He took his night guard position at last on the wide pillow beside Emmy and stretched out purring as he had for every night since he had assumed his rightful position in the household. Emmy stroked him.
“I am glad Papa is home,” she said. “Nothing bad can happen when Papa is here—and you!”
Thragun waited until she was asleep and then slipped off the bed and out of the room. He sped at a gallop down hall and stairs. There were still people awake in the house and he could smell the scent of the Captain’s cigar from the library. So warned, he crept in with the same care as when he was stalking and took up a position behind one of the long window drapes, hooking it a little aside with one paw so he could watch.
He had no more than taken up his position when the Captain got up and went to the table, pried open the box again, and shook off cotton covering to unveil the enemy, turning the teapot around in his hands and studying it carefully.
“You are ugly, aren’t you?” Again he lifted the head lid and peered inside. “I don’t think anyone would fancy drinking anything which had been brewed in you. The rajah might have had it in mind to frighten us when he sent this. You’d be better off in a case where you’d be locked away from mischief.”
He put down the pot on the table beside the box, making no effort to rewrap it. Then he shrugged, ground out his cigar in a copper tray, and made for the door, not giving the thing another look, as if he had forgotten it already.
Thragun growled deep in his throat. Khon magic—now it started. He was certain that the Captain had not unpacked the miserable pot just to look at it—no, he had been moved to do it by some power beyond his own curiosity.
With the Captain gone, and the lamp turned down, the room took on another and more ominous look. Thragun crept from one bit of concealment offered by a piece of furniture to another. The darkness was certainly not complete—growing stronger by the moment was a sickly yellowish light which issued from the misshapen pot.
He sat up and was watching that with such intensity that at first he did not see the thing which scuttled over from the gap which was the fireplace. But the smell of moldy straw awoke him to the fact that he had been joined by Hob.
The thewada of the house came to an abrupt halt. He had to lean far back so that his head was up far enough for him to see the now glowing pot. One broad foot came down with a stamp which narrowly missed Thragun’s swinging tail. So, Hob also knew it for what it was. But the cat was not prepared for the next move made by his companion.
Hob leaped, clutched the edge of the table, and drew himself up to approach the pot closer. Thragun moved uneasily, though he thought it prudent not to follow.
“This is a thing of evil.” He did not suppress his warning.
Hob reached for the pot which was nearly as large as his own pointed head. In the strange light his wizened face took on a somewhat sinister look. Hob was no quiet spirit when it came to that which aroused any threat of ownership of all within these walls.
Before Thragun could move or protest, he swung the pot around and hurled it straight at the wide hearthstone. There was a loud noise which sounded almost like an exultant cry. The pot, in spite of its substance, shattered and with such force that the many pieces appeared to go on crumbling until there was nothing but dust.
Thragun cried out, bared his fangs, hunched his back. In that moment of breakage something had reached out to touch him—something evil. He held against it.
Hob reached behind him on the table and caught up an object which glistened. He leaped toward the cat. That evil yellowish glow lingered enough to show that what the attacker held was a paper knife, a begemmed dagger also part of the curiosities Captain Wexley had brought home. Thragun moved with the swiftness of his kind when facing danger. However, Hob had already dropped the dagger. He was now dancing, holding the hand which had grasped its hilt to his mouth. From the hearthstone the yellow glow arose and circled the house spirit, clung to his whole body. Then it was gone as if it had sunk into Hob’s wrinkled brown skin.
Hob—the Khon had taken possession of Hob!
Thragun could not suppress a yowl. But there was a shrill cry even louder. Hob swung around and jumped back toward the fireplace. A moment later he had scrambled into the opening and was gone. Thragun shook his head from side to side as if someone had flung some blinding dust in his eyes. He was as cold as if his slender body was encased in that white stuff Emmy called snow.
What had Hob done—what had HE done? Whatever was now loose in the house was the worst danger Thragun could imagine.
