by Andre Norton
A bush was shaken furiously, dragged free of the soil, and tossed aside. Into the open crowded a crew so ugly that Saranna wanted to shrink away, only to understand that at this moment she could and dare not. But, having broken into the open before the terrace, the men stopped, amazed at the party waiting to receive them. Saranna saw uncertainty cross the faces of the foremost. Then their party parted to give Honora passage.
She stared in turn at the Fox Lady. Then her mouth twisted as she screamed:
"Shoot! Kill those foxes—!"
Saranna saw guns swing in on their targets. Not one of the waiting animals moved from its place in line. Nor did any of the armored men make a gesture of defense. They would all be killed! Her fear was like a sudden ice-cold knife thrust through her. Still she could not now have broken the hold which linked her with the Fox Lady, even if panic fully possessed her.
And she must not let that happen, she must not! There was a reason for this gathering of the garden inhabitants and in this moment Saranna bowed her will, stifled her alarm, tried to become in turn part of whatever they would do.
In the same instant she made that decision, she experienced something else. It was as if some inner strength which was hers, but which she had never known before she possessed, was being drawn out of her. She could actually feel that energy draining from her body, through that hand linkage. This force was what the Fox Lady must have.
For the first time the Fox Lady herself spoke. Her words were strange, they seemed to echo eerily in one's head in the way the gong sound had echoed earlier. Three times she repeated that series of sounds.
"Shoot!" Honora's face contorted. "Shoot, I tell you!”
Then Saranna witnessed the unbelievable. Those guns did come up, center on the terrace, and—
The weapons dissolved! There were no guns in the hands of the invaders. There were only sticks. Then the sticks twisted, turned, became living ropes of scaled flesh. The men cried out, threw the living horrors from them. Those behind edged away, their faces expressing their panic and horror.
"No," Honora caught at the sleeve of the nearest. "Don't believe what you see. She can make you think anything is true. Look there—it’s a gun—a gun!" She pointed wildly to the weapon he had thrown away in terror.
She spoke the truth. Now a shotgun did lie upon the path. But the man eyed it as if it were still a snake. He jerked free of Honora's grasp with an oath, continued to back away.
"Out—" he called to the others. "Let's get out of here!"
They stampeded back through the broken brush. Honora stood there alone. But she did not retreat. All color left from her face. She wore a mask of ugly fury, as alien, and far more dreadful, than the furred visage the Fox Lady turned upon the intruders.
"You—witch!" Honora no longer screamed, her voice was low, ragged, with the intensity of her rage. "You heathen witch! I know your tricks. Just as you played them with that old fool, the Captain. You cannot play them with me— ever! And they—" she gestured behind her to where the men had disappeared, "when they have a chance to think, they will realize the truth. Then no trick of yours will save you— any of you!" Her gaze swept along the line of Bannerman and foxes, Damaris, the lady, and Saranna.
She began to smile, and that smile was as dreadful as her grimace had earlier been.
"All here—all of you! Which is my good fortune, not yours. You—" she pointed at Damaris "—with you out of my way I shall have Tiensin. You—" she came next to the Fox Lady "you and your tricks have had their day. Now, you heathen witch, you shall have an accident—a fatal one! You—" she had reached Saranna, and her lips curved venomously "—you would dip into my father's pockets, and, most of all, want to—" Her mouth tightened as if even in this hour she could not bring herself to say plainly what was the core of the hate which blazed in her eyes.
"I am not tricked, nor shall I be by any of your mind witchery." She spoke again to the Fox Lady. "I know that I hold this, and I shall use it." She held out the hand which had been hidden in the folds of her skirt.
Saranna saw the sun glint on the barrel of the small gun— a round, fat barrel. Honora held a derringer. She was raising her hand—about to aim at one of them. Which one?
The white foxes moved. They leaped forward together, as if they had been trained for just such an attack. The fangs of one fastened on Honora's wide upper sleeve, the other dashed, growling, to her left.
