Lavender-Green Magic (9 page)

“Now”—the woman moved quickly, reached out a pair of tongs to take the pot handle in a firm hold and swing the pot itself off the chain hook and onto the flat rock of the hearthstone.

“Done well, no ill”—she looked down into the depths of the still-bubbling liquid within it. “It shall cool, then thee shall see—but I must make amends for such a sorry greeting. Blessed be!”

She raised her hand to make a little gesture toward them. She might have been counting them, one, two, three. A strange look at each, Holly thought; it was not as if she looked
at
them, but
into
them. For Judy and Crock she had a
smile, but when she came to Holly, that smile faded a little and Holly drew back a step. She felt as if she had done something wrong. However, her uneasiness lasted for only a second. Once more the woman was smiling—or rather, the girl was—

The odd dress and that cap over her pulled-tight hair made her look older than she was, Holly thought. Her skin was tanned as if she were out in the sun a lot, and she was not pretty. Her chin came to a too-sharp point, and her nose was somehow too long. However, when she smiled at you, you forgot all that.

“You are Miss Tamar,” Judy spoke.

“I be Tamar,” the girl nodded. “Though there be others hereabouts as have other names for me. Thou art?”

“I'm Judy Wade,” Judy replied promptly. “This is my brother Crock—Crockett. We're really twins, but nobody ever knows till we tell them. And that's my sister, Holly. We've just come to live at Dimsdale.”

“Dimsdale,” repeated Tamar. Now her smile was gone. “Aye, I be forgetting once again. That be not the Dimsdale that was, but the Dimsdale which
is
which thee knows. Still lies the shadow.” She shook her head regretfully. “Still lies the cruel shadow—”

At last Holly found courage to speak up. “Where is this—this house? Grandma and Grandpa, they never told us about it, or you!” She wondered if she had spoken rudely, because Crock was glaring at her.

“This house be where it has always been,” Tamar answered,
but not with the facts that Holly felt she desperately needed to know. “It was, is, and will be—for it be of the earth and gifts of the earth.”

Now she was smiling once again. “Ah, 'tis good to have young faces here and guests beneath this roof yet once again. Aye, be that not, Tomkit?” She spoke to the cat as if she expected him to answer. But he only opened his eyes and looked at her sleepily.

“Is Tomkit yours?” Judy wanted to know. “Grandpa found him on the dump, he thought somebody had thrown him there.”

“Tomkit be his own puss, he goes where he lists, does what needs to be done,” Tamar replied. “Aye, child, no one may own a puss. It be his choice to live under thy roof, or another's. Tomkit I know, and he knows me. But never do I say Tomkit be mine to use as I will, for he hath a life of his own, and no man, or woman, or child, may own any life but his own. That be the Law.

“Does not that Law say plainly: ‘That thou lovest all things in nature. That thou shalt suffer no person to be harmed by thy hands or in thy mind. That thou walkest humbly in the ways of men and the ways of the gods. Contentment thou shalt at last learn through suffering, and from long patient years, and from nobility of mind and service. For the wise never grow old.'” She said those words solemnly, like the grace Grandpa said at meals.

After a moment she ended: “So mote it be.”

Those last four words echoed queerly through the room,
almost as if they had been repeated very softly by other people. Yet none of the Wades had done so, and certainly Tomkit could not.

“There must lie truth within the heart,” Tamar said, as she reached again for the cooling pot and lifted it to stand on its three stumpy legs on the table, “lest thy every effort be doomed to failure. And there be truth in this syrup—that will I take book-oath upon.”

She worked swiftly, lining up a half-dozen small, dull clay jars, and into each she measured by ladlesful the contents of the pot. It was from the thickened syrup that the perfume-sweet smell came.

“What is it?” Judy wanted to know. “That smells like perfume and like something good to eat both together.”

Tamar did not answer at once; it seemed she was deeply intent on the exact measurement of each of those ladlesful that went into the jars. Then she dropped the ladle with a clang into the now-empty pot and gave a sigh of relief.

