Andre Norton - The Magic Books 02 - Octagon Magic

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OCTAGON MAGIC

Andre Norton

For my mother, whose beloved

stories of a late Victorian

childhood made those years very real

for me. And for Viola, Ernestine,

and Becky, who made suggestions.

Elegy for Sabina

Now, sweet witch cat

Free from flesh,

May you hunt

Happily in the fields of Heaven.

Composed by Grace Warren for Sabina.

WITCH'S HOUSE

Canuck Canuck walks like a duck!"

Lorrie Mallard walked a little faster, staring straight ahead. She was

determined not to run, but she could not shut out those hateful words.

Two blocks yet to go, with Jimmy Purvis and Stan Wormiski and Rob

Lockner all close behind.

"Canuck—"

There was a prickle in her nose, but she was not going to cry—she was

not! And neither was she going to run so they could chase her all the way

to the apartment house. Boys—mean, hateful boys! Staring and laughing

and whispering about you in class, trying to pull your hair or trip you up

or grab your book bag in the halls, trailing you home singing that mean,

hateful song. Two blocks more…

Unless she took the short cut by the witch's house.

Lorrie turned her head, just enough to sight the beginning of the alley,

the one where the tangle of overgrown brush hung in a big choked mass

over the rusty iron of the old fence. It looked just like the jungle pictures in

the social studies book, if the jungle had lost all its leaves in a storm.

Social studies! Lorrie frowned. Back home in Canada at Miss Logan's

School they did not have social studies, any more than they had boys. They

had history and she had done well in history. But now it seemed she had

learned the wrong kind of history. She did not belong. If only

Grandmother had not had to go off to England where her old friend could

care for her after her operation.

"Canuck—"

Lorrie turned into the alley. You could see the top of the witch's house

above all the trees and bushes. Was it just a big old garden filled up with

trees and plants growing wild, Lorrie wondered. There was a gate opening

onto the alley, but it had a chain across it as rusty as the iron fence. No

one had opened that for a long, long time, she guessed. Of course, a witch

wouldn't need a gate anyway. She could just fly over on her broom.

"Canuck—"

Lorrie gripped her book bag tighter. Her small pointed chin rose a

fraction of an inch, her lips set stubbornly. A possible witch behind a

locked gate was not nearly so bad as Jimmy, Stan, and Rob. Now she

deliberately slowed down.

The boys and the girls were afraid, or said they were, of the witch's

house. Lorrie had heard them daring one another to climb the fence, to

rap at the front door. Not that anyone, even Jimmy Purvis, had ever done

it.

On her right, on the opposite side of the alley, was a red-brick building

with the glass all broken out of the windows, and boards nailed across

them. It had once been a stable where horses and carriages were kept.

Then came the end of the parking lot for the apartment house where

Lorrie lived, all cold and bare with only a couple of cars in it at this time of

the afternoon.

Wind swept up the alley. Leaves spun and rustled along with it. Most of

the trees and bushes behind the fence were bare. Still one could not see in

very far, the branches and trunks were so thick.

Lorrie did not really believe that a witch lived there, or that there was a

ghost groaning inside either, even though Kathy Lockner swore it was so.

Aunt Margaret had said it was just an old, old house unlike any built

today. Octagon House they called it because it had really eight sides. And

there was an old lady living there who could not walk very well, so she

never came out.

Swinging her book bag to the other hand, Lorrie went up to the chained

gate. The house was queer, what she could see of it. Now, greatly daring,

she squeezed her arm between the bars of the gate, leaving streaks of rust

on her windbreaker, and pushed aside two branches to clear the view. Yes,

it was very different. She could see steps and a door, and an angled wall

with very tall, pointed windows. Lorrie made up her mind.

She would take part of that dare, even though they had never made it to

her. She was going to walk all around the witch house, see all of it that she

could. Setting down her bag, she tried to brush off some of the rust marks.

This was the end of the alley and she turned north on Ash Street, instead

of south, walking slowly along the front of the house.

Here the brush-and-tree jungle was not as high or as thick as by the

alley. There was an opening and Lorrie halted with a little gasp of surprise.

The last time she had come this way she had been hurrying to keep up

with Aunt Margaret, who always seemed to be a step or two ahead. That

had been just after she had come to Ashton when there had still been

leaves on all the branches, so she had not seen the deer, as big as a real

one, but black and green—not brown—as if moss grew on him.

Lorrie pushed closer to the fence. The deer stood on a big stone block,

and there was a brick wall, all the bricks laid crooked with green moss

between them. Then came the house. It had tall windows—the ones she

could see had shutters across them—and a door. Leaves had drifted high

all over, as if no one ever swept them up to be burned.

