Circle of Secrets

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  The anger crawling up and down my neck won’t go away. Nobody will listen to what I want, or where I want to live. It’s more than wrong; it’s downright unjust!

  Glancing around the bedroom, an idea begins to form in my mind. I set down Miss Silla Wheezy, who slinks off to the corner to wash her paws, and dig underneath my stack of shirts, pulling out several pairs of socks. I lay four socks on the lampshade so they dangle down, throw the rest across the bed, and then pull out the bureau drawers, draping T-shirts over the edges.

  I stare at the spilled papers and pencils and notebooks on the floor, and then leave them right where they are.

  I’d never dare make a mess at home. Grandmother Phoebe would give me a dressing down. I wonder what Mirage will say. I’m hoping it’ll bug her to pieces. Show her how mad I am and what I think of her weird old house.

  My gaze settles on the mahogany wardrobe standing in the corner like a haughty queen. The pretty swirls in the wood are like eyes watching me, and the burnished gold handle is beautiful.

  As soon as I reach for the latch, I can’t help thinking about witches and lions, even if there is a solid back wall to the wardrobe.

  I count to three, fling open the doors, but there’s absolutely nothing inside. Just a row of bent wire hangers. No fur coats pressed together, no piles of pointy black umbrellas. Just dust.

  I was hoping for wondrous, exotic things, but I’m more relieved there aren’t spiders creeping in the corners or a loose snake slithering along the rod.

  A set of small drawers with matching gold knobs sit in rows along the bottom of the wardrobe.

  I can smell something sharp and musty, like mothballs and old socks. Yuck. Grandmother Phoebe has an old cedar hope chest from when she was a girl, and when she opens it, it stinks bad.

  Kneeling on the floor, I pull out each of the cute little drawers, but they’re all empty. Except the last one makes a jingly sound when I start to close it.

  I pull the drawer all the way out, but it’s shorter than I expect and the whole thing pops out and falls to the floor. The jingling object falls, too, and a glint of silver catches the lamplight.

  It’s jewelry, a bracelet. A silver double-looped bracelet with all sorts of dangling items hanging from the loops. It looks really old, the silver dark with age, although the charms are newer and cleaner.

  Laying the bracelet across my jeans, I turn over each of the items for a closer look.

  There’s a single red-colored stone like a jewel, a Cajun French fleur-de-lis, a little owl, the cutest baby gator ever, and a little wooden box carved with tiny hyacinths painted purple. The box opens on two tiny brass hinges, although it’s empty. It reminds me of Mirage’s box in the kitchen. The one with her traiteur stuff in it. In the center of the charms hangs an oval-shaped locket. And there’s a little blue bottle, too. Just like the bottles on the tree outside.

  I finger each charm, wondering who they belong to. Putting the bracelet on top of the dresser, I keep looking at it while I pull on my nightgown.

  Then I hear another noise and press my ear against the bedroom door. Mirage is talking to herself. Or Mister Lenny and Winifred.

  Before I can turn off the lamp and pretend I’m asleep, there’s a light tapping at the door.

  Mirage stands there with Mister Lenny on her shoulder. He flutters his one good wing awkwardly, obviously not liking the bandage she put on the other wing and taped to his body.

  “How long will his wing take to heal?” I ask.

  “Couple a weeks.” She strokes his head and then looks at me. “Thought I’d say good night, Shelby. I can help you unpack, too.”

  “Already did.”

  She glances inside the bedroom, at the clothes hanging everywhere, the mess of stuff on the floor, and looks at me sideways. “Don’t remember you keepin’ your bedroom like this before.”

  I shrug my shoulders and bite the inside of my cheek. “What’s it matter? You haven’t cared all year.”

  “I’m sure you’re missin’ your daddy and your home,” she says in a quiet, solemn voice, but I can’t tell if she’s mad or sad.

  Something starts stinging at my eyes like little needles.

  Mirage clears her throat and goes on. “You remember comin’ out here when you were real little? We’d collect moss and make dolls, take walks, feed the birds, all kind a stuff like that.”

  I shake my head and wince at the place inside my mouth that always hurts. I’m sure she’s talking about a different girl altogether.

  “Can’t believe you’re eleven today and goin’ on twelve now. There’s times I feel like I’ve lost you.” She turns away, but not before I see her eyes filling up, like I’m supposed to feel sorry for her.

  She steps over the school papers and brushes aside the curtains, looking out the window. It’s almost pitch-black now. “Used to be a swing in that big, old oak tree there on the edge of the property. You wanted me to push you for hours. My arms would wear out from all that pushin’ and swingin’ and runnin’ ’round the yard. Later, we’d end up napping in the rocking chair. You were my beautiful baby, Shelby Jayne.”

  Silence fills the corners. I wish she’d leave so I can go to bed and forget about where I am.

  “Jest give me a chance, Shelby. We gotta lot a history the past year, you and me. But I want you in my life real bad.”

  I rub my hands against my nightgown and stare at the floor, then glance up at the charm bracelet sitting on top of the dresser. Wish I’d hidden it in one of the drawers until I’d had a chance to look at it closer.

  “You brush your teeth?” she says, making her voice cheerful like my daddy on the phone.