She screamed. But the fox on her right had achieved its purpose. The beast had loosened her grip on the derringer, and it spun away, to land beside the discarded shotgun on the path. Honora shrunk back. Now the foxes circled her, growling and snapping. They were herding her on toward the terrace as sheep dogs would handle a straying member of the flock they were set to guard.
Beating with her hands against the air, her breath coming in whistling gasps, Honora stumbled forward.
"No, no, no!" Fear and rage fought together on her face. She had no beauty now as she was forced by the leaping, snapping foxes onto the edge of the terrace. Yet, in spite of all, her anger was greater than her fear. And she fixed her gaze in a defiant stare on the Fox Lady.
As Honora came to a halt directly before her enemy, the foxes settled a little behind her, sitting up motionless again. Even the beat of the drum had stopped.
It was Honora who broke the silence, her voice hoarse:
"You have not won! They will regain their wits, and they will not be the easier on you because you tricked them."
"That is so," the Fox Lady answered her with majestic calm.
"Then—you had better listen to me." Honora made brushing motions along the outward swell of her skirt, as if ridding herself of the effects of her momentary panic. "I want you gone! I will even make you the same offer Captain Whaley made to the rest—passage back to your own country."
"You are generous—" the Fox Lady returned, a remote tone in her voice. "Before you expend your breath in promises, remember that the swiftest of horses cannot overtake a word once spoken."
"I want you gone, you and your tricks!" Honora's tone lost some of its control.
"That we have always known," conceded the Fox Lady. "This I say to you now: Before you beat a dog, learn his master—or his mistress's name."
"You know I can do as I wish—" Honora's hand shook a little. As if she were aware of this betrayal, she whipped her fingers hiding once again in the folds of her skirt. "I shall send the men again—better armed—"
"So it is written—"
"You cannot escape a second time—"
"Perhaps not. Yet there is something which still must be done."
The Fox Lady's hand turned in Saranna's, seeking freedom. And the girl relinquished her grip upon those slender fingers with their gemmed nail guards. Damaris must have broken linkage at the same time, for, Saranna, glancing side-wise, saw the lady reach out and take from the younger girl the round of metal which she had so carefully held.
With this in her two hands, the Fox Lady lifted it to the level of her sharp pointed muzzle, stared straight into the polished surface as if it were a proper mirror and she would make sure of the correctness of her toilet. Then she stepped forward until she was within touching distance of Honora.
Reversing the mirror, she held it out and a little down, so it was now directly before Honora's own face.
"Look upon yourself, woman," the Fox Lady ordered. "Look and see what is to be seen in you!"
Honora's eyes centered upon the strange mirror. Slowly her face changed, anger receded, fear grew—such an agony of fear as Saranna would have believed no human countenance could ever frame. Then Honora screamed, a cry of both terror and despair. Her hands flew up to hide her face. She swayed back and forth, as if she no longer had strength or will enough to keep on her feet.
"Go!" ordered the Fox Lady. "Go, rally those barbarians you would turn upon us. Go, seek in every mirror you can find for what you once thought you were, what others saw in you, those who knew you not as your heart has made you.
Go!"
Honora tottered as she turned, then she staggered away, her hands still half-covering her face. She blundered against bushes, gave another scream, broke through the opening between the battered shrubs once again where her crew of raiders had entered.
They could hear her rough passage, and the two white foxes ran a little ways after her, came trotting back, whining like dogs who scented danger, and waited for orders to be on guard.
"They will come again; she was speaking the truth," said the Fox Lady. "Because of their fear, these evil ones will be doubly angry this time."
"But you can—" began Damaris.
Slowly the Fox Lady shook her head. "Not so, younger sister. Once can I call upon the eye-magic and hold the minds of barbarians so. But my strength of purpose is now exhausted. Even if you lend to me again your wills, even then I cannot summon such as give us safety. I have attacked with all I have—" She looked from Damaris to Saranna. "Younger sister, the wands of I Ching speak ever the truth. If we would come to fortune out of this trouble, then yours must be the effort. What help can you summon?"
