by Andre Norton
Damaris stopped almost in midword, her face suddenly blank.
Saranna was greatly tempted to ask, "Until what?" but at that moment, intuition strongly advised her to let it go. Damaris might reveal more of this extraordinary household if she were not questioned.
"But Old Poker said you were going to come to keep me in order—"
The inflection of that was not that of a statement, but a question.
"And who is Old Poker?" Saranna asked then, thinking that this much might not be resented.
Damaris laughed, "Mrs. Parton—don't you see? Grandfather always said she walked as if she had an iron poker for a backbone." Her face clouded a little. "She never talked too much when he was here. Grandfather gave the orders at Tiensin! Her husband—he's the overseer—Collis Parton. He can give orders out in the fields. But here, inside, Old Poker, she tells him what to do. Then there's Rufe—"
For a moment all Damaris' assurance was quenched. "Rufe, he's Old Poker's son. He's been away—to school. Old Poker thinks he's God on earth—"
"What!" Saranna was startled out of her well-maintained calm by that expression.
Damaris nodded. "That's what Grandfather said when Rufe was just little. Now he's grown up, she'll probably be worse. And he's coming back here. I don't want him—he's a wu lail She likes him 'cause he pretends to want to do just what she wants. So I hate him!"
"Miss Damaris!" There was a rap on the door startling Saranna. But Damaris' eyes only narrowed, her jaw set stubbornly as she looked over the older girl's shoulder at the shut panel.
"Miss Damaris, I know you are there. It is long past your bedtime—"
Saranna turned and grasped the knob, opened the door to find Mrs. Parton standing there. In spite of the odd plumpness of the housekeeper's face, her very stiff carriage did suggest the thin, unbending rod of a poker.
"Miss Stowell, this hour is long past Miss Damaris' bedtime." The small mouth opened and shut on the words. But the housekeeper's eyes roved beyond Saranna's shoulder, manifestly seeking Damaris.
"Of course, Mrs. Parton. We will come—“ At that moment, Saranna had no intention of turning Damaris over to this woman. The outpourings of the child might have been highly colored by her suggested nervous temperament. On the other hand, Saranna believed that Damaris had now at least half-accepted her, and she had no intention of allowing the fragile bridge of implied understanding between them to be broken.
"You will let me come with you, Damaris?" she asked.
For a moment, it looked as if the child were going to object, then she caught at Saranna's hand, her grip hard and tight as if she wanted to be sure Saranna kept her word. If Mrs. Parton had thought to object, perhaps their united front kept her silent.
Instead, she turned back along the hallway, a small lamp in her hand, leading the way to a door which was nearer to those back stairs up which Saranna had come earlier. There she stood like a sentry on duty, pushing open the door to let Damaris, tugging a little at Saranna's hand, past her.
"You must go to bed, Miss Damaris," she stated in her monotonous voice, "at once."
"I will see to it, Mrs. Parton," Saranna returned. It was better, she believed, that she establish as soon as possible that Damaris was supposed to be her charge. What influence that fact might have on this woman, on the rest of the household, she did not know. But it might be better for Damaris herself.
She closed the door on the housekeeper. There was a single candle glimmering in a holder on the washstand. And, though she peered through the shadows of the room, Saranna could see no other light, no lamp.
"Why did you come?" Damaris was unbuttoning her dress, but her attention was more for Saranna than her task.
"Because I was asked to watch over you—"
"By her! And you promised to spy—to—" Again indignation flared.
"Not at all!" Saranna raised her voice and put into her words all the firmness she could summon. "I was not asked to come. I was told. Do you understand?"
Damaris considered that. "You aren't going to tell her all about me—"
"Why should I?" asked Saranna.
Damaris again studied her closely. "I don't know, but I'll wait and see. At least you don't look like Prune Face—"
Saranna supposed she ought to suggest that using of such names was not proper for a young lady. But she had no desire to take on the role of a governess, not in that direction. Damaris, she now believed, could be more reasoned with than bluntly ordered about. And she was still close enough to the child's age to remember how it had seemed with her when she was bemg molded to the pattern of young ladyhood. Though luckily, it had beend Keturah Stowell, with her wise and tolerant knowledge, who had done that molding.
