Wheel of Stars (13 page)

At last she made another half-hearted attempt to reduce it to order. By now the scent thickened—almost she could see that spiralling up as incense smoke. She clutched the folds together as best she could, then made a quick sortie, flashlight in one hand, the roll of the cloak in the other, to the parlor, dumping this new, upsetting discovery with all the rest of that of which she wanted no part.

When she returned to the kitchen she washed her hands twice over, scrubbing hard, for the scent permeated her skin until she at last used strong smelling scouring powder, leaving her fingers red and wrinkled. Then she turned to the making of a pot of tea, the leaves drawn from one of those packets Miss Nessa had been so meticulous about mixing from herbs. These were supposed to quiet the nerves, to allow one to sleep—

Snow still hissed outside, but within, the kitchen was as it had always looked from the first day she had arrived at Whitebridge. Gwennan set her mug of tea close to hand, curled up on the sofa with two blankets pulled about her shoulders, reached for the nearest book. Slowly her will began to win the battle. She felt herself relaxing—all that uneasiness and excitement of moments earlier eased away.

On the third day the snow stopped. Gwennan, impatient at imprisonment, always a little fearful of being drawn to the parlor and what it held unless she could get free of the house, was glad to hear the snow plow again in action. At least she could get as far as the Newtons and perhaps discover when the light and the phones might again tie them to civilization.

Putting on her warmest and most storm-resistent clothing, she ventured out, though it was necessary to flounder through a drift which had near barricaded her front doorway. The yard was a strange territory with no bushes to be seen, save for mounds here and there. Red Anderson hailed her from the road, waving vigorously. Gwennan answered back, then fought her way out to follow along the path the plow had opened to the Newtons’ where Paul was shoveling paths. The snow had really outdone all previous records for several years, she learned from the battery powered radio of the Newtons’ which filled their kitchen with bulletins and warnings breaking into one another against a constant crackle of static.

“Town’s gone into hibernation like a bear,” Paul announced as he stamped in. “They closed school for a week. No use you going in, Gwen. Nobody is going to show up at the library, and that place takes too much to heat it. The furnace always was cranky.”

Remembering the suffering of her toes and fingers during past cold waves, she was perfectly willing to agree with him.

“Something queer,” Florence remarked as she
reached for the coffee pot to fill a mug for Paul, “they’ve been talking about some lights in the sky last night—thought maybe there was a plane off-course. Announcer real excited about it, said they were planning to send up a helicopter as soon as they could to check it out. There was no answer to any signals—and no one has reported a crash. Nobody took off from any field around here either. All those are closed down by the storm. They kept calling back and forth, trying to find out what flight might be missing, but no one seemed to know.”

“Lights—?”

Florence nodded in answer to Gwennan’s one word question. “Red ones—and yellow ones, they said. Then they got excited because no plane uses yellow signals—none of ours anyway—”

Paul laughed. “UFOs again—though this isn’t the season for them usually. If the Martians have any sense they’ll keep away from our storms. And they should have plenty of weather sense, seeing as how they appear to have been navigating our skies for a good long time now. Could be northern lights—”

Florence shook her head. “These were small—not spread all over the sky, as they told it. And they moved. Well, if it were some plane, that could be down, and it may be weeks before we find out. They said clouds were banking up in the north to come hard at us again. Gwen,” she spoke earnestly now, “why don’t you come on in with us? No sense you staying over there by yourself, if we get really locked in. We got plenty of provisions. You aren’t trying to keep that whole old
barn of a house warm are you?”

“Moved into the kitchen,” Gwennan returned. “I don’t know, Florence—” She was greatly tempted. Not only by the fact, that, for the first time in her life, she had felt herself a prisoner during the past three days—but also she could so get away from everything which reminded her of what she wanted most to forget. Over here at the Newtons she would not be tempted to visit the parlor to look again at what she had stored there.

“What Florence says is only good sense, Gwen.” Paul nodded. “You go get your things—stay here until tomorrow anyway, then if that second storm doesn’t hit us, you can make up your mind about it.”