"Help?" repeated Saranna. "But—there is no one. The servants—they will do nothing except what Honora orders and—"
"Mr. Fowke!" Damaris interrupted. "He would come— he would!"
"Even if we could get a mesage to him—would we have time?" Saranna rubbed her fingertips over the heavy gold embroidery of her borrowed robe. Gerrad Fowke believed that she had gone with Rufus. But her very presence, if she might be able to reach him, would be proof enough of the falsehood of that. Somehow, at that moment, she was sure of his help—though how to summon it—
"We must go!" Damaris ran to her, caught her hand. "We have to, Saranna!"
The older girl glanced from the determination written on Damaris' face to the alien features of the Fox Lady. She could read there no expression in the beast's sharp muzzle and eyes. Yet there was a sense of approval somehow carried to her.
Saranna laughed, shakily, twitching the rich robe. "This is not made for running along the highway—"
The Fox Lady clapped her hands and A-Han was at her side. She spoke, giving some order and the old woman nodded eagerly, beckoning to Saranna.
Back in the chamber behind the moon door both Saranna and Damaris struggled out of the robes. A-Han produced a bundle of dull-blue cloth which shook out into trousers and high-collared jackets. Damaris pulled on hers with the ease of one who had done this before. But Saranna, though seeing the advantage of such garments for one in haste, hated to wear them.
"Hurry—I"
"But—these— Though Saranna fastened the cord of the trousers about her waist, she felt very strange—almost undressed.
"You can run better in them,” Damaris pointed out tartly. "Come on!"
The old man who had drummed waited for them beyond the edge of the terrace. The Fox Lady had dismissed them with a nod, retreating to the inner chamber where once more she bowed her head before the statue. Their guide did not take them back along the path which would or should lead them straight into trouble. Instead, he struck on into that portion of the garden lying directly before the other end of the terrace, weaving in and out among the shrubs.
Saranna caught hasty glimpses of a stream, a hump-backed bridge, of flowers and shrubs, but there was no time to really note the wonders through which they hurried. Then they fronted the wall again, but at a different point.
Their guide placed his dark, wrinkled hands on two of the bricks and pushed them with all the might left in his shrunken body. Slowly, a whole block of the closely fitted masonry pivoted leaving a narrow space through which they could squeeze. Saranna would never have made it in skirts, she admitted to herself as she struggled through. And it was true that her legs were freer in these queer heathenish garments.
Then her feet found no solid ground and she pitched forward, out and down, landing beside Damaris in a roadside ditch. Behind them there was a crack of sound and Saranna guessed that the wall had again closed, sealing the hidden door.
18
CHI CHI-COMPLETION
"Well now, ain't this a bit o' luck!"
At first, Saranna cringed closer to the ground like a small animal cornered by death. Rufus!
"Yes, siree—here's a pretty catch. Two of them pesky heathens right in my hands, as the saying goes."
"Damaris—run!" Saranna scrambled up somehow, to face Rufus Parton. He held a shotgun in the crook of his arm as he stood grinning down at her. If she could divert him only for a few seconds, Damaris might get free.
"Let little Missie run," he agreed. "She won't get far— Mrs. Whaley has her guards out. You're in a pretty pickle, ain't you, m'girl?”
His bold eyes roved over her figure. Saranna wanted to cringe again. But before Rufus—no, she would never do that!
"Now, you just come up out of that there dirty hole, m'girl—"
She heard Damaris scuttle away to her right, but she did not even turn her head to watch the younger girl run. Perhaps Rufus was right. Damaris might be caught before she reached the edge of Tiensin land. On the other hand, there was always a chance that she could elude Honora's guards and reach Gerrad Fowke. Though Saranna could not believe in any rescue for herself now.
Rufus made no attempt to help her climb the steep bank of the ditch. She would not have accepted his assistance anyway. But as she stood at last on the narrow road, he laughed.
"You wearing them heathen clothes, girl, that sure can give a man ideas."