“ 'Tis done, and well done! What be it, thou asketh, child? It be a syrup of roses, which in turn may be used in many different ways: in sweetmeats for the eating, in cookery, in the making of that to sooth ills away. It hath angelica in it also, and that be sovereign against the ills of the spirit. For sometimes it be true that the ills of the spirit lie harsher on mankind than do the ills of that flesh which he weareth for so short a span of years.”

Holly listened carefully, but she was not quite sure she understood. Tamar spoke her words oddly, accenting some of
them as if they were not the language Holly knew but that of another country.

“Those are all herbs”—Judy swept her hand up to gesture to the bunches hanging from the ceiling. “Grandma has some hanging up that way in the shed, but she hasn't nearly as many of them.”

“Thy granny hath the lore?” Tamar said. “She be a wise woman then, and that be why thou hast had the way opened to thee. Aye, those be all which the good earth gives to us for heal-craft and the comfort of our kind.” Her voice then fell into a sing-song, though she did not make it rhyme: “Mints, and bee balm, costmary, lavender, marigolds for sprains and wounds and their knitting; pennyroyal that will make stagnant waters fresher, and which sailors do cherish for that reason; cowslips for wine to warm the stomach; basil, thyme, and rosemary, rue, meadowsweet, the red yarrow and the white, sage, purslane, pimpernel—aye, all those and full half a hundred more, past my naming lest I were to sit half the day a-doing it.

“Ground they may be, or boiled, set in dishes to give food a toothsome flavor, made into sweetmeats, and wines . . . Ah”—she threw out her hands as if to gather all about her into her grasp, her face alight and eager as Grandma's had been when she spoke of the mending of her china bits—“there be so much in this wide world that one can never come to the end of learning. And the goodness of the earth giveth all such richness beyond the thinking of men, who take ever and say not thanks. For they will not believe in the
truth—that man must be one with that which grows, and that which runs, even the four-footed, and that which spread its wings and makes a home place of the sky. Men slay without thought, dig and tear without feeling, cherish not the great, good gifts. Beware should they be, lest all this be at last reft from them.

“However, these be solemn thoughts and not for guesting. Guesting be a time for feasting and making merry. Come, sit thee down and let us share together bread and wine, after the manner of good friends and folk-kin.”

As she spoke, Tamar gathered up many of the things which were crowded on the long table, setting them elsewhere to clear a space. Judy moved to help her and picked up a box to set it away. But, before she put it down at the other end of the table, she bent her head to take a deep sniff.

“Please—what are these beads? They smell so good. Look, Holly—”

She turned the box so Holly could see that it was indeed half full of red-brown beads. Some had been strung on thread and others rolled about loose. The scent of roses clung to the box.

“Ah, those,” said Tamar. “They be a pleasant fairing—something for maids to have for the wearing. Though there be those who turn their faces upon any matter of such, and say that to use them so be a sinful flaunting. Those be rose beads. Thee must gather the flowers when they be fullest, and take the petals to put together in a mortar and grind well, into a paste. This thou rollest into a bead and leave it to dry. It be one, then, such as this, which be also fashioned to lay
amongst one's linens, giving them a pleasant smell.” She plucked out of a cupboard behind her a round brown ball which smelled of spice, a far more penetrating odor than the delicate one of the rose beads.

“For this thee takes a firm apple or, if there be such to hand, an orange out of Spain. In it thee sets stick cloves so tightly together that no bit of skin may afterward be seen. The fruit dies not, but gives rather this good smell for a long time thereafter.”

Holly was entranced. She cuddled the knobby ball in her hands, smelling at it. Just as Judy continued to sniff at the box of rose beads. But Crock was edging slowly along the table, looking very curiously at all the jars, boxes, small scales, pans, and such, laid out to crowd now even more one end as Tamar cleared the other.

“You make these to sell?” he asked.

“Some. Some for my pleasure.” She was setting out three plates of metal, a dull-looking metal as if it were silver which had not been properly burnished. “There is more healing in what grows out there in my garden than in any doctor's case.”

“Grandma makes herb candles,” he volunteered. “She sells them down at the antique shop. I bet Grandpa would like to see these.” Crock was regarding a series of small boxes, each carved from wood. They were all lidded, but the knobby handle on each lid had been made in the likeness of either a leaf or a flower. “These are sure great; Grandpa carves too.”

