Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (11 page)

 
          
 
Saranna looked around her at the delicate
porcelain, the carved jade, the burnished lacquer. She was not quite sure she
wanted to take the responsibility of that game. To handle such pieces was a
danger.

 
          
 
"I like Mr. Fowke," Damaris changed
the subject, "even if he is probably going to marry Honora. I wish he
wouldn't, he's too nice for her—much too nice!"

 
          
 
She touched a fingertip to the edge of a
shallow bowl of a soft green shade, across the surface of which was spread a
single flowering branch in white.

 
          
 
"Honora is a Nu Wu" she added.

 
          
 
"And what is that?"

 
          
 
"A witch.
She
witches people so they do what she tells them. She witched my father so he
wouldn't listen to anybody but her. But she couldn't ever witch Grandfather—he
knew what she was. He said she was a Nu Hsing Kuei. That's a kind of demon. The
Chinese have big screens at the doors of their houses so the demons can't get
in. Demons have to fly in straight lines, you see," Damaris continued
seriously, as if the lore she now recited was as authentic as that she had
known concerning her grandfather's collection, "So if you have a screen,
they just strike against that and can't ever enter. It was too bad we did not
have one of those here at Tiensin when Honora came."

 
          
 
"Damaris, there are no such things as
demons.”

 
          
 
The younger girl shook her head. "You
don't know, Saranna, really you don't. My grandfather said there were a lot of
things in this world that men laugh at until they meet them face to face.
I've—" Again she paused, flushing.

 
          
 
"Anyway, maybe you're right that Honora
isn't any ghost-demon. But she can make a lot of trouble."

 
          
 
They went out of the last of the rooms which
held the collection and Damaris closed the door carefully behind them.

 
          
 
"Damaris," asked Saranna suddenly,
"what does the word
mei
mean? Is it
Chinese?"

 
          
 
She tried to give the word sound the same
accent as it had held in her dream. But she was not sure that she had
succeeded.

 
          
 
"Mei?" Damaris repeated.

 
          
 
Saranna recognized the slightly different
inflection.

 
          
 
"Yes, that is it!"

 
          
 
"It means Younger Sister! But where did
you hear it?"

 
          
 
A Chinese word, why had it come into her
dream? Surely it was not one which Damaris had used in her hearing. Before she
thought, Saranna answered with the truth.

 
          
 
"In a dream—a dream about the hedge
wall,
and the foxes' eyes shining there. Then a voice called
that word."

 
          
 
Damaris moved away from her with a jerk. The
child's face was contorted with the same scowl she had shown when she found
Saranna examining the brush rest.

 
          
 
"It's a trick!" she cried. "You
couldn't have heard that! You wouldn't be allowed—
Only
me— Only me—" She whirled around and before Saranna could say a word, she
ran down the hall, banging through the door at the far end.

 
          
 
"Missie up to her tricks, eh? She's
touched in the head, she is."

 
          
 
Saranna looked over her shoulder. Rufe lounged
in the doorway of the breakfast room, one shoulder supported by the door frame.
He grinned at her lazily.

 
          
 
"Miss Honora, she said you might fancy a
turn on the river, or maybe a walk m the garden. Says I'm to make myself
agreeable. That's no hard thing. Miss Saranna. I just have a likin' to be
agreeable to a pretty girl like you now—"

 
          
 
With some of the same speed Damaris had shown,
Saranna reached the stairway and started up, making no answer. Surely Honora
could not intend for her to show this loutish boy any encouragement. There was
something about the way he watched her which made her shrink—but not visibly,
she hoped. She wanted never to let him think that he had the power to frighten
her.

 
          
 
But that he did, Saranna could not deny as she
found herself in her room, shutting not only the door, but turning the key in
the lock before she was thinking clearly again. She must make Honora understand
that she would have nothing to do with Rufe Parton. In the meantime, Saranna
put her hands to her flushed face—what was she going to do? She could not
remain locked in her room, letting Rufus Parton believe that he had penned her
there. What was the matter? She could not even understand her own aversion to
him. That emotion was so much deeper, and therefore more frightening, than any
dislike she had known before in her serenely ordered life.

 
          
 
Saranna settled in a chair near one window.
She forced herself to think calmly; that her situation was going to be
uncomfortable, she knew. Honora's horrifying suggestion that Rufus play her
escort was even a threat. She could not stay forever in her own chamber, though
when Honora's company arrived that apparently was what would be asked of her.
And why did Honora want to keep her out of sight?

