of the classroom. “I suppose so. But, Holly, if you can make us see Dimsdale as it once was—then you are adding to our picture of Sussex at its beginning. That will be an excellent project.”<
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She paused for a moment before she asked, in a slightly different tone of voice, “Holly, what do you think of Sussex?” Now she looked straight at Holly herself as if she could see into her mind and sort out Holly’s thoughts.
“It’s—it’s different—from Boston, I mean.” Holly tried to find words which would not give away her real feelings about all that had happened to her since the telegram had arrived. It was none of Mrs. Finch’s business how she felt anyway, she thought. As if Mrs. Finch would really care!
“I imagine so.” Mrs. Finch sounded a little sharp, almost as if Holly were being stupid in class. “You’ve an interesting project, Holly; it is up to you to show what you can do with it.”
As Holly went out to the bus, she wondered just what Mrs. Finch would have said if she had told her the real project—the cursing of Dimsdale. She glanced along the line of children waiting for the ride home. Grandma had said that people in town talked about the curse, that they’d hear stories. Suppose she would start asking questions? No, probably the kids here wouldn’t know. But old people, like Mrs. Pigot who had talked about it the very first time they had mentioned Dimsdale—she ought to know something. And there ought to be other old people who’d remember things. She would have to be mighty careful asking, though.
“Holly!” Judy’s voice right in her ear made her jump. “Holly, didn’t you hear me? I asked about the Halloween party. It’s going to be dress-up, Debbie said. What do you suppose I can wear?”
Holly was drawn entirely out of her plans for detecting the past. “What party?”
“The big school one. They have it every year and everyone dresses up. From four to seven on Halloween. Debbie said we could ride in with her. So you see, Holly, you’re not so always right. Debbie likes me and she’d like you, too, if you’d let her. You know what I’d like to be—I’ve been thinking it over ever since she told me about it—I’d like to be a cat, like Tomkit, gray with big green eyes and a long tail. That would be fun!”
“If it’s in town at night, Grandpa and Grandma won’t want us to come in.” Holly brought out her most formidable argument quickly.
Judy made an impish face. “That’s where you’re wrong again, Holly. Grandma, she comes every year, she rides in with Debbie’s mom, and she tells fortunes the old way. She makes special doughnuts, too. So there! Do you suppose Grandma could help me make a cat costume, Holly?”
Grandma going to a school party! Holly was surprised all right, surprised and resentful. Grandma had taken lately to asking if Holly knew that girl or this one, and seeming surprised when Holly said just in school. As if she expected Holly to be the most popular girl in the class or something. She did not want to hurt Grandma’s feelings by telling the truth—that they weren’t wanted. Because Grandma seemed so sure that they would be. Holly had to dodge a lot of questions lately. There could be no appealing to Grandma to stay home from the party, not if things were the way Judy said that they were.
“A cat costume would be a hard one,” she answered Judy, full of dismay. If Grandma insisted that they go, and she went with them and saw—
“Grandma’s mighty clever with her hands—that’s what Mr. Correy said when he came out yesterday afternoon. And it’s true. I bet she can make a real cat costume.”
Holly tried to push the thought of the Halloween party out of her mind entirely. She did it by thinking of that other Halloween, when the Dimsdales went witch hunting. This, of course, brought her back to Tamar and the warning. Also, if she were to see Tamar again, maybe ask her some questions, she could learn the truth. Whether Tamar really was a witch and had vanished by magic, after cursing Dimsdale—
A witch—if you were a witch you could have your wishes. And make them come true. Right now she could wish Judy would forget all about the party, Grandma also, so they would not have to go. She could wish—
Judy was very full of her project that evening at the supper table, and Grandma got so excited that she had to shove back her glasses every moment or so; they really slipped up and down her nose without coming to a full stop very often. Crock announced his project—what kind of furniture they had had in the first Sussex houses. He had taken lately to going out in the fix-it shed and watching Grandpa, and was very full of information (which did not interest Holly in the least) as to how to mend this and repair that.
She sat very silent herself. Let Judy and Crock do all the talking tonight. Holly wanted to be sure of the questions she was going to ask, beginning with Grandma and Grandpa and what they could remember about Dimsdale before it became a dump, and about Miss Elvery and her stories. It might be well to write those questions all down before she asked them. Then she would be sure they were the right ones and not give away her plan.