"I am glad that I am Kuei-Fu-Lu-Li," she tried hard to remember the phrase Damaris had used, "and neither a Poker nor a Prune Face—"
Damaris laughed. "You don't say that right, you know. But—I can teach you if you like."
Saranna echoed her laughter. "Good enough. You teach me Chinese and I'll teach you whatever I can. Is it a bargain, Damaris?"
But the other was still wary. "Maybe."
Having seen Damaris into bed, Saranna groped her way back to her own room through the thick dark of the hall. She wished she had brought a candle with her. There was something about this darkness—twice she paused to listen. Was it only her skirts brushing against the wall as she felt her way along which had evoked that faint whispering? She had to believe that. But she found her heart beating faster and she whisked around her own door and into her room as if some presence she did not care to meet had been following her along.
Millie was there with a fresh copper jug of hot water. She had pulled the trundle bed from its place beneath the four-poster and spread it up, while Saranna's gown and nightcap were laid out ready and waiting. Seeing those, the whole fatigue of the day settled upon the girl and she willingly made ready and crawled into the bed, seeing Millie light a small shielded night candle as if this need for some assurance against the full power of the dark was accepted as a matter of course in Tiensin.
For the second time, Saranna had the dream about the wall which was a living hedge. But this time, she thought she recognized it for the one she had seen from her window, that which closed off the hidden section of the Tiensin garden. Now, along the foot of those somber-leaved bushes were pairs of eyes. Not as small as those which had caught the lantern light on her entrance to Tiensin, but large, glowing, trying to fasten and hold her own gaze. That she feared above all, that she would become prisoner to the eyes.
She tried to run, yet her feet would not obey her, rather they moved of themselves, carrying her nearer to the hedge and the waiting eyes. Somewhere a voice imperiously uttered a command she could not resist—called the strangely accented words Damaris had spoken:
“Kuei-Fu-Lu-Li —" And then added another. "Mei— Mei—Mei—''
Saranna awoke. The dark was broken by shafts of gray light from the two windows. The night candle had burned out. She could hear the heavy breathing of Millie from the trundle bed. But somehow she could also still hear that echoing "Mei— Mei — Mei —"
Slowly she repeated the strange word to herself, trying to fix the alien accent. This was only a dream, of course, yet she had a longing to know if she had carried out of it a strange word which did have a meaning.
Saranna sat up in bed. Furniture looked out of the shadows, the bulk of the pieces taking on an alien appearance in the early hour. Not threatening—just strange. As if in the night hours, bed, dressing table, wardrobe, all the rest, had played other roles.
She shook her head. Imagination—fancies—very wild fancies— Perhaps this was the type of fancy which Damaris voiced, which made Honora speak of her as being too nervously excitable.
Excited the child had certainly been last night. But there had been nothing really hysterical nor fantastic in any of her talk. That she hated Honora was plain. And also that she had had a strong tie with her grandfather. Perhaps Captai
n Whaley had had little liking for his son's wife and had communicated that too frankly to an impressionable child. Though Saranna tried to be neutral and just, she had to admit that her sympathies lay, in any such dispute, with those opposed to Honora. Her own dealings with Jethro's daughter had not been such as to foster any close ties between them.
Then the light touched the small table beside the lamp, and there Saranna saw again the Mountains of Peaceful Contemplation. She slipped off the wide expanse of the bed, tiptoed past Millie and stood, shivering a little in only her nightgown, fingering the piece.
Brown jade—a brush rest. She had always thought jade was green. And writing with brushes instead of a pen—yes, others had spoken of that. How odd it would seem. But this— this was truly a treasure. She must ask Damaris—
Not wanting to light the lamp, Saranna carried the piece to the window to study it more closely, but when she got there, she stood instead looking down at the hedge. It was the one in her dream! She almost found herself hunting the eyes which had shone so brightly along the roots of those bushes. Though those were not there.