There was no use trying to track Hob through his own private runways, many of which were only open to a body which could become unsubstantial at its owner’s will. Thragun sped from the library, made his way as a pale streak through the dark up the stairway until he reached Emmy’s room again. He was thinking fiercely as he went.
Were he back in his own land once more, those who knew of such things would speedily beware of the Khon by instinct alone and would take steps to separate Hob from his new master. But in this country Thragun had no idea of who might be approached.
Mrs. Cobb, who had first made him aware of Hob’s existence? Somehow Thragun believed that she would not be able to handle Hob as a Khon. And he knew that most of the other servants were afraid of even mentioning Hob himself. He was a legend within these walls, but also something to be feared.
Thragun headed for his place on Emmy’s bed. In all his time he had never seen a one with the old knowledge such as could stand against a Khon.
“No!” Emmy twisted, her face showed fear and she cried out again, even louder, “No!”
Then her eyes opened and she looked at Thragun as if he were the Khon in person.
“It—” she began when there resounded through the house, loud enough to reach them in spite of the thickness of the walls, a heavy crash. Emmy screamed.
“It’ll get me—it’ll get me!”
“Emmy!” Miss Lansdall had come so quickly from her own bedchamber next door that her dressing gown was half off her shoulders, dragging on the floor. “Emmy—what is—”
She had no chance to finish her question. From behind the half open door of her own room sounded a second crash which certainly was that of broken glass.
Emmy cowered down in the bed and held fast to Thragun in a way he would have speedily resented if conditions were as usual.
Miss Lansdall looked back into her own room. She swayed and nearly dropped the candle she had brought with her.
“No!” she echoed Emmy’s cry of a moment earlier. An object hurtled out of the bedroom, to smash against Emmy’s door and fall to the floor with a crackle of broken china. There followed a heavy scent of violets. Thragun realized that Miss Lansdall had just been deprived of one of her most prized possessions—something Emmy had always regarded with delight—a slender bottle painted with the violets whose perfume sheltered within.
There came a second crash and again something flew through the air. Miss Lansdall cried out in pain, the candle fell from her grip and hit the carpet, its hot grease spattering, and then flame flickered in the floor covering itself.
Miss Lansdall threw herself forward. Awkwardly she grabbed one-handed for the pitcher of water on the wash-stand and threw it at the beginning blaze. Her other arm hung by her side and in the limited light from the window, Thragun could see a spreading splotch of blood seeping through her dressing gown sleeve.
Emmy screamed again. Now there were answering noises from down the hall.
The gleam of another candle gave better light to the scene. Miss Lansdall had not risen from her knees though the small flame on the carpet was quenched. She nursed her arm against her and her eyes were wide with fear.
Captain Wexley paused a moment at the door, then strode to her.
“What’s all this?” he asked sharply, and then, seeing the blood on Miss Lansdall’s arm, he looked to his daughter.
“Ring for help, Emmy. Miss Lansdall has been hurt.” He helped t
he governess to a chair and then took up one of Emmy’s own petticoats laid out for morning wearing to loop it around the bloody arm.
Miss Lansdall was shaking as she looked up at her employer.
“Sir—it flew at me and—”
Before she could explain further, there came a loud clap of noise as if a door had been opened with such fury that it had struck the wall. That was followed moments later by an explosion.
“What—” Captain Wexley turned as there came a scream and some cries from down the hall. “What in the name of—” he bit off what he was about to say and ended—”is happening.”
“My room,” Miss Lansdall had reached out her good hand and taken a tight hold of the rich brocade sleeve of the Captain’s dressing robe. “Everything—smashed!”
“Captain, sir—!” Lasha came into view, carrying a candelabra with four candles lit. “In your chamber—your pistol—it is in the fireplace and there is much damage—a mirror, your small horse from China—”
Hastings reached them next and then Jennie and Meggy, with quilts pulled around their shoulders. Both of them let out startled cries as there were muffled sounds of more destruction sounding down the length of the hall.
