Time passed until dimly, through a haze of imbibed brandy, Andrew became aware that he was lying on a rough and splintery floor and there were voices: He heard Tarragon cry, "Mr. Elkins, you've nearly killed him, he's unconscious!" Leo shouted, "You brute, you ought to be shot for this!" and Andrew smiled contentedly. He was lifted from the floor, wheels began turning under him, and somewhere up ahead a lamp shone in the darkness. After a great many jarrings and bumps Leo spoke again. "Treat him gently, Gussie, he was a real hero." With effort someone propelled him upstairs to a bed, and Andrew gratefully fell across it.
A voice said, "And did you have a pleasant chat with Hobe Elkins?"
Andrew opened one eye and saw that Gussie was tucking him into bed. There was no one else in the room.
"Chat?" he echoed. "Chat? He did terrible things to me! If you'd been there—he's a wild man!"
"Torture, Mr. Oliver?"
"Of the worst kind!"
She said dryly, "Strange .., it smelled to me exactly like blackberry brandy."
He opened both eyes now and found her over by the doorway holding up a candle and smiling at him. She said gently, "You needn't pretend with me, Mr. Oliver. Hobe is a truly charitable man, he never embarrasses us by giving gifts, he allows us to steal them from him, which makes his charity bearable. Good night, Mr. Oliver."
Startled, Andrew said, "Good night."
She lingered a moment, regarding him with compassion. "You will, of course, feel miserable in the morning, Mr. Oliver, but if you can manage to reach the kitchen, I have something that will mend the damage. Sleep well. .."
But Andrew was already asleep.
Monday
Houndes Tongue will tye the tongues of Houndes so that they shall not bark at you, if it be laid under the bottom of your feet. —John Gerard, The Herball, 1597
When Andrew awoke it was to an achingly bright and sunny room with a concert of birds chattering in the tree beyond the window. Dump night, he remembered . .. Hobe Elkins . . , and he groaned, felt his head—it had not floated away, after all—and edging himself into a sitting position he waited for the thunder to subside while the birds continued to annoyingly, cheerfully, and reproachfully upbraid him. Hazily he remembered Gussie promising something to make him fit again; relieved to find that he was still in his clothes he placed one foot gingerly on the floor, then the other, and slowly stood up. Feeling a hundred years old he made his way cautiously down the hall and step-by-step down the stairs, clinging to the railing.
At the kitchen table Tarragon was shelling peas and looked up to give him a mischievous grin. Gussie brought him a glass of juice. "Freshly squeezed tomato with a mix of herbs and a smidgen of—I'd better not say. Drink it down," she said sternly. "Fast. No nonsense. Drink."
Andrew drank, sputtering, choking, his throat burning and gasped, "Good God, liquid fire? What's in it, horseradish, cayenne pepper?"
Gussie only smiled.
Whatever its contents, it proved a powerful enough antidote to remind him of his purpose in coming to Thale's Folly. Already it was Monday, and past midmorning, and he'd not inspected these twenty-five acres for his father or taken pictures of them. Admittedly the ambience of Thale's Folly was not conducive to the minutiae of data-collecting, but it had to be done, hangover or not. Accepting a slice of toast he announced that he would take a walk to further clear his head, and fetching his knapsack—he didn't want them to see maps, deed, and camera—he walked out into a sweetly fragrant morning. In the untilled field across from the porch Wally Blore was leaning on his spade, with few signs of the earth having been turned over, and He won't last long, thought Andrew, cheered by the thought.
He walked past the garden in the rear and found the path that he assumed must lead to the pond or brook where Tarragon had caught her fish. It was a narrow path, well worn by use, and he'd left the house behind him when he was startled to hear the thud of feet ahead of him, and of someone breathing heavily—he'd not expected foot traffic—and suddenly Manuel appeared around the curve in the path, bare-chested and wearing neon-bright red shorts.
Breathlessly he fluttered a hand at Andrew and stopped. "Lunch hour—jogging," he panted. "Came by the shortcut. Something thought you should know."
Andrew winced. "Car's in worse shape than you thought?"
Manuel shook his head. "Not that. Somebody stopped at the garage this morning. Not wanted by the police, are you?"