 
          
 
Saranna glanced around at the mirror of the
wardrobe door. By that painfully accurate witness, she was indeed a shabby,
poor relation, yes. But she had a suspicion that Honora, if she pleased, might
easily remedy that. And certainly Saranna's looks, or lack of looks, were such
that Honora could have no fear that this stranger in her rusty black could
outshine the beautiful and accomplished daughter of Jethro Stowell.

 
          
 
She sat up straight now, her shoulders squared
back. No, she would keep out of the way of Honora's
guests,
that was
a small matter. But that she should be kept captive in her room
because of Rufus Parton—that she must not allow!

 
          
 
What she should be considering with her full
attention was means of escape from a situation which at best was disagreeable
and at worst— Saranna shivered. She could not put into words what she felt
beyond the fact that fear lay at its core. And she was so alone. There was no
one here at Tiensin to whom she could appeal for aid. Millie was friendly, but
in a timid, helpless fashion. And certainly Damans might be as much a victim as
herself—

 
          
 
Victim?
Why did that
word come into her mind? Why was this shadowy feelmg of danger so much a part
of her now, as if it enwrapped her with a visible cloud of darkness?

 
          
 
She arose abruptly. Whether she liked it or
not, she was aware that her mother's daughter could not dismiss the problem of
Damaris as none of her concern. Was Jethro Damaris' only guardian? Did Honora
have full control over the child's future durmg her father's absence? With the
way Damaris talked so wildly of Honora being a witch, or a demon—let anyone
hear that and they might readily believe Honora's own estimation of her stepdaughter's
condition.

 
          
 
When she thought of Damaris, Saranna could
forget Rufus Parton's sly, leering grin, and push off her uneasiness. She
unlocked the door with defiant purpose, went down the hall to stand before
Damaris' chamber where she tapped gently on the closed panel. Even though there
was no answer, Saranna felt her mission important enough to try the knob. It
turned easily under her hand.

 
          
 
"Damaris," the older girl called
softly from the threshold.

 
          
 
By the clear light of day she could see the
contents of the chamber much better than she had on her earlier visit. The
fingers of sunbeams touched upon wall panels of the same aged and exotic
embroidery as lightened the walls of the hallway without. What Saranna had
taken to be a four-poster bed on her first visit, she now perceived to be
something else. The piece had four posts to be sure, but carved work built
around three sides in screen fashion made it appear more a small inner room
than a bed, now that the curtains which had veiled it were looped up for the
day.

 
          
 
All the furniture was set out in odd
formality, mainly paired pieces back against the walls. Twin wardrobes of a
dark, heavy wood, showing golden threaded fibers when the sun touched the
second on one comer, the well-polished surface reflecting the light, stood
parted by a small square table on which were carved boxes. The next wall was
broken by a dull red chest, its outer surface painted with a time-dulled and
fanciful scene. By the bed was a table on which rested a number of smaller
boxes, a slab of worked stone, and a small vase in which was a single sprig of
green at an angle, the arrangement very simple but somehow attractive, far more
so than the crowded vases of flowers Saranna had always been used to. There was
a stool on the opposite side of the table from the bed

 
          
 
But of Damaris
herself
there appeared no sign. Saranna would have withdrawn, uneasy at her own
intrusion. Then the child she sought moved out from behind the shadowed corner
of the bed.

 
          
 
She held a bunch of what appeared small, thin
wands in one hand, as if she had been interrupted at some task, but her
expression was no longer hostile. Instead, there was a measuring of
watchfulness in her eyes.

 
          
 
"Kuei-Fu-Lu-Li—" The strange words
might have been a greeting. "I knew you would come—you had to,"
Damaris stated almost impatiently. She might have been awaiting some tardy
guest, ready to begin a ceremony—

 
          
 
Ceremony?
That word
flitted through Saranna's mind. She was now aware of the scent, elusive, but
still to be noticed in the room—spicy—different— Not a flower—
What
?

 
          
 
"Why did I have to?" That simple
question came to her lips first.

 
          
 
"Because—because—it is willed. I know
that now. You— somehow you are a part of it. I—I'm going to throw the wands. Of
course—I'm not a real hsueh che, a scholar who knows all the readings.
But—well, I'm going to try.*'

 
          
 
She turned to the table by the bed, and
quickly shoved all the objects on it to the far side, leaving bare that portion
of it which was in the clearest light. With both hands then she caressed the
small wands she held, closing her eyes, muttering words so faintly that they
reached Saranna only as unintelligible sounds.

 
          
 
Suddenly, she tossed the wands from her so
that they fell on the table. She hastened to move them so that they made a
pattern in six horizontal bars, one above the other. Completely mystified,
Saranna moved closer. Now she saw that while some of the wands were of a
uniformly dark color, others were broken in two by light bands.

