Lavender-Green Magic (11 page)

Holly shook her head. “I don't think it was like that, not really. He seemed mad at Tamar, too. As if she were stopping him from doing something, as if it weren't really
Tamar
he came to see.”

“But she was the only one there,” Crock pointed out. “And she didn't talk about anyone else living with her.”

“Yes. Only—only it didn't seem as if he liked Tamar very well. Oh, I'm all mixed up! Crock, do you suppose we'll ever know what happened? I don't want anything bad to happen to Tamar—”

“If it did really happen,” Crock said, “and it was in olden days, then maybe it ought to be in a book or something. Your class goes to the library Monday, don't they? Why don't you try to find out there? 'Member what Grandma said about Miss Noyes always being after old books?”

Crock made good sense, though sometimes Holly hated to admit it. Now she demanded to know if he had any ideas about how they were going to keep Judy quiet.

“Don't you try to tell her,” he returned. “When you tell people what to do, Holly, you only make them
not
want to do it the harder. Let me see—”

He spurted ahead to catch up with Judy. Holly turned for a last look back at the tangled wilderness where the maze had been. The place bore no likeness now to the green gate, with its cat guardians of the pleasant ways beyond which led to Tamar's place. Was it always summer there? Holly wondered. Could a person be caught in one time and held as if she were shut into a room and the key turned in the lock? And, if that were true, why could Tamar not have gotten out as they got in? What had the pillow to do with it all?

The loud clang of a bell startled her so much she gave a little jump. Grandma's house bell! Which meant it was dinner time! She had warned them about that the first day they had come. Holly, her back to the mysterious mass of entwined bushes, trotted toward the barn-house.

She caught up with Crock just inside the door as he had shucked his windbreaker, heading for the wash basins. Judy was not in sight and Grandma was busy at the stove, her back conveniently turned in their direction.

“Judy?” Holly shaped the name rather than said it.

Crock nodded vigorously which Holly could only accept to mean that he had persuaded his twin not to talk about their morning's activities, at least not yet. But he could not stop her sudden question at the table.

“Grandma, when it's winter—how do you keep your herb plants alive?”

Holly wished she were close enough to deliver a warning
kick, but Crock was between them. She glowered at her sister. Judy either could or would not see her.

“Well now—most o' 'em, they jus' take care o' themselves in th' patch. Some—they's more delicate an' they can't take frost. Them I brings into th' big shed where Luther does his workin' with wood. There's a fire there t'other end an' that keeps th' freeze out. Set me up a little garden there, I have. You take a look-see when you is done eatin'.”

Judy, spooning up one of Grandma's stews, thanked her through an overfull mouth. Holly sighed with relief: Crock had made his warning, sure enough. Judy could put her bag back in there somewhere, and perhaps Grandma would not notice it at all. Then, in the spring, they could plant what Tamar had given them. Holly relaxed, and for the first time really enjoyed her food.

“Grandpa”—before Holly was aware of the danger Crock spoke now—“those Dimsdales, the ones who owned this place once, they were here an awfully long time, weren't they?”

“Before they even took to lay out Sussex town, far's I heard it.” Grandpa was transferring a generous spoonful of jam onto a round of bread. “You better ask your Grandma. She used t' listen to all old Miss Elvery's tales. Lived in th' past, old Miss Elvery did, more'n in th' rightful times. I 'member how once she came down to this here barn all dressed up an' wanted as how I should take out th' carriage an' drive her into some party or other in town. Lawsy, that there carriage had been broken up for years, an' the two
horses—they was dead an' gone. People she talked about—they was a-lyin' out in the churchyard, too. But she was certain sure they was just a-waitin' for her to come to see 'em. Took your grandma th' better part of an hour to talk her back to th' house. But you couldn't ever talk her back into th' right time. She wouldn't have a clock runnin' in her whole house. Said as how those there made the time pass, an' if one didn't be lookin' at 'em all day long one could just get on top of time, not be burdened down with it.”