Thragun listened closely. It certainly seemed that the Khon was taking Hob through a rampage of damage, striking at every room.
Strike at most of the chambers he had. China lay smashed, mirrors were shattered, draperies were pulled from their rods, even small chairs and tables were turned upside down. Miss Lansdall was not the only one who suffered personal attack either. Mrs. Cobb, drawn by the uproar, swore that something had caught her by the ankle so that she lost her footing and pitched down the stairs, doing such harm to one of her ankles she could not get to her feet again unaided.
Emmy and Miss Lansdall, once the deep cut in the governess’ arm was bandaged, went to Great-Aunt Amelie, who was sitting up in her huge curtained bed listening to the tale Jennie was pouring out.
She held out her arms to Emmy and motioned Miss Lansdall to sit down in a comfortable chair near the fire which Jennie must have built up again. There was a look of deep concern on her face as she settled Emmy in the warmth of undercovers.
“It is HIM for sure, m’lady,” Jennie dragged her own blanket tighter around her, but that did not seem able to keep her from shivering. “HE has taken a spite ‘gainst us. HE has!”
Great-Aunt Amelie listened, but for a moment she did not reply. Before she could, Miss Lansdall cried out, for a large piece of burning wood apparently leaped from the fire. Luckily the screen had been set up, but it struck against that with force enough to make it shake.
There was such a howl come down the chimney that Thragun yowled militantly in answer and jumped from the bed to run to the hearthstone. If Hob was planning on more mischief and truly aimed at those here, he would do what he could. Though if he might be able to actually attack Hob he was not sure. A thewada was apt to change into thin air under one’s paws, and a Khon’s reply might be even worse. This trouble was of his own making. If he had not brought Hob into the affair, the Khon, still fast in his pot, might well have been taken safely out of the house even as Captain Wexley had promised.
There were more crashes and Emmy was crying. Miss Lansdall’s face was very white. Jennie had dropped on her knees by the bed, her hand out as if she reached for comfort to Great-Aunt Amelie.
However, Lady Ashley pulled herself even higher on the pillows, and now her expression was one of intent study as if she were trying to remember something of importance.
“The still room,” she said as if to herself. “Surely Mrs. Cobb has some in keeping there. Jennie, I will not order you to go there—”
“M’lady,” Jennie sat up, “if there is something as will answer HIM—” her voice trailed off.
“Rowan,” Great-Aunt Amelie said sharply. “Get my robe, Jennie, and my furred slippers. Emmy, you are a brave girl, I know. Remember how you aided me when it was necessary. You must come, too.”
Emmy’s lower lip trembled, but she obediently slipped out of the bed and put on her own slippers.
“My dear,” Lady Ashley was speaking now to Miss Lansdall who had started to rise, her face plainly showing that she was about to protest, “I am a very old woman, and there is much which you younger people dismiss as impossible these days. But Hob’s Green is a house very much older than I. Some man well-learned in history once told my father that parts of it were standing even before the Norman Lord to which William granted it came here. There are many queer tales. Hob is supposed to be the spirit of the house. Sometimes for generations of time all goes well and there are no disturbances, then again there are happenings which no one can explain. When I was several years younger than Emmy, there was a footman my father dismissed when he found him mistreating one of the village boys who helped with the fruit harvest.
“The man was very angry, but he was too fearful of my father, who was a justice of the peace, to strike at him openly. Instead, he waited for fair time and stole into the house, meaning to steal the silver. When the servants returned from the fair, he was found lying in the hall, his head badly hurt and a leg broken. His story was he had been deliberately tripped on the stair.
“But this present disorder seems to be aimed at us within the house and not some intruders. Thank you, Jennie. Emmy, do you think you can carry that lamp? It is a small one and it gives us better light than a candle.