Lorrie bit down on her lower lip… Burning leaves in big heaps, the

smoke that smelled so good. Once, they had put three big potatoes right in

the middle of the fire. Those became all black on the outside, but you

broke them open and ate them with a little salt. And the squirrels had

come up and asked for bits.

She had been only a little girl then. Why, that must have been five—six

years ago. But she could remember it, though now she did not want to.

Not when she lived here where there were no leaves to burn,

nothing—where they called her a stupid, silly Canuck—though she did not

walk like a duck!

Lorrie set her bag on the ground between her two feet so she could hold

the bars of the front gate. There was no chain, but of course it was locked.

All those leaves…

There was a big oak tree in the yard at Miss Logan's. You hunted for

acorns and tried to find the biggest one. She never had, but Anne, her best

friend did last year, a whopper—almost as big as Lorrie's thumb. Miss

Logan's—Anne;—Lorrie fought the nose-prickling sensation again.

Everything had gone wrong for her here in Ashton. Maybe if she had

arrived when school started and not come late when everyone had already

made friends and she was alone—No, she was different anyway, she was a

stupid Canuck, wasn't she?

Her troubles had started the day of the big test last month. There had

been a substitute teacher—Mrs. Raymond had had the flu. And she had

been so cross when Lorrie had not understood the questions. Could Lorrie

help it if she came from Canada where they had taught different things?

She had always had high grades in Miss Logan's School and Grandmother

Mallard had been proud of her. She had never asked to come to Ashton

and live with Aunt Margaret Gerson, who was away working all day, when

Grandmother had had to go for her operation. All the things they taught

at Miss Logan's seemed wrong here. When she had answered the first time

in class, said, "Yes, Mrs. Raymond," and curtsied, they had all laughed,

every one of them.

All those hateful boys bobbing up and down in the yard afterward and

yelling, "Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am." There had been no boys at Miss

Logan's—hateful things!

And she could not talk about the same things that Kathy and the rest of

the girls did. Now Mrs. Raymond mentioned putting her back a grade,

saying she was too slow in catching up. Put back—just because they had

different lessons here.

Then Jimmy Purvis made up that song, and they all sang at her on the

way home. She did not like to go home when Aunt Margaret was gone,

and Mrs. Lockner kept saying she must come over to their apartment and

not stay alone.

Lorrie blinked hard several times. The deer had looked watery and

wavery, but now he was sturdy and strong again. She wished she could see

him closer. There was a big leaf caught on the prong of one of his antlers

and it flapped up and down like a little flag. Lorrie smiled. There was

something funny about that. The deer was so big and proud, and kind of

stern, but that leaf flip-flapped as if making fun of him.

In spite of the shuttered windows, all the dark trees and bushes and the

big piles of leaves, Lorrie liked this house. It was not a scary place at all.

Or were there two kinds of witches? The mean, scary kind was one, and

then there were those like the Princess' grandmother in The Princess and

Curdie. A fairy godmother had magic powers. Only she made good things,

instead of bad, happen. She could use a fairy godmother now, one to

transform Jimmy Purvis into a real duck.

Lorrie grinned as she picked up her book bag. Old Jimmy Purvis with

yellow feathers all over him and big flat feet—that was the first thing she

would ask for if a fairy godmother, or a good witch, said she could have

some wishes. She had better get home now. She could say she had

homework to do so Mrs. Lockner would leave her alone in Aunt Margaret's

apartment.

On impulse Lorrie lifted her hand in salute to the deer. The wind gave

an extra tug at that moment and tore the leaf flag from his antler, soaring

it over the gate to Lorrie's feet. She pounced upon it, torn as it was, and

tucked it into the pocket of her windbreaker. Why, she did not know.

Then she turned south toward the apartment. She had just reached the

mouth of the alley when she heard a thin cry. Something in that sound

halted her.

"It went in there! Poke it, Stan, poke it out here and I'll catch it!"

Jimmy Purvis knelt by a bush growing near the old stable. Stan

Wormiski, his lieutenant and faithful follower, thrust a long branch into a

tangle of weeds, while Rob Lockner stood by. Stan and Jimmy were

excited, but Rob looked a little unhappy.

"Go on, Stan, poke!" Jimmy ordered. "Get it out. I'll grab it!"

Again that thin, unhappy cry. Lorrie found herself running, not away

from the gang this time, but toward them. Just before she reached the

boys, a small black shadow burst from the weeds, dodged past Jimmy, and

sprang at her.

