by Andre Norton
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 ta
ll 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.
Tamar’s finger went to her lips as she looked down again at the children. They understood and nodded in agreement. Then she was on her way swiftly to the door.
Holly slid from the bench. She did not know who was singing outside, but she was determined to find out. Judy tried to catch at her sleeve as she slipped past. But she avoided that clutch and stole to the window, where she could just see above the sill.
Tamar was out of the door now. And there was a man, a young man, coming through the path of the herb garden toward her.
He had on leather breeches which only came below his knees, with thick stockings and big shoes with buckles on them. His shirt was white and had full sleeves gathered to tight bands about his wrists, and a wide, open collar. And his hair was long, reaching to brush his shoulders. It was black hair, and his face was brownly tanned. In his hands was a packet of leaves tied with grasses. And there was a smile on his face, though that faded as he faced Tamar.
“Good morrow, Mistress Tamar.”
“Good morrow, Master Elkins.” Tamar did not sound at all welcoming, and she was not smiling. Nor was he now. He kept looking beyond Tamar’s shoulder at the house, as if he expected someone else to be there.
“Master Elkins,” he repeated. “Are we then such unfriends, Mistress?”
“Master Elkins, well doth thee know that between us there can be no friends nor unfriends. Would thee bring ill fortune to one who has never sought such for thee?”
“Doth a man bring ill fortune when he comes in friendship, then, Mistress? I have that which—” He was fumbling with the packet.
“Thou bringest ill fortune by thy very favor, Master Elkins. A man bespoke seeks not other doorsteps—”
He was looking angry, his face flushed, his black brows drawing together in a scowl.
“False! I am not bespoke.”
“Tell that then to Master Dimsdale, who hath said that his Patience makes ready her household linens.”
“What my father may have promised in my name will not bind me!” he exploded.
“Thou knowest well the law. An undutiful son may well walk in fear of a rope about his throat. I care not what trouble thou makest for thyself—”
“Thou wags a sour tongue, Mistress. The cause of that be plain. None seekest thee out for wooing, thus thou wouldst have it—”
“I would have it that none do speak either of witchcraft about me and mine,” she interrupted him sharply. “If thou dost hold favor, thou will not bring danger in thy train.”
“Witchcraft!” He took a step backward.
“Aye and aye! A wise woman hath always that to find fearsome. There are those ready to rise up and say thou art beguiled. Think on that, Seth Elkins! Think well on that!”
He still scowled, and threw the packet from him to fall near her skirts.
“Tittle-tattle of clacking women!”
“Have it as thou wilt, it can well be so. Leave this house in peace—”
“Seth!”
At the sound of his name the man turned swifty. Another woman had come near, not from the direction of the herb garden but around the house. She stood looking from Tamar to Seth and back again, and she was smiling. But Holly felt a little shiver down her back; that was not the kind of smile she would ever want to face.
The newcomer was dressed much as Tamar, except her skirts were of what looked to be a finer material, her apron was pure white, and her cap had a narrow edge of lace for a border, as did the collar about her shoulders. Her face was narrow with a tight disapproving mouth and a long sharp nose, while her hair, which was strained back under her cap, was of a sandy red. Her lashes and brows were so pale they looked almost as if she had none at all, and her eyes were small and mean looking. Holly hated her on sight.
“Good morrow, Goody,” she said to Tamar. “I see thou art busied, and it be meet I return at a better time.”
“There be no time better than this, Mistress Patience.” Tamar looked and sounded calm enough. “It be rather Master Elkins who must be about his affairs.”
“His affairs?” echoed Patience. “It would seem that his affairs are many. And some of them unknown.” She laughed drily.
“Aaaugh!” The sound Seth Elkins made was one of anger. He wheeled about, strode back through the herb garden as if he wished he could use his hands, which were now balled into fists, against the whole world.
Watching him go, Patience spoke. “Thou playest dangerous games, Goody.”
“I play no games, Mistress. I do not summon all who come to this door. That be well known—”
“Be it? There be many stories we have heard of dealings with the powers of the dark, Goody, and what can aid a woman who wishes a man enough to invoke them—”
“Aye, there be tales enough, Mistress,” Tamar replied, as the other paused. “But such are many times idle chatter. All know I deal only in the healing of men and animals, not to their harming. As has been proven here many times over.”
“True.” Patience nodded. But there was that in her expression which was threatening, Holly was sure. “And here be I keeping thee from those innocent labors, Goody. Thee has ready the mint? My father hath taken a mighty liking for it, saying it hath powers to cure his distress of stomach after a full dining.”
“I have it.” Tamar turned to come back inside and then she hesitated. Holly could see she was uneasy. Was it because they were there?
Holly looked back at the table, from which Crock and Judy were watching her. She made gestures with her hands, suggesting they take to cover. Judy looked bewildered. But Crock jerked his head in agreement and caught at his twin, urging her toward the far end of the room, where there was a bed built against the wall. He pushed Judy ahead of him to crawl under the bed. And Holly was following when she brushed against the edge of the table and sent one of the sticky plates clattering to the floor.
She had meant to snatch up the jacket Judy had left behind, but now she had no time, only headed wildly for the bed and crawled under it, jamming against Crock.
“Stupid!” he hissed in her ear.
“And who else finds his way here this morning, Goody?” Patience’s voice reached them clearly.
“No one.”
“No one, thou sayest? Does no one wear such a jerkin as this, then? Green it be. Aye, and know we not what manner of strange folk weareth green? Many a tale of those we have heard.”
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�Overseas, mayhap, but here—they come not,” Tamar returned.
“Then who hath left a green jerkin? One made of strange cloth. For this I swear be of no honest spin or weave. Look upon it, Goody—that thou must swear to also. Nor is it made for any mortal men, being too small for the wearing by such. This I will take to show—”
“You will not!” Before either Crock or Holly could grab her, Judy hurled herself from under the bed, skimming on her stomach before she could rise to her feet. Then she ran forward. Holly squirmed out after her. Judy was already tugging fiercely at the jacket Patience held. “You give me that! It’s mine, Mom bought it for me—”
“Judy!” Holly cried out in despair.
Patience backed against the wall, staring at Judy as if she were some sort of wild animal. She gave a short cry as Holly joined her sister, and released the jacket, which Judy hugged to herself, scowling fiercely at Patience over it.
“You thief!” she accused shrilly.
“Imps—imps of Satan!” Patience continued along the wall with a sidewise movement. “I—let me be! I be christened Christian. Thou cannot come nigh—”
Still facing them, she reached the door, to back through it.
“I’m not either!” Judy looked frightened and ready to cry. “I’m no imp of Satan!”
Holly put her arm about her sister. “Of course you’re not. She’s just a silly old fusser. We—I think we’d better get out of here.”
Crock came to them. “That one’s trouble, real trouble,” he said. “What are you going to do?” he asked Tamar now.
“We—have we made a lot of trouble for you?” Holly asked in turn. “If we get away fast, you can say she was making up a story about seeing us, can’t you?”
Now that it had happened, there was no sign of uneasiness or trouble in Tamar’s face.
“I will do what must be done, done well,” she said. There was a confident note in her voice, as if she were certain of that. But Holly still felt unhappy and unconvinced.
“We’d better get going,” Crock urged. “If that Patience goes and gets someone else—we don’t belong here and they’ll know it right away.”