“All right, I will!” Gwennan felt defiant, as if she were answering back against a command from an unseen other, one which she had no intention of obeying. She had clung to her independence for a long time, it had been so much of Miss Nessa’s training. However, if the cold built up and there was another bad storm—what the Newtons proposed
was
only good sense.

The second storm did hit and its fury was such that Gwen was glad of company, as it appeared they were about to be caught up in another ice age. She sat in a comfortable rocker with Justinia, the black Newton cat who had accepted her at once, curled in her lap, and listened to the howling of the wind. The radio, which had occupied the center of the table since the beginning of this time of fury gave forth distorted voices between crackles of ear splitting static. Now and then they picked up calls of ham radio operators
—asking for help for someone trapped and ill or without adequate supplies.

Paul stood listening to one such plea, the pile of wood he had brought in still across his arms.

“It’s a corker this time,” he observed. “Makes me think of that article in the magazine—that one I told you about, Gwen. Seems like one of these fellows got to saying that this was about the time for the world to come to an end—talking about the poles changing around causing tidal waves—earthquakes and such. And we have had a couple of hard winters—this one’s worse than last. Maybe that north pole is just moving down our way now.”

Florence laughed. “End of the world? I’ve heard them talk about that ever since I was a kid at home. There was some church once that believed that—sold off all their stuff, the people did, put on white robes, and went up on tops of hills waiting to be pulled right up into heaven. Ma always said that no one knew about the future and there weren’t no sense in spending time and trouble worrying about it—that all the worry in the world wasn’t going to change things.

“If the north pole is going to move down I don’t see how any one is going to go out and say ‘Stop’ and have it do just that. The world’s been bumping along for a good long time. We’ve always had earthquakes—look at them out in California. My niece Margy—she’s been through two that knocked her dishes right out of the cupboard. Broke two of the fine old plates Grandma Henshaw willed her. And there was that volcano out west that blew its top off a couple of years or so
ago. We’ve had a lot of things happen—but the world hasn’t come to an end yet.”

The world come to an end—Gwen was not looking at the table, the Newton kitchen—the warmth and comfort of this room here and now. She hung suspended in space above a sea filled with burning islands, its water steaming away, or heading towards the land in waves too large for any human being to conceive, she saw the earth break apart and spout fire—she saw—death—

“Gwen, Gwen! What on earth’s the matter with you, girl!”

The world died as she watched and there was nothing which could be done to stop that fury—nothing—

“Gwen! You sick?”

She was being shaken. That picture was gone as if the earth’s fire had crisped it into ashes, the waves rent it apart. Florence leaned over her, her face full of concern. Before she thought, Gwen answered:

“It happened once—once before—”

“What happened, Gwen? You feel faint—you look awfully white. Something wrong? You have a pain somewhere?” Florence’s hands were on the girl’s shoulders as if she feared Gwen might slip completely out of the chair.

“The end of the world.” Gwen was still dazed, still caught in the horror of the Mirror. “There were tidal waves—and volcanoes—the land—everything was swept away.” She blinked then and a measure of common sense returned swiftly. “I guess I read too much sometimes, Florence. There was a book.” Quickly she summoned
her wits to manufacture what her neighbors might believe. “It described a theory—that the world has gone through a number of catastrophes which ended most all life, then everything had to start over again. The author had some very graphic descriptions—you could read them and almost see it all happening.”

“You mean the Flood—like in the Bible,” Florence nodded. “Yes, Paul said there was more in that magazine article he was talking about, how people all over the world had stories of a flood and how just a few were saved—people who had never heard about our Bible either. Sounds like they all had the same story. But that writer who did the book you’re talking about, Gwen, he sure must have written something really upsetting. You looked there for a moment like it was all coming true right in front of you—”

“Miss Nessa always said I had too much imagination,” Gwen strove to cover up her self-betrayal. “I guess I just get carried away sometimes when I read something like that. I don’t think that we’ll ever know the truth if it did happen—except from the old stories.”

Paul deposited the fire wood in its box and now came over to pick up the radio, giving it a little shake as if that would subdue the blast of static.

“More likely some darned fool will set off a bomb somewhere and that’ll be the end this time,” he commented. “We go along just living on the edge of trouble these days. Seems like those who have the say should know it wouldn’t do them any good to start such a war—be nothing left worth the claimin’ afterwards and no one
alive to do that claimin’—on both sides.” He sat down and brought out his pipe.