Needle-pointed claws cut through her tights, then grabbed her skirt,

and her windbreaker, as a frenzied kitten swarmed up Lorrie as if she

were a tree. She threw her arm protectingly around it and faced the boys.

"Well, look who's here. Old dummy Canuck. That's a witch cat, Canuck,

give it to me. Give it here, now!" Jimmy came at her, grinning.

"No!" Lorrie swung her book bag as a defensive barrier. Against her

chest, under her other hand, the kitten was a shivering mass of fur, still

crying with tiny shrieks of fear.

"Give it here, Canuck." Jimmy was still grinning, but Lorrie was

frightened. He did not look in the least as if he meant this for fun, not the

kind of fun she recognized.

She turned and ran, away from that look in Jimmy's eyes. She could not

gain the apartment before they caught up with her, of that she was sure.

And if she did, with Aunt Margaret gone, who would take her side?

Maybe—maybe she could get over the fence, hide in the bushes. She

used to climb a lot—in that yard of bonfires and happy times. There was

the front gate, and the fancy curves in it ought to make good holds. Lorrie

threw her book bag up and over, pushed the now feebly struggling kitten

into the front of her wind-breaker, and began to climb with a speed born

of desperation.

Why the boys had not already caught up with her, she did not know.

Maybe Jimmy Purvis would not dare follow her in here. But she wasted no

time in looking around to see. Lorrie topped the gate, swung over and

down, landing in an awkward tumble on the crazy pattern of the brick

walk.

The kitten fought furiously for freedom, leaped to the path, and scuttled

on among the leaves, heading around the house rather than to the front

door. That, to Lorrie, looked as if it were never opened. Afraid that in its

fright it might dash back to the alley again, she scrambled up to follow.

She saw the bright red of Jimmy's windbreaker, the soiled gray of

Stan's. They were coming along the outside of the fence on Ash Street, but

not very fast. Suppose they followed her in here?

Lorrie's retreat was as fast as the kitten's as she followed in its wake. It

was several moments before she realized that, for all the piles of leaves

through which she rustled, this was relatively clear ground. There was a

walk of the crisscross brick going around the side of the house, and it was

bordered by beds where stood stalks crowned by the withered heads of

frost-killed flowers. The heavy growth of bushes and trees was only along

the fence, screening this inner part.

She glanced at the house as she rounded one of its angles. The windows

here were not covered by shutters, but the shades were drawn so she could

not see in.

"Merroww—" That was the kitten. Lorrie hurried on.

Rounding another angle, she came to a place where the bordering

flower beds of the walk widened out into squares. These were bare, as if

whatever had grown there had been carefully harvested. More of the tall

thin windows, but these were neither shuttered nor shaded. She saw the

white of a curtain and an edge of dark red drape at one. If the front of the

house had been closed, it was not so here.

Lorrie stopped running, and walked slowly and almost warily along the

path. Leaves were here, too, blowing and gathering in heaps. In the center

of the cleared beds was an empty pool. Centering that was a crouching

thing, a dragon, Lorrie thought. It held its head high at a rather

uncomfortable angle, with a small black pipe just showing in its wide open

mouth, as if it had once spit water—instead of the fire storybook dragons

blew at their knightly enemies—into the basin at its clawed feet.

"Merrow!" The kitten's voice pulled her on, around another angle. Here

was the door she had seen from the chained gate. On one of the steps

beneath it crouched the kitten, its mouth open to emit another small but

piercing wail.

Lorrie stiffened at a creaking louder than the kitten's cry. She stopped

short, to watch the door. It was opening, and as soon as a big enough

crack showed, the kitten whisked through. But the door continued to open

and Lorrie discovered she could not have run, not even if she had wanted

to, for her feet seemed as firmly fixed as if she had stepped into a roadway

surfaced with sticky tar.

It was dark inside the house. Though on this late fall afternoon lights

had already appeared in the windows elsewhere on the street, none

showed here. But the woman who stood in the doorway was perfectly

visible to Lorrie.

She was small, hardly much taller than Lorrie herself, and her shoulders

were rounded, making her bend forward. Her face had a large, broad nose

and a chin that pushed up and forward in an effort to meet it. Above her

dark brown cheeks and forehead, her black-and-gray hair crisply curled

together, what showed of it, for she wore a cap with a frilled edge that

made a stiff frame all around her head. Her dress was of a deep, dark red,

and the skirt was very long and full under a large white apron that had a

starched ruffle on the lower hem. With her hand on the latch of the door,

the woman stood on the top step looking down at Lorrie. Then she smiled,

and the droop of her nose, the sharp upturn of her chin, were forgotten.