Indignantly Andrew said, "Of course not!"
Manuel nodded, and Andrew was relieved to see that his breathing was returning to normal. "Seemed mighty interested in your car. Looked it over, asked questions about you, like where and who you are."
"That's rather strange, " Andrew said. "Who would know I'm here? What did you tell him? Or her?"
"Him," said Manuel. "Told him none of his business, repairing cars is my business." He grinned. "Except I wasn't that polite."
"What did he look like?"
"City fellow."
"Thin? Fat? Tall? Short? Business suit?"
"Thin. Tan raincoat. Suit. Rolex watch. Not tall, not short. Black hair."
Puzzled, Andrew said, "Doesn't sound like anyone I'd know."
"And maybe somebody you'd not want to know, Mr. Oliver. Didn't much like the look of him, frankly. Or his attitude. Pushy. I got instincts about people, you know?"
Since Andrew had instincts about people, too, he didn't question this. "It's a mystery to me, think he'll come back?"
"Could," said Manuel. "Might. Will if he wants to keep an eye on your car. Considering his interest . . . Depends, don't it?"
"Definitely it depends," agreed Andrew, "but definitely it's weird. Thanks for telling me."
Manuel nodded, and having delivered his message he turned, surveyed the path by which he'd arrived, sighed, took a long deep breath and set out again, his bare legs flashing white against the shadows ahead. Andrew, following slowly, listened to the sound of his receding footsteps, and to the return of that country stillness that was still somewhat unnerving to him. He was touched by Manuel's neighborliness, realized too late that he should have asked him about that shortcut, and wondered who on earth could be so interested in Meredith Machines' company car. A mistake, he decided . . , big mistake, it had to be. In the meantime there was the pond or brook to find and at least twenty more acres to explore. He glanced to his right and thought, My God, the trees are thick in these woods, it's like twilight in there, and he was aware of a sudden and inexplicable impulse to learn what lay beyond the path in that twilit world.
He peered curiously into and through the screen of sumac. A small breeze had found its way to the path and the leaves of the trees lining it danced fitfully, twisting and turning, quite unlike their neighboring conifers whose plump well-furnished bodies only swayed with matronly dignity, but inside the forest, deep in the woods, there was only stillness, no movement, and without wind the leaves hung limp. Deeper yet a fallen tree lay across the forest floor, bleached a silvery-white, and beyond this, in the distance, he saw that sunlight had found its way through the tapestry of leaves to plant its brilliance on green moss and etch the leaves bright green.
He realized that he was not only curious but interested, and he'd felt neither for a long time; he wanted to enter the woods and find that sunlit expanse of emerald green and yet he felt paralyzed by dread.
It would be very still in there, he realized.
Frighteningly still.
/ might have to face myself, he thought.
He took one step forward and then another. Breaking through the scrub and sumac at the path's edge he made his way around and over lichen-covered rocks and boulders until he was in among the tightly knit trees. Dried twigs snapped underfoot; last autumn's yellowed leaves made a damp bed for evil-looking mushrooms and patches of sickly white flowers. A squirrel ran up a tree and a bird flew away in alarm at his passage. Reaching the sward of green at last, brilliant emerald in the sun, he stopped in surprise. "What on earth!" he exclaimed, and at the
sound of his voice a small creature, rabbit or mouse, scurried across the moss and out of sight among the trees.
What he was seeing was: a perfect circle of stones occupying half of this soft green carpet of moss, a low stone table on which was arranged a candle, a bowl, a cup, a long stick, and a bell. An old iron cauldron stood in its center and beside it, on the other side, another candle, a bowl, the design of a pentacle drawn in blue chalk, a cup ... He said again, "What on earth!"
Behind him a voice said sternly, "You shouldn't be here, this is private."
It was Tarragon.
"But what is this?" he asked. "Damned if it doesn't look like some kind of altar."
"And you shouldn't be here," she said accusingly.
"Well, I am here and it does look to me like an altar."
She said impatiently, "Of course it is. I told you, on Bald Hill, about Gussie. I kept no secrets."
"You didn't tell me she was a real witch, a practicing witch."