 
          
 
''Chien —" Damaris leaned over the wands,
her attitude one of reading. "Struggling with great difficulties—yes, but
friends come to help— Oh," the child's expression changed as if she were
not angered, nor intent on what she was doing, but rather as if she were
distressed at some inability of her own. "I cannot read—not like—"
She shook her head. "There is so much to learn, and I don't know
enough." She swept the wands back together in her grasp. "I must ask—
“ Once
more her gaze swept toward Saranna and she stopped
short.

 
          
 
"What—what are you trying to do?"
Saranna thought she dared ask that question, even though, with Damaris, she
must be very careful indeed.

 
          
 
"I was trying I Ching —to find out—
To
find out what is going to happen. Only," her answer
now held a note of despair, "I don't know enough. Not how to read the
Yarrow
sticks,
maybe not even how to toss them
properly. I've only watched it before. I've never really tried to do it
myself."

 
          
 
"I Ching—“

 
          
 
Damaris nodded vigorously. "It's an old,
old way of telling one's future. Grandfather—he knew how—a little. The
Princess, she—"

 
          
 
Her eyes went wide with what Saranna could
only read as pure fear. Once more, as she had done before, Damaris clapped one
hand over her mouth. "I said it! I told!" her voice was near a wail.

 
          
 
As much as Saranna wanted to pierce the
mystery which Damaris cherished, she could not press the child
further,
her distress was far too evident.

 
          
 
"I won't ask you any more
questions," she said. "But, Damaris, surely you know that no one is
really able to read the future—"

 
          
 
Now that look of distress changed to one which
mingled scorn and pity.

 
          
 
"There's a lot of things you don't know
either!" Damaris returned with her usual self-confidence. "You'll learn—if
you stay here. Know what I heard her say?”

 
          
 
She rolled the wands into a tight bundle and
slid them back into a bag of scarlet silk embroidered with gold thread. That
the "her" she spoke of meant Honora, Saranna had no doubt.

 
          
 
"She wants Rufe to beau you around; she
told Mrs. Parton that!" Saranna betrayed, she hoped, no reaction on that
statement.

 
          
 
"I am sure Honora made no such remark
before you."

 
          
 
"I told you," Damaris continued.
"I listen—I have to. With her around one must. She always gets her way, or
thinks she is going to. Do you want Rufe to beau you?”

 
          
 
"Listening is wrong, Damaris,"
Saranna gave lip service to her own traming. But she was in no doubt at all
about the truth of what Damaris had blurted out. Honora must have made just some
such statement to the housekeeper.
Her own
suspicions,
thus reinforced, brought about real inner dismay. Only this was the enlightened
nineteenth century. Girls, in spite of the disadvantages of being much under
the control of relatives and guardians, could not be thrust into some
situations against their wills. And if a strong will were needed to protect
herself against such an encroachment upon her own privacy, Saranna could
certainly summon such.

 
          
 
Damaris laughed. "That made you think,
didn't it? I could see you didn't like to hear that. It was good of me, really,
to tell you, you know. Now you can be ready when she tries some of her tricks.
And she will, she always does—“

 
          
 
"Damaris," Saranna spoke with what
she hoped was emphasis enough to make the younger girl listen and heed.
"You must remember your grandfather's advice and not provoke Honora. I do
not know how much power she has over your future, but—"

 
          
 
"Jethro Stowell is my guardian. He says
what is done here, until I am grown up."

 
          
 
"But Jethro is in
Brazil
. He will be there a long time,"
Saranna reminded her. "Is—is there someone else—besides Honora—who can
decide your way of living here?"

 
          
 
Damaris regarded her with a long, searching
look before she answered. Her tongue tip swept over her lower lip as if her
mouth had gone suddenly dry. Then she nodded.

 
          
 
"There's someone—someone who can take
care of the Nu Wu—''

 
          
 
"Who?"
Saranna demanded.

 
          
 
Now Damaris shook her head with the same vigor
as she had nodded.

 
          
 
"That's a secret Grandfather's own
secret. Only I know now—"

 
          
 
"It may be important for me to know too,
in the future." Saranna was exasperated.

 
          
 
"I know. That's all that's important.
You'd better think of Rufe and what you are going to do about him." She
laughed a little maliciously. "Me—I'm going to dust the porcelain. Mrs.
Parton and the maids—Grandfather said never leave it to them.
Butterfingers—that's what most of them are!" She skipped past Saranna to
open the door and slip out. The older girl had no recourse but to follow her.
Before she could even call to Damaris, the child was already halfway down the
stairs and Saranna felt it wiser not to try to follow her at that moment.