"Now," he added briskly, "you jus’ start walkm', m'girl. I'll get you outta my hands back on the sloop and go an' collect from Mrs. Whaley for takin' you away. Then we'll be off upriver to where a parson's waitin'—"
"You can't marry me against my will," Saranna found her tongue at last.
"Oh, you'll be willin', girl," he said. "My mam, now, she knows a bit about fixin' up doses. I'll see you get one of those and youll be meek as any lamb. Makes you think muzzy, them do. If I tell you 'yes' then, you'll say 'yes.' Don't you worry none about that. Get a-movin'—"
He caught her by the upper arm, pushed her around, and then applied a vicious shove which nearly sent her spinning to her knees.
"You jus’ keep right on a-walkin'. Don't take it all so hard, girl. You an' me, we can do right well for ourselves. I won't never lift a hand to you 'less you try that lookin' down your nose like I was dirt. You'll be m'wife and that's somethin' to be proud of—"
Saranna stumbled on, prodded by his fist between her shoulder blades now and again. She recognized the road: this was the one over which they had come from Queen's Pleasure on Sunday. It would have guided them both back there. Damaris—could Damaris really reach Gerrad Fowke? And what if she did and he came too late, after Rufus Parton had gotten his promised fee from Honora and had taken the sloop upriver?
She tried to think clearly. But Rufus' sudden appearance to halt their escape was such a shock that as yet she had not adjusted to it. She was tired, so tired that it was impossible now to do more than just endure.
"See?" queried her captor. "You can be as nice and easy as the next girl, do a man handle you right. I tell you, girl, where we're goin' you can be big as Mrs. Whaley. 'Cause I'm not goin' to be any hired man. No, siree. I got me land and the cash to buy more! Someday I'll have us a house as will make this here heathenish place look like a stable! Jus’ you wait an' see!"
But Saranna was no longer listening to his boasting. She thought she heard something else—the drum of hooves coming toward them. Some of Honora's city ruffians now mounted to ride sentry duty?
She dared not let herself believe that this could herald the coming of some outsider who might be an aid to her.
"Wait up!" Rufus' voice held a harsher note. "Someone's comin'! Get down!"
The heavy slam of his palm against her shoulders tumbled her off the lane into the brush which masked the ditch, and once more she sprawled into that. But this time Rufus joined her, pulling her farther down into hiding.
Saran
na thought by the vibration through the ground that there was more than one rider. And it was quite apparent Rufus did not expect the newcomers to be friendly. He had the shotgun ready, and was a little way up the side of the ditch intent on sighting at whoever came into view.
He was so intent that Saranna, her eyes fixed upon his back to catch any move he might make, began, inch by inch, to slip along the ditch. Not that she had any real chance of escape, but she would not stay meekly there and wait Rufus' future pleasure.
At first she could not see up on the road as did Rufus, as he was perched in a place where the brush was thinner. However, as she edged farther and farther from him, there came another opening. Through that, the riders came into sight.
There was a flash of blue—Damaris! Damaris mounted before Gerrad Fowke on the gray horse he favored. Behind him were men, armed with shotguns, pistols. Saranna recognized two of the riders as men she had seen working the sloop upriver. What would Rufus—?
Saranna glanced quickly from the road to her captor. He was grinning, that grin he had worn as he tormented the captured fox. Whether he would ever have dared shoot she would never know. But with a cry of warning, Saranna threw herself in his direction.
Rufus snarled as his head whipped around. Saranna opened her mouth to scream a second warning and he struck at her, his fist crashing against her cheekbone, the force of the blow sending her back and down into the very bottom of the ditch. She only half-consciously heard Damaris' high voice, the shouts of the men on the road.
Rufus crouched beside her, his hand on her throat, closing, cutting off her breath. She saw him only through a haze of pain as she tried to struggle free. Then, suddenly, he was gone as if some giant's hand had plucked him away. She drew deep gasps of air into her empty lungs, unable for the moment to care about anything but the fact that she could breathe again.
"Saranna! Saranna, did he hurt you?" Damaris was trying to raise her head, peering into her face anxiously. There were threshing sounds from the road above, grunting, a half-stifled cry.