“No, Jennie, I must do this. We shall not have our home troubled in this fashion. There was an old woman who looked after the hens in my father’s time—” Great-Aunt had taken the shawl Jennie handed her as she finished tying the sash of her warm quilted robe and pulled it about her shoulders. “Now just give me my cane and let me steady myself against your shoulder, girl. Emmy, you can go ahead and light our way. And—” she looked over to where Thragun waited by the door, “you may just have a part in this, I think, for they say that cats can sometimes see much more than we do, and I believe that you are such a one. Now—let us go.”
“What about the hen woman, Great-Aunt,” asked Emmy. She held the lamp in a tight grip and tried to concentrate on what Great-Aunt had started to say rather than think of what might be waiting outside in the hall, or at the bottom of the stairs, or in the dark ways into the kitchen quarters.
“She was what the villagers call a wisewoman, Emmy. Like a cat, she might have seen farther than the rest of us. Mrs. Jordan, who was cook in that day, had a respect for some of her ways and called her in after the footman was hurt. There were strange noises to be heard then, but none of this wanton destruction, at least. The woman brought some sprigs of rowan and put them around. After that, things were quiet again. Rowan is supposed to keep off all dark influences and to close doors against their entrance. From that time on, it was customary to keep some rowan to hand—fresh if possible, dried if there was no other way.”
Their descent was slow. Great-Aunt held on to the stair rail with one hand and to Jennie, who kept step with her, with the other, while she pushed her cane through her sash to keep it ready. Thragun flowed down into the dark, once or twice looking back so his eyes were red balls in the reflected light.
Lady Ashley said no more, perhaps saving her breath for her exertions. However, there was noise enough in the house. Emmy heard her father calling for water and smelled what might be singed carpet. Two of the portraits on the walls of the lower hallway had fallen face-down on the floor, spraying fragments of glass from under them.
The clock boomed as they turned toward the kitchen wing and Emmy counted the tolls to five. The night was going. It was already time for the servants to be about. Yet this morning no one had time to think of regular duties.
Even the fire in the big range had not been built up and there were no kettles waiting for early morning tea. Spread across the floor was a clutter of utensils, as well as a welter of knives, forks, ladles, and large stirring spoons. There had been a clear sweep made of the many shelves and storage places.
> “Be careful, milady.” Jennie kicked, sending some of the debris out of their path. “Now you sit here and tell me what you want.”
Great-Aunt was moving more and more slowly and breathing heavily. She let Jennie steer her to Mrs. Cobb’s own chair and sat down, resting her head against its tall back. Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened.
“Keys—”
Her voice sounded very weak, hardly above a whisper.
“Yes, milady—” Jennie picked up a crock which was the only thing left on a shelf near the stove and felt behind it, to bring out a set of large old keys. “Luckily Cook leaves the spare ones here of a night when she plans to start early in the morning.”
“Still room—rowan—”
Jennie nodded. She had busied herself lighting one of the lanterns waiting to be used for anyone needing to venture out into the stable’s yard after nightfall.
For a moment she stood looking at one of the doors which led from the other side of the kitchen. Then she stooped and caught up a toasting fork, its handle long enough to make it a formidable weapon. With this in one hand, the keys and the lantern in the other, she advanced toward the door, Thragun already ahead of her.
The key turned in the lock and they were able to look into a room whose walls were composed of shelves, each of those loaded with jars and bottles. There was a scent of spice, of herbs, a large stock of the small bottled jams and jellies.
Jennie paid no attention to any of those and luckily Hob-Khon had not yet carried his program of breakage this far. The maid hunted out a bunch of leafed stems which had been hanging from the ceiling on a cord and swiftly made her way back to the kitchen, taking time only to lock the door behind her.
She laid her trophy on the well-scrubbed table and Thragun did what he had never dared do here before, jumped up beside it, sniffing inquisitively. He sneezed and raised his head. There was indeed a strong strange odor, but it had nothing of the dark about it.