“We wouldn’t have any more chance of stoppin’ a bomb coming over us now than we would one of those big waves, or a volcano, or the ground opening under us if it took a mind to. We’re not as high and mighty, none of us, as we’d like to think we are.”

Florence drew her sweater closer together. “That is chilling talk, Paul. What say we get out that old Monopoly game? It might give us something else to think about.”

Something else to think about. What had they said in her “dreams"—that it was man himself, not nature, who was the threat this time? Gwen’s fingers bit into her palms. Man himself—and could there be any stopping him?

It would seem that these dire weather predictions were working out to the satisfaction of the most pessimistic during the following weeks. There would be a milder spell during which Whitebridge resumed the limited winter life, only to face in turn another series of bone-freezing storms and high blizzards from the north. Some weeks Gwennan could get to the library only one or two days. However, business was brisk there when she opened—for the town was turning to books in the threat of a long winter shut-in.

Jim Pyron still burrowed in the Crowder papers, now and then lingering by Gwennan’s desk to share some new discovery. It was he who brought news she would rather not have heard, stirring up memories she had thought well under control.

“Young Lyle showed up at Cranston’s last night—” he told her. “I’d always heard that the Lyles had their own storehouse, but he did buy supplies. Though I think mainly that was an excuse. He was after something else—”

“Oh?” She knew her voice was cool, on the verge of snappish, but Gwennan wanted to hear no more of the Lyles.

“He—well, Gwen, he may have thought he was being smart about it, but I think he wanted to find what you were doing. He wrangled the talk around some, though he didn’t come right out to ask any questions.”

“Just what was he told?” Now her tone
was
sharp.

“Someone mentioned that you and the New-tons were sticking out the bad days together. Which is only sensible. You know, Gwen—there’s something about that fellow. He wants something and he wants it bad. You were friendly with the Lady, weren’t you, before she left? Maybe he thinks you know something she told you—something which he needs to know—”

Into Gwennan’s mind flashed that last letter. She could remember every word of it—always would, she was sure. The letter and the pendant—it was the latter which Tor Lyle wanted. Perhaps if she gave it to him she could be rid of any further participation in Lyle concerns. That was one way—but even as she guessed that she also was sure it was not one she could follow.

“I certainly have nothing to tell him,” she retorted. “Did he suggest that I have?”

The fact that Tor Lyle was trying to check on her brought back with a rush the old uneasiness which she had thought she had escaped.

No! she was not going to remember, to start again any dealings with the Lyles, those wild dreams, hallucinations or such, which they appeared able to control.

“It isn’t so much what he says.” The girl realized that Jim was watching her closely. That she resented also. “It is just that he
is
fishing. Not that it gets him anywhere. He certainly hasn’t the liking of the town. Arrogant cuss—though he tries to be agreeable. Only he’s too impatient, I would say—and his temper gets away from him now and then. I’d be careful, Gwen. The Lyles have a queer standing in this town, always have had.

“None of them have ever thrown their weight around very much. On the other hand, no one has ever denied that they do have a lot of power if they want to use it. Most of them have kept their distance, the Crowder accounts make that very clear. It is as if they live one life and the town another—distant acquaintances, you might say. This Tor Lyle is something rather new — he pushes—too much at times. And there’s something about him—as if—”

“As if he is laughing at us inside—” Gwennan returned without thinking, then was heartily sorry the minute the words were out of her mouth.

“Then you
have
come up against him! Gwen—be careful. I’m glad you’re with the Newtons. You’re altogether too isolated out on the far fringe of town that way.”

“Why should I have anything to fear from Tor Lyle?” she demanded, her chin up, anger rising still higher in her.

Jim Pyron looked away from her, down at the two old ledgers he had collected that afternoon. “Perhaps you don’t,” he answered slowly. “It’s just that fellow—well, he’s strange, even for a
Lyle. Maybe he’ll take off again soon. Few of them ever spend the winters here. At least,” now he laughed, “this weather has gotten rid of the Devil for us—too cold for his Satanic Majesty—or his emissary. There have been no more chicken killings or bad smells around. Maybe the blizzards have done us one favor. About time you closed up, isn’t it? Paul take you home?”

