by Andre Norton
Through a mist which had formed to fog her sight for an instant or two, the girl saw another change in his expression. His eyes snapped wide open, blazed that vivid piercing blue. His lips twisted as if he formed words she could not hear.
Gwennan took a quick step to the left. Her hands met his arm again, pushed with some strength. The barrier fell away as if she had delivered a hard blow. Then she was past him, walking swiftly, firm in her pride that she would not run as every instinct in her urged. She even expected any moment to feel his grip fall on her shoulder or arm, holding her to his will.
This confrontation was so far removed from all she had ever known in her life, that, at first, she could hardly accept it had happened. What were his motives—what did he really want of her? It was plain that in some way he desired no close alignment between her and the mistress of Lyle House—yet he appeared to be urging on her some claim of his own.
Gwennan shook her head. There might have been truth in what he had told her. His version made sense when one thought it over. Save that something within her refused to accept a word of it. She could not—did not believe that Lady Lyle had counterfeited illness and left merely to get rid of her—Gwennan Daggert. There would have been no reason for such an elaborate play—there could merely have been no more invitations. Surely the older woman knew that Gwennan was not one to force any acquaintanceship.
At least he had not followed her. Maybe it was all a matter of jealousy—that he wished to come first with his kinswoman. Gwennan could also believe that. Only, if that were the case, why had he made any move towards Gwennan herself—why the invitation so pressed on her to visit Lyle House as his invited guest?
She still kept to the quick pace. However, as she went she found herself unduly aware of the many bushes and hedges which seemed to encroach on the road. Lyle’s tales—supposedly culled from family history—together with what she had learned (and had also heard this afternoon) were not the sort to encourage lingering in the speedily growing dusk.
Now she had passed the Harris house, and was skirting the wide frontage which belonged to the Newtons. Their lights were on already in the front room, she noted gratefully. Then came the end of the line hedge with its autumn-dried branches still shedding leaves on either side. Beyond was her own front walk. The Daggert house was small and clung to the earth. Its clapboard walls were gray. Miss Nessa had decided long ago that white paint was an extravagance, and in her final years had kept it repainted a dull tone.
The heavy banking of boughs around the foundation was as usual, leaves formed wind moved dunes across walk and yard. There was something new about the house tonight—or maybe she was just eyeing it as she seldom did. Her normal habit was to head for the front door as quickly as possible and not to note the outside much. She had never been a gardener and had little interest in the yard as a place of display for flowers and shrubs in season.
Now to Gwennan the house looked as if it were crouching, threatened, in fear. Shaking her head against such a fancy, she marched firmly up the walk to set key in the lock, put her hand out for the switch of the wall light, and found herself inside in the radiance of that for some reason drawing a deep breath.
A deep breath—
Gwennan tensed. Just as that miasma of evil had spread from the thing which had peered in her window—so here again was a scent—though far less strong. And—not one which suggested evil.
Miss Nessa’s one interest outside the shelves of the library had been an intermittent one in herbs, and she had, as long as she had been able to work in the garden, cultivated as many of the culinary or scented ones which would grow in their harsh climate. She had hoarded spices also which had wafted their strong perfumes through the house at times—cloves, cinnamon, allspice. Even the drudgery of canning and pickling had been redeemed in part for Gwennan by those fragrances.
There was a hint of spice in what she detected now. Yet it was not a cooking odor. Nor was it the more delicate scent of potpourri.
She went down the hall slowly, her head up as if she mimicked one of Sam Grimes’ hounds—running to earth a scent hitherto unknown. It grew more and more entrancing. Almost it called —if any odor could be said to appeal to more than one of the human senses.
It did not lead her to the chill front parlor which she seldom entered these days, except dutifully at intervals to dust. She paused by the door to make sure of that. There was the kitchen. She went on into its warm homeliness, again turned on the light and looked about. All was as she had left it in the morning. Faintly scented with the apples in a small table basket—that was all.
What she sought was not here. There remained her bedroom. Gwennan, flinging her outer garments on the kitchen sofa, went sure-footed now in that direction.
The door was shut. Had she not left it open that morning?
Her hand went to the latch which she did not yet raise. Light—faint—but to be seen through the dusk of this part of the hall. It formed a thin line before her feet where the door didn’t quite meet the time-warped boards of the floor. It was too faint really to be from the lamp—still it was there.
Gwennan swallowed. Her mouth was dry, yet the palms of her hands were damp. She must—Her hand tightened with determination on the latch, she jerked open the door with more force than she had planned. Nor did she this time reach for the light switch. There was already a wan radiance, glowing, not steady, but pulsating as if timed to the breathing of some creature.
On the sea chest at the loot of the bed rested a ball of what looked to be yellowish crystal—from the heart of which radiated that glow. The ball rested on a carved base about the size of her hand, centering a tray fashioned like a miniature platter or wide dish. From that dish small tails of blueish smoke curled up—to dissipate quickly in the air. Those provided the scent which was thick in this room.
