The house was very quiet. Perhaps the rest of the household were still sleeping off the alarms of the storm. She hesitated for a moment at Lydia’s door, half-inclined to knock; then felt no need. Rather she could find Molly, and the best place to hunt would be the kitchen.
As Persis went, the quiet of the house disturbed her more and more. She had an odd feeling that she was the only one now within its walls, deserted. An odd fancy and one she quickly quenched. Only, when she found the kitchen also empty, no fire set, nor any sign of Mam Rose and the others, she was again shaken.
The back door which they had bolted so firmly after the arrival of Askra now stood a little ajar. Instinctively, Persis headed for that. Mam Rose and the maids must have returned to their own cabins—that was it—and had overslept. It was not her place to awaken them, of course, but she could at least step outside and see what kind of a day it was.
A fresh sea wind pulled at her skirts and tugged vainly to loosen a lock or two from her tight top braids. Leaves and plants torn into fragments littered the ground. She could see no path through this mess, nor any sign of the cabins, though she continued toward the farther side of the mound, picking her way with care among the debris.
Then, there had been a slippage of the earth and shell of which the mound itself was made. Enough to uncover rough stones, set in a line which could only mean they had been placed there on purpose.
And two of those had been rammed askew by half a palm; its trunk now a splintered stump. Persis paused. Those stones—they should have stood higher—much higher! But how did she know that?
Wondering, she gathered up her skirts with both hands and edged past the wreckage of the palm to look at the remnants of what must be a very old wall. One of the long splinters torn from the palm had dug deeply into the surface of the mound at this point and there was something there—not stone—
Persis stooped, jerked a good-sized bit of palm frond loose, and dug into the loosened earth. A box! Of some dull metal which was the same color now as the ground which had held it.
It was narrow, about eighteen inches long. She wriggled it out of its niche and picked it up, to discover it was surprisingly heavy. Lead? A lead box. Something concealed here long ago by the Spaniards, or by a pirate?
She tried to force it open and finally had to admit that though she could see no lock, it was firmly closed. Carrying it carefully, she went back to the kitchen, in her mind a memory picture of the rack of knives on the wall there.
“Aaaaa-”
Persis jumped and dropped the knife, the blade of which she had been trying to force under the edge of the lid.
That witchlike creature who had been blown out of the storm was standing there staring at her with that same compelling, measuring look. Persis had never remembered feeling such a fear of any person before but Askra was far different from anyone she had ever met.
Now the Indian woman stretched forth a hand which was clawlike as to fingers, even the nails, dull and dirty, taking on the semblance of the talons of some unwholesome bird such as the vultures Persis had seen once or twice in the past.
“You find—ghost—thing—” The words were voiced protestingly, almost as if forced one by one with great effort from under the overhang of that beak of a nose.
Persis nearly snatched away her own hands to hide behind her back in denial. Then her stubbornness and independence strengthened her.
“I found this—out there under a stone.” She pointed to the back door, tried to keep her voice as even and emphatic as always. There were no such things as witches—ghosts. She knew enough to be sure of that. And she was not going to let herself be stampeded into believing otherwise.
“Ghost thing-bad-”
Persis knew now what Molly had meant when she said that Askra’s intent gaze did make one feel that the hag could summon powers beyond the comprehension of ordinary people. Only she was not going to give in to any such foolish idea!
The Indian woman stretched her hand out farther, extending her fingers as if to grasp the box. Now her eyes changed, were veiled as her wrinkled lids fell. She made, however, no move to pick up the box. It was just as if it radiated some form of heat which her hand could feel.
“Not of—” She no longer spoke English but rather a gabble of words totally unknown to the girl. “Bloody-it has been—it will be again. You take it.”
Now using her fingertips, Askra pushed the box toward Persis.
“It is for you-a gift.”
“A gift?” Persis echoed.
“A gift of blood. To your hand only will it go. And in your hand it will bring life—and death. She wishes it so.”
“She-?”
Askra was already shuffling toward the outer door. She did not answer and in a moment was outside, the still unopened box left lying on the table. Persis was torn by two almost equal emotions. One demanded that she return the thing to where she had found it, scratch broken shells and earth over it. But she found that she could not do that. It had suddenly become so important that she know— She had to know!
The Indian woman had been obviously trying to frighten her; that was it. Molly said that most of the islanders held Askra in such awe that they gave her what she wanted and kept carefully out of her way thereafter.
Slowly the girl picked up a knife, inserted its point into the edge age had sealed shut, and began to pry. This had been a pirate stronghold once. The thought of some treasure crossed her mind but she forgot her uneasiness as she worked to loosen the leaden band around its side which apparently locked it closed. Loosening the end of one strip, she peeled that loose in a single piece. And once that band was gone, it was easy to raise the lid.
There was a mass of age-rotted fiber there. That she drew out carefully. Then a single object, well wrapped in what could only be a strip of oiled silk (gone crackly with age and giving forth a disagreeable smell) appeared.
Persis plucked gingerly at that, not liking the feel of it against her fingers. It unrolled slowly and she found she had uncovered a closed fan. But—
This was the one Lydia had shown her, with such a fantastic history! There was no mistaking the opal-eyed cats staring banefully up at her from the heavily carved end sticks. Except when she tried to open it, there was no spread. The thing was made to look like a fan, yes, but a second close observation showed no folds. It was a solid, heavy copy of the closed fan Lydia had displayed—even grooves along the top to suggest the edges of real folds.
And, she hated it!
Persis prided herself on her sensible approach to life. She certainly discounted Lydia’s relished ghost story. This could not be Lydia’s fan, of course, though it was so closely a duplicate, except that it must remain furled. Persis found that she shrank from touching it at all.
Instead, using the flaking, oiled silk to cover her fingers, she recovered it quickly, to fit it back into its coffin. Why did the word coffin seem to fit so well, asked one portion of her mind? But that was what it was— encoffined.
Hurriedly she piled the disintegrating fiber over it and slammed the lid back on the box. As best she could, she retwisted the lead strip, sealing it around the sides. Though, she was sure, not well enough to keep the sea damp from reaching the contents. But that did not matter. This was an instrument of evil!
Then she was astounded by her own thoughts. How could any object convey to her such a sense of heightened evil which this held? It was not natural in these enlightened days. She knew that witches and curses, and all the like, were only a part of such old romances silly schoolgirls traded and read in order to have the pleasure of shivering over impossible horrors.
Taking up the box once more she determinedly went out the rear door. This was going right back where she found it. And Askra’s comments, or warnings, whichever those had been, were only the meandering of a half-crazed old woman who fed upon the awe and fear she aroused in the superstitious.
Persis found the hole from which she had freed the box and worked that back into its former resting place, pushing in shells and earth, tramping back and forth with stolid determination over the spot that it might stay safely hidden and buried.