She nodded, very glad for the change of subject. Though she was going to make no comments about devils and the like. Again memory had risen in a surge which she wanted to push away. She had a momentary mental picture of that monstrous crew which had followed Tor’s other personality in the green-lit world and perhaps had even answered to his drawing in this. Just how much was he responsible for what had appeared at her window that night? Why had such a creature sought her out? Was that also because of an order from Tor?

She spent Thanksgiving with the Newtons. Jim Pyron’s guess concerning Tor Lyle’s leaving town apparently had been true, for the last of the Lyles had not been seen again. Gwennan trusted that he had indeed disappeared, after the way of his clan, to seek a warmer climate for the rest of the winter.

As December began, the weather, oddly enough, for all its fury earlier, grew milder. Gwennan, back in her own home, kept to the round of duties she had followed for years. She made only one trip to the front parlor, bundling up the books there and taking them back to the library, firmly intent on seeing them returned through the interloan
system to those establishments which owned them. She had left the papers of her notes, stuffed into a large manuscript envelope, lying on the seat of one of the very uncomfortable chairs, the same chair over the back of which she had thrown the cloak.

The scent that clung to it had grown sharper in the cold room rather than faded. That strange fabric, now fully exposed, gave forth continually its own odor, as might a blooming flower. And her first impression of the fabric, that it had once been a living thing and not woven from any thread she knew, persisted.

She found herself at times tempted to bring the garment out, examine it more closely. But she had strength of will enough not to yield to that temptation, congratulating herself on her ability to shut off firmly any further desire to learn what had influenced her weeks ago. Deliberately she kept to Miss Nessa’s narrow routine.

Christmas had never been a particularly exciting or joyous season as far as her aunt had been concerned. Perhaps the very old New England custom of considering it a popish holiday, not to be celebrated in any way, had filtered down among the Daggert clan—at least to Miss Nessa’s generation. Gwennan bought a handful of cards, realizing, as she spread them out on the table, just how few people she really knew—even in this village where she had lived for most of her life.

She dutifully addressed one to the family of each board member as was fitting, found one for Miss Graham and her mother, remembered the Newtons. And, having sealed and stamped that
small pile, put them aside. There were a few gifts—to the Grahams, the Newtons—selected from catalogues luckily far enough ahead so that the recent tie-up of mail had not interfered with their delivery. She surveyed her preparations for the holiday, and, for the first time, saw them as limited.

Of course there was the baking. Miss Nessa at least had seen that as a duty. The mince tarts would go with her to the Newtons for Christmas dinner, then there was her one timid recognition of the season as far as the town was concerned—the cookies for the plate she would keep filled in the library during the Christmas week.

Though she was no such cook as many of the townswomen were, Gwennan managed, as she believed, very well on the score of what she did—again Miss Nessa’s training. There were no decorations to be put up in the house, of course—but she achieved greens for the library, while Miss Graham’s class had sent class made Santas and other seasonal cutouts which she placed to the best advantage.

Midwinter day—

Gwennan stood now by the table where she had carefully set out mixing bowls, cookie tins, all ingredients she had been gathering over the weeks for this supreme effort.

Midwinter day—

The significance of that broke into her mind as a painful blow. She put her hands to the side of her head, cowered against the table. No! She would not! She owed nothing to Lady Lyle—except memories now flooding through her with
force enough to set her shaking, sick, with fear rising cold in her.

Midwinter day—

She had not promised. She had
never promised!
Certainly she could not be forced to do as she had been instructed when she had given no promise! She had not asked for Lady Lyle’s legacy—she wanted nothing but to be left alone. Left alone!

Midwinter day—

Even as Gwennan fought desperately, she knew that she had no hope of winning. She had been so very sure that she freed herself from the compulsion, that she was no longer any tool of the Lyle’s. At this moment she learned how futile had been her attempt to build walls and barriers—that she had been allowed a shadow of freedom as a cat might allow a mouse to run a little before the lazy and powerful paw closed upon it again. She was not free—she was caught.