When Judy was safely in bed that night, and Holly was certain that she was asleep by the sound of her breathing, she slipped from between the covers and padded over to the wardrobe. Inch by inch she eased the door open until she could feel inside for the lid of Judy’s box of cloth pieces. She slipped that off and prodded, until her fingers met the pillow. More than anything in the world she wanted to take it out, to sleep on it tonight, and see if she could get back some way to the house in the maze and Tamar.
But there was no use in trying it. School tomorrow, and the next day, and the next—the next—
Only it did not quite work out that way. For there was a special teachers’ meeting on Friday and school would be out at noon. As soon as she heard that, Holly cornered Crock and Judy.
“Friday afternoon,” she said eagerly. “We can get back in the maze Friday afternoon, don’t you see?”
Crock agreed readily. “All right, better’n Saturday really. Jim’s coming by to give us a hand out in the yard then. He wants to hunt up something to fix his bike, if he can find it.”
There was no use in reminding Crock of the danger of getting too friendly, Holly had known that from the first. Anyway, if he wanted to get into a fight—and fight he would, if he were called some of the things she could so well imagine—then that was his own fault.
Again time was something she fought all the way to Thursday night. She had discovered before then that neither Judy nor Crock had any idea of allowing her to take the pillow by will alone. No, it would be choosing again. And Holly was determined this time that she would do as she had never done before, make sure she would come out the winner. She had to be the one, she had to!
Crock held the papers to pull once more, and, in her hand, Holly deliberately bent the one she had drawn. The others were too intent upon their own drawing to see her. If hers was not the shortest paper in the beginning, it would be when she got through with it. And, through her crumpling, it was, over Crock’s. Triumphantly, she gathered the pillow to her.
As she settled in bed she thumped her head against it. There was a funny smell, not as good as it had been before. This made her nose itch to sneeze. If she had not been sure, somehow, that this was the only way to get into the maze, she would have shoved the pillow away again. But in spite of the unpleasant smell, which grew stronger, Holly was firm—she would dream the way in!
7
Widdershins Way
In the morning she could not remember her dreams, except that she did know a way into the maze. The rest—when she tried to recall anything it made her head ache. Tamar—had she seen Tamar? Holly had an odd half-remembrance of someone else, quite unlike Tamar. Someone who had smiled and beckoned and whom she must see again. But of course that person must have been Tamar, and she, Holly, would be the one to warn her about the trouble to come.
“You dreamed.” Judy was putting on her shoes. “But those must have been bad dreams, Holly.”
“Why?” Holly rounded on her defensively.
“ ’Cause you called for Mom and said you wanted out—” Judy sat on the edge of the bed, watching her sister closely now. “You talked as if you were shut up somewhere.”
Holly tossed her head. “I don’t remember. But I do know the way into the m
aze anyhow. And we’ll go this afternoon and see Tamar. You want to do that, don’t you?”
To her surprise Judy did not answer at once. “I don’t know. I’m going to wait and see—”
“Wait and see about what?” Holly exploded. “The last time you were all ready to go, you wanted us to hurry up. Just ’cause I had the dream this time, now you talk about going to wait and see! What’s the matter with you, Judy Wade?”
Judy still measured her sister with that unblinking stare; Holly stirred uncomfortably under it. It was almost as if Judy already knew that Holly had—well, arranged things last night. But Holly had had to. Crock did not really care, and they—she—had to warn Tamar about all the trouble coming.
“Nothing’s the matter, I guess,” Judy said slowly. “Only, I guess I didn’t like your bad dream.”
“But you don’t really know it was a bad dream,” countered Holly swiftly.
“I know you were crying for Mom to come and get you. And that Tomkit—he got up once and sniffed at the pillow; then he jumped back and hissed and spat, just like he hated it.
“But—oh, well.” Judy shrugged. “I guess it’s all right.”
Of course it was all right, Holly assured herself fiercely not only through breakfast but through the morning at school. When they piled back on the bus after the half-day session, she was only eager to get back to Dimsdale, gobble down lunch, and start into the maze. It was a dark day and the clouds looked heavy, but so far there had been no rain. She kept her fingers crossed all the way home and hoped the storm would hold off.
Holly was so intent upon her worry that she did not listen much to what was going on around her, until she heard Judy say in a voice which carried over the rumble of the bus, “Grandma thinks she can make a cat suit for me. She has a big woolly gray blanket, just as gray as Tomkit.”
“Black cats are for Halloween.” That was Sandra Hawkins.
“Maybe—but I want to be a gray one,” Judy returned. “Tomkit is a special cat, it’s more fun to look like him. What are you going to be?”