"And you"—she flung at him—"didn't tell me your name is Thale."
This silenced him, and he stood very still.
"There's a man back at the house," she told him coldly. "A Mr. Selkirk. He's looking for an Andrew Thale, he drove up from New York this morning looking for him. That's you, isn't it? You're not Andrew Oliver at all."
Damn his father, he thought. He said stiffly, "The answer to that is yes and no. That is, my name is Andrew Oliver Thale, and my father sent me, except he told me the house was empty and had been empty for years, and when it wasn't—"
"How cowardly," she said bitingly. "Telling lies like that."
"Cowardly? Cowardly?" he repeated. "When I found you and Gussie and Miss L’Hommedieu and Leo living here? and happily?"
"And are we to be turned out of the house now?"
"There's no buyer," he told her. "Really there isn't. He just wanted to know—"
She nodded. "Its value."
They regarded each other steadily for a long moment, and then she turned away and he followed her around the circle of stones into a path new to him; they walked in silence until they emerged at the edge of the empty field near the porch, where Wally Blore was again leaning on his spade but quickly began to dig at sight of them.
"I think Wally has got to go," said Tarragon.
"So another potential husband can replace him?" He hoped he didn't sound spiteful.
With a wicked smile she said, "If I could only persuade Gussie to do some incantations at the next full moon and cast her magic spells again, I'm sure that someone much nicer will show up."
"Hah!" he said scornfully, and as they approached the house he braced himself next for Mr. Selkirk. It would have to be Selkirk, of course, because he was a lower-management man who was often assigned his father's dirty work—when I'm not assigned it, thought Andrew. There was no sign of a car, and they found the man seated at the kitchen table over a cup of tea with Leo, Gussie, and Miss L'Hommedieu.
Selkirk rose when Andrew entered—after all, Andrew was the son of a VP—and said, "Good morning, Andrew. Your father's sent me to bring you back. The company car can be returned later."
Andrew said crossly, "I didn't see your car outside. Resting in a pothole?"
"Oh, I could see that would never do," Selkirk said smugly.
"I walked in from the highway, and now that you're here, Andrew, we'd better get started back to New York."
"So you're a Thale," Gussie said pleasantly. "I thought there was something familiar about you."
Andrew reminded himself to ask if there was a picture of Great-Aunt Harriet in the house, but at the moment he had other business at hand. "I'm not going back," he told Selkirk. "My father asked for a report and there's no report yet."
"But this is Monday!" protested Selkirk. "A working day!"
"And I am working," pointed out Andrew.
Leo interrupted to point an accusing finger at Selkirk. "Can't believe what I've been hearing! Bloody corporate business, Andrew, this man tells me six thousand people getting fired at your bloody Meredith place. Excess, he calls it. Redundancy."
Andrew was startled. "I heard four thousand."
"Four thousand at Meredith Machines," said Selkirk, "two thousand at PGH Plastics."
"Mergers," sniffed Leo. "Cutting costs and getting rid of excess, he says. Why can't he say the word people? It sticks in your throat, doesn't it, Selkirk? Tossed out like garbage. In my day—"
Miss L’Hommedieu gently interrupted him. "Leo, I was about to read my new story. Yesterday's story."
"Oh," said Leo penitently. "Sorry, Miss L’Hommedieu."
It occurred to Andrew that no one ever called Miss L’Hommedieu by her first name.
Miss L’Hommedieu cleared her throat, held up her page of written words to the light, and began: " 'The girl, Suzanne,' "
she read, " 'was browsing in the St. John's Thrift Shop with an eye for something Victorian that could be worn in Lady Windermere's Fan, a play in which she had a minor part . . . Seeing a velvet jacket, she carried it to a mirror and then removed her own jacket to try it on. It did not fit sleekly, due to a slight bulge in one side, and she saw that something had long ago been taped between two seams. Making sure that no one saw her she carefully applied herself to tearing away the worn tape and found a slip of yellowed paper, which she unfolded. It was a map, clumsily drawn and very old, with an X in faded red and the words BURIED GOLD HERE 1896, 20 MILES SW KAFUE.' "
She stopped, and Mr. Selkirk said, "Go on, what next? Don't stop!"