"Hullo, little missy." Her voice was very soft and low. "Now, you, Sabina,

where's you bin, an' what's you bin doin'—gittin' all frazed up this heah

way?"

From beneath the edge of her skirt popped the kitten's black head. Its

round blue eyes surveyed the woman for a long instant and then turned to

stare unblinkingly at Lorrie.

"Some boys," began Lorrie hurriedly, "they—"

The head in the frilled cap was already nodding. "They was up to tricks,

aye, tricks. But you saw Sabina came to no harm, didn't you, little missy?

I'll tell Mis' Charlotta, she'll be mighty pleased. You come in. Have a ginger

cooky?"

Lorrie shook her head. "No, thank you. It's late. Mrs. Lockner—she'll tell

Aunt Margaret I was late getting home. That would worry her."

"Come again then." The capped head bobbed, the smile grew even

wider. "Now, how did you git in, little missy?"

"I climbed the gate, the front one," Lorrie admitted.

"An' did all that to your nice clothes. My, my." A brown finger pointed.

Lorrie looked down at herself. There were streaks of rust on the sleeves

and the front of her wind-breaker, more on her skirt and tights. She tried

to brush off the worst of the stains.

"Come along. Hallie'll let you out, all right an' proper."

Down the steps she came, slowly and stiffly, as Lorrie waited. Then

Lorrie followed that wide skirt as it brushed up leaves around the corners

of the house, back to the front where the iron deer held his head high and

proud. Hallie put her old, wrinkled hands on the gate, touched the top bar,

and gave it a quick jerk. There was a small, protesting squeak and it

moved inward, not all the way, for it stuck on the uneven bricks of the

walk, but enough to let Lorrie through.

"Thank you." The manners that Miss Logan's classes had so carefully

drilled came to Lorrie. She ducked a small curtsy. "Thank you very much."

To her surprise Hallie's hand went to each side of the billowing skirt at

which the wind was tugging, and the old woman made a stately, dipping

acknowledgment that was far more graceful than any such gesture Lorrie

had ever seen.

"You is welcome, little mis', entirely welcome."

Curiosity broke through good manners. "Are you—are you the—?"

Hallie's smile grew wider. "The ol' witch?" Her soft voice made that

name sound worse.

Lorrie blushed. Not that she had ever been one of those who ran past

Octagon House calling that name out, daring someone to go in and bang

on the old witch's front door.

"The—the lady who lives here?" she stammered.

"I live heah, aye. But I'm Hallie, not Mis' Charlotta. Mis' Charlotta, she's

Mis' Ashemeade."

Hallie made it sound, Lorrie thought, as if Miss Ashemeade was as

grand a person as Lady Cartwright, a friend of Grandmother's in England.

And now Hallie's smile was gone and she sounded almost sharp. "Mis'

Ashemeade, she's a great lady—don't you ever forgit that."

"I—I won't. And I'm Lorrie Mallard." Lorrie held out her hand. "Very

pleased to meet you."

Her fingers were enfolded in Hallie's. "An' I to meet you, Lorrie. Come

again."

Lorrie trotted on down Ash Street. At the mouth of the alley she turned

to glance back. But the gate was now firmly closed and Hallie was gone.

What small scrap of house she could still see looked deserted.

It was colder and the wind blew stronger, pulling at her plaid skirt and

cap. And the sky was dark, too, as if a storm were coming. Lorrie broke

into a run, but she kept a sharp lookout. It would be just like Jimmy or

Stan to hide out and pounce at her. She breathed a little easier as she

skirted the parking lot. There were more cars there now, but none of them

close enough to shelter lurking boys.

She clattered up the steps into the lobby of the apartment house. Mr.

Parkinson was there, taking his mail out of the box. Lorrie slowed down

and tried to close the door very quietly. Mr. Parkinson did not like

children and he made that widely and forcibly known. There had been one

afternoon when Kathy Lockner had thrown a ball all the way down the

stairs and Lorrie picked it up, only to be accused of wild behavior, with

threats of taking the matter to Aunt Margaret. She had avoided Mr.

Parkinson carefully ever since.

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摘要：

OCTAGONMAGICAndreNortonFormymother,whosebelovedstoriesofalateVictorianchildhoodmadethoseyearsveryrealforme.AndforViola,Ernestine,andBecky,whomadesuggestions.ElegyforSabinaNow,sweetwitchcatFreefromflesh,MayyouhuntHappilyinthefieldsofHeaven.ComposedbyGraceWarrenforSabina.WITCH'SHOUSECanuckCanuckwalksl...

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