Tamar had gone to the farther end of the room and was returning
with a big brown pot. She glanced at the boxes and then away—almost, Holly thought, as if something about them did not please her. Or maybe Crock was being too pushy—

“Aye, lad, there be many a man able with his knife and a bit of wood. 'Tis a goodly thing to make something of use, goodlier when one makes it also as a thing which be a pleasure to the eye. But that last be not the belief that many hereabouts hold in favor.”

“I liked that—” Crock continued, far more talkative than he was at home. “What you said about loving things in nature, not harming with hands or what's in your mind. Grandpa, he thinks that way, too. He tries to make them cover up the worst of the dump, truly he does. And back a'ways he's planting trees—”

“Trees!” Tamar was watching the boy intently. “What manner of trees?”

“Well, little pines and a willow, things he can transplant from where they're bulldozing for the big highway on the other side of town. He showed me some. And he plants acorns.” Crock grinned. “ 'Course he said those would take a long time starting—”

“Oak, aye.” Tamar nodded. “Oak be of the old ones, very strong in power. But ash he should have also, and elder. Elder be the mightiest shield against the dark.... And your granny?” She looked now to Judy, speaking with a hint of sharpness in her voice. “Does she also plant?”

“I—I guess so. She's got all these herbs she uses, she must get them from a garden somewhere.”

“Aye, she plants. Then thee must also. For the good, be it strong enough, will drive out the ill. I shall give thee that which will be sovereign remedy: basil, mallow, hawthorne, hellesbore—”

“But,” Holly spoke up, “we can't plant now—back there—” She was no longer sure just where the barn-house was. “It's cold—fall. They wouldn't grow now.”

Tamar's eyes caught hers and held so for a long moment. Holly wanted to look down, away, but found she could not. Again there was that strange expression on Tamar's face as if she were not seeing Holly at all, the girl thought, but
through
her. That was such a queer idea that it made Holly so uneasy again she wanted to run away from the old house, back through the maze to safety.

Once more Tamar nodded, slowly. “So that be the way of it—” But she was speaking more to herself, Holly was sure, than to them. “Time doth twist and turn, coil upon coil, as lies the serpent in its lair.” She might have been quoting some odd, ancient saying. Then that strange, through-Holly look vanished. “Welladay, seeds thou shalt have, and the roots—There are ways—ask thy good granny. A wise woman knows. Now sit thee down and break thy fast. ‘Tis but little, hoe cake and bees' harvest, with cider.”

They slipped onto the long bench on one side of the table and tasted the crumbling rounds Tamar set out on their plates, she having spooned a generous gob of strained honey onto each. Into small tankards she poured from a tall jug, then stood watching them and smiling.

“What do you make besides rose beads?” Judy asked.

“What do I make? Ah, a half day's telling would not be the end of it!” Tamar laughed. “There be the healing powders and ointments, and those small things to bring taste to a dish. There be tussy-mussy for a lad to give to his lass—”

“Tussy-mussy?” Judy interrupted. “That sounds funny.”

“It be a fairing, see? Each flower and leaf, they hath meaning for the knowing, also a scent which is mainly flavorsome. If such be fashioned of herbs, one takes nine kinds—a sprig, or a leaf—and binds it fast. If it be of flowers, now, then one bethinks the message for it to carry. The lad, he leaves it on the doorstep of a morning, and if the lass would favor him, she will wear it in her kerchief. Though there be those who frown upon such fancies, calling them idle and only for the light-minded.”

Tamar sighed suddenly. “Aye, to those who seek for dark thoughts and hard ways, such be easy to find. They would even cloud the sun, lest it shine too brightly. They will not believe that there be good also in light and laughter. And—”

“Lavender's blue, dilly dilly!
Lavender's green—”

The same song Tamar had sung, but this was a man's voice and from outside the house. Tamar stood very still for an instant. It seemed to Holly that she looked frightened, or else very troubled, during that same instant. Then it was as if she braced herself to face something difficult to do. Holly had seen Mom look like that; she had on that day she had shown their house to the people who were going to rent it.