He bit off a generous amount of the thickly spread bread and then nodded. “Don't know but what she had a point right there. Time is queer-like. When you do somethin' as you want, it speeds along jus' like one of them big 'planes which can go 'round th' world in a day or so. But if you have to put up with some measlin' little job as makes you want to throw somethin' right across th' room, then that just lasts forever.”

Holly had stopped eating and was listening closely. She had never really thought about time before. Oh, she had heard a lot about it—such as “too late to do this,” “we'll be early,” “hurry now, there's not much time.” Over and over again people said things just like that. But what Grandpa said was true. If you liked doing something, then time went so fast you were provoked; and if you were unhappy or bored, time dragged and dragged.

“But you asked did the Dimsdales be here long—yes, they were. Mercy, didn't Grandma tell you a whole book-like of stories 'bout them an' all their hard luck an' all?”

“Why were they so unlucky?” Holly asked then.

“Now that be a question.” Grandma pushed back in her
chair as if she were going to make another flying trip to the stove for second helpings all around, but she did not get up. “Miss Elvery—a kinder lady never set foot on this earth! She would do her best for any poor soul as was in need. But it seems like every time she tried to help herself—well, it turned out th' worse for her. Th' last time, when that slick crook got her railroad shares offen her, she was really broke down. Said as how it was th' witch's curse, an' noways could it go from Dimsdale or them what had Dimsdale blood in 'em. But she was beginnin' to fail then, poor old lady—an' she thought too much 'bout all the misfortunes as she had had to face.”

“What was the curse?” Holly thought that Grandma was not going to answer, that she was even displeased by this bald question.

“That's foolish talk, child. People in town, when they don't know it all, they make up stuff to say. An' Miss Elvery, she was so borne down by all her troubles, she was like to believe that th' Good Lord had truly turned His face from her. But it was foolishment for sure. Best you hear it right—'cause if they still talk about it in town you may hear it like it never was.

“Miss Elvery showed me once a old book, she could hardly read in it. All hand-wrote it was, with queer old writing—faded so you had to take one o' them magnifyin' glasses to see it at all. It was a kind of journal as was kept by a man who lived here. He put down all kinds of things—like what he paid for stuff he bought, how he sowed his fields, th' harvests he had. An' in between, other bits, 'bout his family and himself. Who was born an' who died an' the like.

“He was a kinda hard old man—his name was Sexton Dimsdale—mighty hard on them as lived under him. In those days the master of the house, well—he could just about do as he pleased an' nobody dared cross him, 'specially no woman. 'Cause in those days, women, they weren't o' much account, 'cept to keep house an' feed an' clothe an' do 'bout all the work as kept that house running. Men like this Sexton Dimsdale, he never took 'count of how comfortable his womenfolk did make him.

“This Sexton, he had a cravin' for land, more'n more of it. He built a bigger house—this here barn, to this side with the fireplace an' all, was his first house. But that was far too small to suit him. No sirree, he wanted a big house so everybody in Sussex would be 'mazed to see. He brought a man clean over from England to plan his big house, an' lay out his garden. Not that he had a likin' for growin' things—but because he wanted it all for show.

“An' this man, he had women kin he brought along. He had a 'greement with Mr. Dimsdale that he was to have land for hisself in part payment for what he did. It was all clear in writin' an' legal. But he died 'afore he quite finished th' garden part. Then Mr. Dimsdale, he tried by law to get back the part he had given this man. But the Judge, he stood up to Mr. Dimsdale. He was a Pigot, an' they never took to be good friends. So then Mr. Dimsdale had to leave that part of th' land as it was—with the little house th' plannin' man built on it and his family a-still living there. He had one daughter as was a great gardener—she was one with th' healin' gift, too, knew all about herbs an' such.

“There weren't many doctors then, an' those who were, didn't know too much. People in Sussex, they would go to this healin' woman for help 'fore they called in th' doctor. She didn't push herself in much but lived quiet, an' people liked her.