Weakly Gwennan dropped into the nearest chair. She had never been given to tears. Even as a child she had greeted both pain and sore disappointment with tight lips and an inner resolve not to cry. Now she felt her eyes filling as if she had no control over her emotions at all. These others had set their mark on her—she was as much a servant to the Lyles as the dark-faced, silent people she had seen under their roof on her few visits there. That was the other side of all the wonders that house held—this slavery—for slavery it truly was—which held fast those the Lyles wished to bend to their own service.

She fought, pulling on every atom of her own will and determination. Gwennan made herself
get up, she did not even try to wipe away those slowly welling tears—let them run. She could still fight and she would. Her hands moved, uncertainly at first and then with greater purpose. She measured, stirred, cut out the fanciful shapes provided by the very old set of tin cutters she had found far back in the cupboard during a spring cleaning turn-out. She put cookies on the sheets into the oven, took them forth again, gold and crisp under their scattering of green or red sugar—and she fought—seeking always to twist and turn for freedom.

But, as she piled the cool cookies into the gay tin boxes set ready for them, the girl knew that she had already lost the battle with that first sharp stab of memory. Tomorrow morning she must do just as Lady Lyle had meant when that letter had been written. She would once again play a Lyle game and there was no escaping it.

That night she went early to bed—setting the alarm with fingers which were stiff enough to ache. Before she did that, she had gone into the parlor and taken up the cloak and the envelope which contained the pendant watch. As she clasped the latter in her hand once again, she saw that the dial was alive—that both sets of symbols, large and small were visible, that the light bars were dimly aglow. Though she would rather have opened the window beside her and hurled that thing out into the nearest snow drift, she lifted the chain and allowed it to encircle her neck once more. That warmth which seemed native to the silvery metal lay against her skin directly between her breasts.

Gwennan feared, expected, dreams to haunt her that night. Instead her sleep was deep, untroubled. She awoke before the alarm sounded, quickly and completely, as if a voice had summoned her. Methodically she dressed in her warmest clothes, nor did she stop to eat or drink.

Instead she caught up the cloak, and, on the doorstep, under the fading stars, she pulled it around her. Once more it enfolded her—eagerly—if one could say that of a piece of cloth (if cloth this was), closed around her as if she and no one else had ever been intended to wear it. The scent arose, now sharper. That was no perfume of winter but rather one which promised spring and the reawakening of the earth to new life.

The lane was only partially cleared when she turned into that path. Here were no signs that anyone had passed—at least no one from the Lyle House. The field wall was a mound, white and smoothly humped. Overhead the sky greyed, no clouds showing—a clear day to come.

A clear day and sun rising over the High Stone. Midwinter day—once a festival to which dark shadows clung. So much crowded into Gwennan’s mind. This was the shortest day of all, when the sun must be coaxed back to serve the world—sometimes through cruel sacrifice. There had been blood spilled on the snow once when men, long lost to all but remnants of old knowledge, had tried to draw back the natural warmth and life of their world—bring life anew.

This snow did not pack nor cling to the hem of her long cloak. In fact the edges appeared to sweep aside any impediment offered by drifts
through which it was necessary for Gwennan to make her way. She was at the wall which she had climbed across so many times in the past. The girl leaned forward using both arms, the cloak flaring wide, to sweep a way.

The fringes of the wood stood stark and black against the white drifts. Once across the wall, Gwennan paused to eye the stand of trees. They appeared so thick set that, even lacking leaves, this shadowed stretch formed a place of concealment—for what? She did not know except that she disliked that thought.

Knee deep in the snow she floundered on, keeping well away from the trees. There was the mound and the stones. Though they had wide tops snow had not crowned them, nor did drifts lie about the mound itself, as she discovered when she began to climb. Perhaps the winds continually scoured this small height, and kept it so uncovered.

There was light enough for her to sight the roof of the house. A single small trail of smoke arose there into the quiet air—the only sign of life visible. The wood was utterly silent.

Gwennan came to a stand between the two shorter stones—the third one towering before her. Reaching under the edge of the cloak she pulled down the zipper fastening her parka and drew out the pendant. That brightness of symbol which had showed when she first put it on was yet flashing—and the warmth of it reached through her mitten into her hand.