But there was a flicker of movement. Saranna leaned so close to the pane that her forehead touched the chill of the glass, striving to see better. Movement indeed. A small cloaked figure edging along the thick brush. Some servant's child—but why so early? And Millie had said that they all feared a "haunt" having connection with the closed-off space of the garden. Surely no black child would dare to go so close.
Then—Damaris! But why— And—
Saranna blinked.
The figure was gone! But—surely she had seen it! She was no longer dreaming. Damaris—if it were Damaris— where had she gone? For the girl had vanished as quickly as if she had been snuffed out like a candle flame.
Saranna turned back into the room and looked about her for clothing. In her haste, buttons refused to slide easily into their proper holes, tapes became exasperatingly tangled. But at length, she was properly covered, though she did not stop to do more than bundle her hair loosely into a net.
Snatching up her shawl, she ran out of the room. The hall was dark, but up the stairwell came not only light but faint sounds as if, early as it was, some members of the household were already awake and about their duties. Saranna had no desire to be seen or questioned. Until she knew more about Damans' activities she had no idea of destroying any possible friendly relationship by such betrayal of the child's actions. Somehow, without realizing it, she had crossed a line of neutrality in spite of her wishes and found herself allied with Damans. At least until she learned that the little girl might have been drawn into some folly.
The sounds came from what Saranna decided must be the kitchen, but that she avoided, reaching the door through which she had been ushered the night before. The latch gave easily, and then she was out in the open, though away from the hedge.
She must round the comer of the house to see that. Dew soaked the hem of her skirt, wet the stockings above her low-heeled slippers. Saranna gathered up her skirt and ran, seeking the place where she had seen Damans disappear.
Only when she reached the hedge, she discovered it was another matter to locate the exact spot. Seen from ground level the growth had a different appearance than it did from the second story window. She could not even be quite sure at this moment, looking back at the house itself, just which window was hers.
Thus she had to go slowly, studying the hedge and the ground. There was light enough now to show some tracks— small smudges in the dew-dampened soil and grass. Heartened by that sight, she trailed along, watching as carefully as might a woods hunter.
The tracks ended abruptly, and Saranna could discover no other indication that the one she tracked had gone beyond this spot. But neither, she was almost certain, had the child returned to the house. Then—where had Damaris gone?
There was only left the hedge wall itself!
With that answer, Saranna began to study the growth with care. She allowed her shawl to flap free, using her hands as well as her eyes to explore. A portion of bough gave. Now Saranna faced a break in what had earlier appeared an impenetrable wall. Low and narrow—meant much more for the passage of a child. Could she, in her full skirt and petticoats, her bigger body, squeeze. through? Saranna was determined to try.
Branches raked at her, her hair net caught, and, when she tugged to free herself, it was scraped off so that long strands fell free across her shoulders. But, somehow, she wriggled and pushed until she did reach the clear space beyond.
Straightening once more to her full height, Saranna swept her hair from her eyes to look around. At first glance, it would seem that she had entered a tangled wilderness which bore no relation at all to the well-tended, mown, and pruned section about the Manor House. Then she saw that she stood, not on a gravel path such as she might have expected to find, but a curving walk made up of small pieces of stone set in no pattern but roughly together. This wound and turned so that, within only a few feet, it rounded a stand of trees and disappeared.
Saranna was tempted to call Damaris, yet there was such a quiet in this place that she shrank from breaking it. The longer she gazed at what lay about her, the more strange this world beyond the hedge seemed. As if she had passed through a door into a country unlike that she had always known.