“But every time Mr. Dimsdale thought about her livin' on what he believed was rightfully his land, he'd get madder. He had a daughter as wasn't much to look at. But his sons, they died of a fever, so she was all he had left. So he looked around to get her a husband as would be a credit to the Dimsdales. 'Cause he was so puffed up about his family now he acted like they were lords, like in th' old country.

“Th' Elkins—they was th' other comin' family in Sussex. Near as land-rich and merchants besides, trading with th' Indians and doin' very well with it. There was an Elkins son—an' him old Sexton picked upon for his daughter. Things was run a lot different in them old days. Even if a son or daughter was all grown up, maybe even had themselves families o' their own, leastwise were old enough to have 'em, still they had to do as their father told 'em. Miss Noyes, she showed me a queer old book o' laws once, an' it said right there, for a judge to see, that did a boy be disobedient to what his folks wanted—he could be hung! Think o' that now!

“Well, th' Elkins son, he didn't take kindly to th' idea o' weddin' old Sexton's daughter, but he didn't have much say in it, 'cause his father promised for him. But he took to visitin' the healin' woman on th' sly, an' Dimsdale found out.

“In those days it was easy to call witch 'gainst a woman
who knew herbs an' such an' who kept to herself a lot. An' the healin' woman, she didn't have no one to speak up for her.”

Grandma paused. Holly leaned forward.

“What happened, Grandma?”

“Now that is where the part of the book Miss Elvery had gets confusin'. Halloween—that was a witches' night an' people feared them th' worst at that time. So Dimsdale, he got together his men an' they made a plan to grab th' witch (as he called her) on Halloween, just when she was busy at her witching—an' maybe burn her an' her house all up together.”

“No!” Judy's voice was a loud cry, startling them all.

Grandma looked distressed. “There—I did get carried 'way tellin' all that, an' I should've forgot it long ago. Taint a good story for tellin' at any time.”

“Grandma, they didn't burn the witch—they didn't!” Judy protested.

“Well, no, they didn't. It's a very queer story all around. They went to do it, yes. Then somethin' strange happened. Some real live devilish things came out of nowhere—an' all the men ran. When they got up courage enough to go back the next day—well, they just couldn't find anything at all; house an' witch were gone. Only th' witch, she had put a curse on old Sexton Dimsdale 'fore the devils saved her. An' she set it to eat at him an' his family as long as they lived. Little by little, she told 'em, it was goin' to eat up all he treasured most until all his fields would be waste an' no one would take comfort from them.”

“And it happened that way?” Crock wanted to know.

“Yes, it seems like it did. The Dimsdales didn't have their
bad luck all at once, it came little by little, but it did come. Only that's all jus' an old story. Miss Elvery, she was minded to give the book what it was wrote down in to Reverend Burns. She said it was a workin' out o' God's will as could be plainly seen, that the hatred old Sexton sowed, an' all his greediness, had ripened over the years an' had come to full harvest. But she never did. An' the book was burned up in the fire. Miss Elvery, she tried to repay a lot with her kindness to others.

“When she was dyin' she told me somethin' as I'll never forget—that as how when somethin' is destroyed, it can be rebuilt. But that takes a long time. An' that if Dimsdale—the Dimsdale place, that is—could have in return what had gone from it, all would be well. Poor lady, she tried to do some of that her ownself.”

“But they did not get the witch?” Judy persisted.

“Not if that old book has it set down right. Only where could a house an' a woman jus' vanish to? That's the least likely part of the whole story. Seems like old Sexton, he might have had somethin' to hide—I don't know. Speakin' of time, look yonder! This is no day to be dawdling! Your mom will be in on the two o'clock bus, an' Luther, you'd best take off right now to pick her up.”

“I got all them things for Mr. Correy,” Grandpa said, and he looked a little unhappy. “Won't be much room in the truck—”

Holly knew what he meant: no room for them. For a moment she was going to protest, to demand that there be room. Then she saw Grandma glance in her direction, and she knew that she could not be so babyish.

“Judy can squeeze in maybe,” she suggested, though she hated to say it. “And Crock can ride in the back—”