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.”

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.