Hesitatingly, the girl moved along the path, rounding the growth of small willows which veiled the further section from the hedge. Again she paused with a deep drawn breath. Before her now was a perfect round gate buttressed on either side by rough rocks and beyond that was—
Saranna might have been looking once more at the Mountains of Peaceful Contemplation. For here, on a much larger scale, but still in miniature, more rocks had been set up in such an uneven design as the artist had carved in the jade. The water of a pool reflected them in part, and the pool, in turn, fed a stream over which was a narrow, humpbacked bridge. This gave on a small terrace of dull red stone on which stood a very small building. In the wall of that, facing her, was a window fashioned in the form of a four-petaled flower which was filled with a lattice tracery of oddly angled branches and a bird all of stone, yet as delicately worked as might be a piece of fine embroidery.
The roof of the building had sharply slanted sides falling from a center ridge quite highly raised. And the eaves up-curved at the four comers. As a breeze stirred the early morning air, Saranna heard a faint chime of bells, as if they had been set a-ringing by the wind itself.
Just as she was about to move forward to the bridge, drawn by a need to see more of this fantastic place, Damaris appeared around the side of the flower-windowed building. Catching sight of Saranna, she stopped, and there was no mistaking an utter dismay, which speedily became fear, on her face.
"No!" Again she flung up her hand in much the same gesture she had used the night before when she believed that Saranna threatened the brown jade carving. "No!"
She ran over the bridge, coming straight to the older girl.
"You spy!" she cried out. "I'll tell the Princess. She'll make you sorry—sorry—sorry!"
She flung herself at Saranna, her face flushed, striking at the older girl with both fists.
Saranna was nearly thrust off balance and had to struggle to catch those small fists while Damaris kicked at her in a frenzy.
"Damaris!" Saranna wondered if the child was gripped by some kind of a hysterical seizure. So thinking, she was frightened in turn. She had never seen such rage, if it were that emotion which now filled Damaris, and she had no idea how to control the younger girl. Perhaps, the idea flitted across her mind, Honora had not been so wrong in her estimate of her stepdaughter's nature after all.
"Damaris!"
The child was sobbing and still struggling, her eyes wild, her expression near that of a trapped animal, Saranna gave her a hard shake.
"Damaris, listen to me!" She tried to reach some point of reason which was not dominated by that wild response to the mere fact that she had entered the hidden garden. "I mean y
ou no harm. I was curious when I saw you come in here—understand? I was just curious. Just as you might have been had you suddenly saw me disappear. If you wish it, I will tell no one about your being here—“
Damaris stared up into Saranna's face. Some of the distraught look faded from her own.
"I mean no harm—I am not spying—" Saranna repeated. "This is a very beautiful and wonderful place, Damaris. If it is your secret, then I envy you. And I shall say nothing at all about it—to anyone. This I promise—"
Damaris now stood quiet in Saranna's hold, all the fierceness of her attack gone.
"You can't, you know," she said suddenly, in quite an ordinary tone of voice. "The Princess would know if you did, and then you would be sorry. And don't go ahead and ask me who the Princess is, because I won't ever, ever tell you!"
"All right," agreed Saranna swiftly. "I won't ask you any questions."
"And you'll come away right now and promise never to come back?" Damaris demanded. "I don't see why they let you in. They never have before. Nobody but me—and Grandfather— They watch—"
Her eyes darted right and left. Saranna found herself looking in the same direction, not knowing just what she expected to see. She was startled by a movement among the willows, but she did not catch full sight of what was in hiding there.
"They're waiting—" Damaris sounded triumphant. "You had better go. I tell you—go right now."
"But what about you, Damaris?"
"Oh, I'll come—this time. Maybe I had better. If they see me, they'll let you go. Only just never try to come back."
She tugged at Saranna's hand, drawing her back along the stone path to that hidden entrance. Saranna had no excuse to linger. Pushing her way among the stiff branches, she found and rescued her net and paused for a moment to tuck her hair back into it.
"Hey, there, Missie, now what are you doing?"
Completely surprised by such a hail, Saranna looked to her right. But the man who spoke appeared to be talking to Damaris, who stood scowling again, as he came farther into view from a walk formally walled by clipped and tended box.