Gwennan advanced one bemused step at a time. It seemed to her that since she had first sighted it the pulsations of the globe had become faster and stronger. Now she felt again that sharp, outward spinning pain above her eyes, so strongly that she fell to her knees, her hands supporting her head, knowing that something was happening to her as she began to shake with a fear of the unknown and of what lay ahead. This was a beginning, only of that fact was she clearly aware.
A haze began to envelope the globe. Whether it was born of the light, or came as a reaction of her own eyes, she could not have said. Gwennan only realized that she was now captive to something she did not understand, as unable to move as if she had been physically bound.
There were things shifting just under the surface of the globe. Shadows came and went—and with a definite purpose—of that Gwennan was convinced. They became clearer—more distinct. For a flash of moment she was sure she glimpsed that statue from the hall of Lyle House—the woman who was also a tree. Save now it was alive—wind tossed the leaf-strung hair, the branch arms were flung high in exultation, as if the dryad welcomed the coming of a storm.
There passed another who strode with purpose. Gwennan thought she saw armor or a garment which carried a sheen of metal. The tree woman looped down a branch, her leafed fingers ran across the traveler’s head. She laughed as the other jerked away—her lips rounding into a circle—puffing out—sending loose leaves whirling.
Both were gone. Instead Gwennan looked upon a seashore where waves hurled their way landward to spread foam lace upon sand. In those waves hopped and skipped small dark things Gwennan never plainly saw but which she believed were neither fish nor wading birds—but some form of life quite outside her knowledge of what was normal and right.
Always the smoke curled lazily and she felt more and more heavy eyed, almost drowsy—and as if nothing outside the globe had importance.
Once more the scene changed. This time she recognized the mound. There stood the three stones, tall, challenging the sky, suggesting a strength harder than their own rocky surfaces. In a way they represented—
Door—or anchor? Gwennan’s dulled thoughts cau
ght and lost, caught and lost.
Her hands were resting on the edge of the chest, one palm down, on either side of the tray-plate. On the surface of that drifted bits of a blue gravel—or so the smoke-producing substance looked to her—and among them was no hint of coals or flame. The girl breathed slowly, deeply, in rhythm now with the pulsation of the globe. There were no longer any figures moving through that—instead the light appeared to be ebbing, fading, even as the smoke itself thinned and was at last gone.
5
The smoke drifted into nothingness, the light dimmed, vanished from the globe. Gwennan raised her hand—a faint hint of warmth lingered against her fingertips. She picked up the tray on which that strange lamp balanced, holding to it firmly as she got to her feet, turned to carry it into the real world of the kitchen.
When her burden rested on the well scrubbed surface of the large table there it did not vanish—it was real enough. A ball of glass or perhaps crystal, perfectly shaped, polished, but now clear and empty. The girl touched it again warily. It shifted a fraction, then rolled from its base to drop into the tray, crunching on what was left of the blue sand-gravel there. Now was revealed what had been lying beneath it. The pedestal on which it had rested was a dark green glistening stone—carved like the curling upward of breaking sea waves—in the midst of which—
Gwennan stared unbelievingly. She had seen it before—many times—as many as she had seen Lady Lyle. That chain of intricate, intermingled and oddly shaped bits of metal had been silver, overcast with a green which caught and held the eye. The pendant itself was of silver—an orb surrounded with horns, full moon—half moon wedded together.
The side which lay uppermost now was not blank as the other she had always seen before. Peering closely Gwennan detected the disc portion patterned by a circling of symbols as might appear on the face of a watch. Save these, glowing green as they now appeared, were not numerals at all. Small as they were they had been so clearly wrought that they were perfectly visible. These were the signs of the zodiac. Also there existed no hands to mark hour and minutes, but from the mid-point of that disc, shone a bar of light apparently within the surface itself—a triangle which touched, with either end, one of those symbols.
How this treasure had come here—or why—Gwennan could not guess. Only somehow she knew that it was hers, that she was meant to take it, as much as if Lady Lyle had openly put it in her hands at their last meeting.
She was reluctant to touch it. This was like standing before a door—if one opened it, would there ensue a vast change in her life? She was certain of that, as if a promise had so accompanied with this treasure. Was she prepared to open the door—step forward—enter—what?
Gwennan dropped into a chair, leaned her elbows on the table surface and supported her chin in her hands, studying what lay there. She had a choice, a fair and open choice. Yet a part of her knew that though she had not taken any action she had already made the choice. She licked her lips, reached out and picked up the pendant. Its chain swung, curled about her wrist as if it so anchored itself to her of its own volition. Across the dial that bar of light moved also, swinging as might the hands of a watch to point new units of time—so touching with new symbols.
On her palm the metal felt warm, like a living thing. Gwennan knew that she could not have put it from her now even if she wished. Instead she straightened out the chain, found the clasp, so that in a moment the pendant rested on her own breast as Lady Lyle had always worn it, the symboled dial hidden, the blank outer silver surface turned to the world.
The girl sat up straighter, shook her head. This was like waking from a bemusing dream. She was a little puzzled. Save that also there was a growing feeling that this was right, that she had done what was best. Best—for whom? That small doubt she pushed away.