Andrew smiled at him benevolently. "She doesn't write middles. Hadn't you better be starting back to New York?"
Selkirk wrenched his gaze from Miss L’Hommedieu and turned to Andrew. "And just what do I tell your father?"
"That I've not been able to complete a report yet, and I'm not coming back with you."
"Good for you," cheered Leo.
"You're a very promising young man," said Miss L’Hommedieu graciously.
'And obviously forgiven for being a Thale," pointed out Tarragon, looking amused.
Mr. Selkirk rose from the table reluctantly. "Your father's not going to like this, Andrew."
"It can scarcely upset him when it's he who sent me here. "
"He won't like it," he repeated. "You know your father."
"Only too well," said Andrew.
"Which means a long walk back to my car for me, and a long drive back to Manhattan." He sighed heavily. "Waste, waste," and with the melancholy of a martyr he thanked them for the tea and left.
His departure was followed by a long silence. Andrew dared not speak, and no one looked at him.
Tarragon said, "He just wanted a report, there's no buyer, Gussie."
"Yet," growled Leo.
"I hope I'm not impertinent," said Andrew, "but why did Miss Thale leave this property to my father—she couldn't have given a damn about him, excusing my language—and not to you?"
"She never made a will," Gussie said in a gruff voice. "Fit as a fiddle she was—"
"—and then keeled over in the garden picking chives," added Leo.
"So as next of kin the property automatically went to my father... ? I'm sorry," Andrew said. "Really sorry."
Leo nodded. "And the property goes to a vice president already rich as Croesus."
"No," Andrew said, considering this, "my father's not rich rich. He started out with nothing—with a bicycle repair shop, actually, it's just that he's terrifyingly ambitious. It's true that he makes an incredible amount of money now, enough to have sent me to private schools and summer camps, but I worked my way through college—well, two years of it, anyway, before I quit to—to"—with a glance at Miss L’Hommedieu he hesitated and out of courtesy said instead—"to do what I wanted to do, which has given me a small income of my own, not much now but enough, at least it was enough until—until—" He stopped, his voice unsteady.
Tarragon said quickly, "If you're here to make a report for your father you'd better start, hadn't you?" To Gussie s
he said, "I'll make sandwiches and show him the pond."
Stationing herself at the counter she sliced bread and then reached for two apples and sliced them as well.
"Apple sandwiches?" said Andrew, startled.
"Yes, from the root cellar," Tarragon explained.
Once again Andrew reproached himself for expecting the predictable. "Of course," he said, and arming himself with his camera and carrying the jug of water and food, the two of them walked out into the heat of the afternoon.
They passed the garden and entered the narrow twisting path he'd taken earlier, where the drowsy July heat mingled the scents of warm earth, pine needles, and wildflowers. From the grass on either side sprang daisies, black-eyed Susans, and buttercups, and Tarragon stopped to lean over and pick a white flower that rose high above the daisies. "Yarrow," she said. "Achillea millefolium."
"You're showing off," he told her.
"Yes, but aren't you impressed?"
Off on their right the thick woods had retreated to form a more distant dark wall, separated from them now by a belt of sunny scrub and a few stands of birches. From behind one of those birches Andrew saw a plume of smoke rising, and stopped in alarm.
"Fire!" he gasped. "Tarragon, smell the smoke? Dangerous!" Abandoning her, he rushed through the grass to save them all from disaster. Reaching the tree that concealed the flames he peered around it and shouted indignantly, "Hey!"
A man squatted behind the tree, paying no heed at all to Andrew's shout. Andrew couldn't see his face, only an unkempt head of stringy white hair and a shabby old coat, much mended and full of pockets. The man had built a small fire efficiently surrounded by stones, and from a tripod made out of a wire clothes hanger there hung a small pan of water that was beginning to steam. As Andrew watched, the man drew from a pocket two white eggs and lovingly, gently, lowered them into the boiling water. From another pocket he extracted a chocolate bar, broke it into quarters, returned three to another pocket, and began to eat it solemnly.
Andrew couldn't identify the egg but very definitely the chocolate bar matched those he'd brought to Thaïes Folly from the post office.
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