Arising she went about the house, inspecting locks on doors and windows as she had done ever since the night of the storm. She came to the front door last of all, using her torch to inspect the lock outside. No marks, no indication that it had been forced. And the only key was in her possession. Then—how—?
Someone had entered. The weight of the pendant she now wore, the globe which still rested on the table when she returned to the kitchen—those were proof, solid uncomfortable truth. Tor Lyle?
Picking up the ball of crystal she set it back on its wave base. Was this all some elaborate trick of his devising? Yet the pendant was Lady Lyle’s—not Tor’s. And the mistress of Lyle House was gone.
Those dark, silent servants of hers—had one of them the skill to invade Gwennan’s house without leaving a trace, to bring this gift? Was it really a gift? Uneasiness fairly stirred in her—fleeting and swiftly gone.
Gwennan turned to a cupboard, moved canned goods on the wide lowest shelf to leave space there enough to store the tray with its crystal. Pushing back the cans to hide it, she slammed shut the door, stood breathing a little faster. Perhaps if she hid the pendant, too, her hands moved towards that and then fell to her sides. No—this she must keep with her.
If Tor was playing games she must be forewarned. Lady Lyle was the key—Gwennan believed that now if she believed nothing else. Perhaps the incense or smoke had been drugged. Yet she knew that Lady Lyle had prized this pendant. If she herself only knew more! Her head was beginning to ache.
Tor’s approaching her this evening—wanting her to go to Lyle House. Her hands balled into lists, she slammed them down on the table with near bruising force. She was caught now—tightly—in something she could not understand. Her only hope was to keep a sensible rein on her imagination, to live as she always had. She went to pry the notebook out of her coat pocket, refusing to glance at her research from the old documents. No more of this either—no more of anything which had to do with “devils”, standing stones—or the people in Lyle House!
Gwennan was ready to stuff the notebook into the old stove and drop a match on it, but she could not quite bring herself to do that. Instead she jammed it into the drawer of the desk in the corner next to the lumpy sofa. Then she set about preparing supper, determined to keep her mind firmly on the facts and figures of the report which she must put into final shape tonight.
The dark was already thick outside and she could hear the wind rising. Though it was very late in the year for such a storm, she listened to the distant mutter of thunder. Without being conscious of what she did until she moved, Gwennan kept glancing at the windows. All she could see was the glass reflecting the lighted kitchen. For a moment she wished she had curtains which could be twitched across to cover the whole of those openings on the outside world. But the gingham ones hanging there were not meant to meet so. There was NOTHING outside but the night and the wind, raising clouds of leaves. Nothing!
She ate slowly, one forkful after another, but she found the food tasteless, and her mouth seemed so dry she constantly sipped from the mug of chocolate she had prepared. The food lay heavy in her middle, and she was afraid of one of those bouts of stomach disorder of which she had been so much the victim during the last months of nursing Miss Nessa—when she had always been listening for a voice calling from the other room. Now she listened again, actually, with all her body it seemed, to the wind and to what must be distant thunder. So far there had been no flashes of lightning.
Gwennan washed the few dishes. She had never felt so starkly lonely before. Perhaps if she got a kitten—the Newtons’ cat was always producing litters. She had thought vaguely before of asking for one. Miss Nessa had never welcomed pets which, she had stated firmly, were far more trouble than they were worth. But to have something alive beside her in this house now would be comforting.
Comforting? What was the matter with her? She had never needed anyone before. Miss Nessa had been a duty, never a companion. Gwennan had learned long ago to live inside herself, needing, as she had so often thought rather smugly, no outsider to complicate her life, dull as that might appear to others. She had been entirely content.
Resolutely she got out he
r papers, laid them on the table, began with a trace of frown to concentrate. To deal with figures was an occupation never easy for her and she had had to train herself rigidly for such a struggle.
The sums scrawled in uneven pyramids as she added, and then subtracted, checked, and re-checked wearily. They were no longer figures—they were solid blocks—towers—fingers of sky-reaching stone! Gwennan gave a little cry, her pen flicking out from between her fingers to roll across the top sheet.
She was looking at the standing stones, first appearing as only sketchy outlines. Then, as if they grew out of the table, they look on substance so she stared at a three dimensional scene—the standing stones on the mound under a night sky. Clouds hung in that sky, still the stones could be clearly seen, for they glowed, pulsated with life, even as had the globe. Gwennan snatched up the top sheet of paper, crumpled it to throw to the floor. On the next piece lying below the stones were again taking shape—
“No!” The girl pushed back from the table. She would not be subjected to this! She was Gwennan Daggert—in her own home. She was herself—she was!
On her feet now she moved to the sofa. Her hands were not obeying her will. Instead they had caught up her coat, were tugging it around her. There was another force in command.
She reached for her scarf and cap—
“No!” She heard her voice echo through the house, hollowly. There was a note in it which frightened her. Was she drugged still—or two people? One Gwennan imprisoned in her own body by another—?
Stiffly, fighting a hopeless inward battle, she put one foot before the other. Frantic to remain where she was, Gwennan left the kitchen, went down the hall. Her hands—those treacherous hands—were now loosing the bolt on the door.