  “Yeah,” I lie, biting my cheek again and tasting blood.

  Mirage looks up and sees the light catch the charm bracelet. “You found it!” Going over to the dresser, she runs a finger along each charm real slow, studying it.

  “It was in one of the drawers in the wardrobe. Are you mad I got it out?”

  “Mad?” I watch her swallow and glance around the room. “’Course not, shar.”

  “Looks old.”

  “It is that. The silver bracelet belonged to Grand-mère on my side a the family. Think it’s from one of our ancestors going back to the Civil War. It’s tarnished, ain’t it? My mamma gave it to me when I was twelve and — and I started putting charms on it. It’s a very special charm bracelet, and charms can be powerful objects.”

  “You mean like that traiteur stuff you do? I don’t remember you doing any of that healing stuff back home.”

  “I didn’t really. Didn’t talk about it much in Grandmother Phoebe’s city-folk neighborhood. Her people go to doctors, not traiteurs. Plus I was still learnin’ ’bout it from your grand-mère, slowly, little bit at a time. Past year she taught me all she could before she died. Good thing, too,” she adds. “My mamma couldn’t speak hardly at all the last month.”

  Right then, thunder rumbles overhead, making me jump. I wonder if the wind or the rain ever breaks those blue bottles outside on that tree.

  “This here bracelet don’t have nothin’ to do with being a healer. The bracelet is powerful and special because each charm has a unique meaning. Charms tell a story. Almost like memories comin’ to life. The bracelet tells me who my family is, and where I come from.”

  “How’d one of your old-time ancestors get such a pretty silver bracelet so long ago if they lived out here so poor and didn’t have much money?”

  “It was a gift from my great-great-great-grandmother’s owners. The Mistress, they used to call her. Mistress of the plantation. Give it to her when she was freed when the war was over. The mistress probably thought my grandmother would sell it to help her get somewhere in life or move away, somethin’ like that, but she never did. Knew this bracelet was worth more than just money, that it could be a family heirloom, somethin’ very special to give to her daughters to come down through the years. Passed it along the generations ever since.”

  I stare at her, my stoma
ch jumping around with a queer flopping. “You mean my great-great-great-great-grandmother was a slave?”

  Mirage nods, gazing right back into my eyes.

  I break off the stare and chew on my cheek. That explains her black, curly hair, I guess. And mine. “So what happened to her?”

  “Married a Cajun fisherman and they lived out here somewheres.”

  “Right here?”

  “Not in this house, it wasn’t built yet, but somewheres in a little shack probably, crawfishin’, living off the land, hunting squirrels and possum.”

  That was a life I could hardly imagine living, so far from town, no roads, probably not even a horse. Just boats. And nets. And fish.

  “You see why this bracelet is special and powerful? Lots of generations and memories tied into it, so many mammas and daughters putting their own special charms on it. My mamma took off her charms when she gave it to me and kept them in her traiteur box.”

  “Where’s her box now she’s died?”

  “Packed away. Stuff I’ll keep until I pass it on to you someday when you’re a whole lot older.”

  “I guess that bracelet might be worth a lot since it’s so old, but how can the charms make it powerful?” That seemed silly to me.

  “The charms represent memories, and they’re tied to special people and special reasons —” She stops and I glance up. Her eyes are suddenly rimmed in red and she wipes her nose.

  I shift on my bare feet and hope she doesn’t start crying for real.

  Mirage takes a breath. “Giving a gift or a charm to someone is about both people — the one giving the gift and the one receiving it. A gift is powerful because of the hearts of the giver and the receiver.”

  “You mean like if they give it with good intentions, it could help you?”

  Mirage runs her fingers along the silver, making the charms tinkle together. “Good gifts are given with love; just remember that, Shelby Jayne.” She stretches the bracelet out, watching all the little charms sway on its chain. “When you’re twelve I’ll officially give it to you and it will belong only to you. For now, you can keep it here in your room, but make sure it’s safe. Next year I’ll take off my charms, put them away for safekeeping. Maybe you’ll receive some special charms of your own one day to put on it.”

  My stomach jumps as she steps toward me. Haven’t been this close to her in so long. I can smell a hundred different scents on her skin, along the strands of her black hair: that owl, chicken pox medicine, burnt roux, along with shampoo and a faint perfume. Memories come at me like a tidal wave. I remember her digging with a spade in the dirt in Grandmother Phoebe’s garden, shelling pecans at the kitchen table, frying catfish for dinner, staring into space with a textbook in her lap.

  I remember all those times Mirage was quiet. Not saying nothing. Like she was sad a lot of the time and couldn’t stop herself from being sad.

  Now she wraps the bracelet around my wrist and snaps the clasp in place.

  “It fits perfectly, Shelby,” Mirage says softly, stepping back again.

  I drop my eyes, pretending to look at the bracelet real hard. I don’t say it, but I love the feel of the silver charms tickling my skin.

  “That red teardrop charm,” she says, pointing it out. “That’s a ruby for July, my birthstone. But it’s your birthstone, too.”

  I know our birthdays are only three weeks apart, but I don’t say nothing. Three weeks ago, I didn’t even call her to wish her a happy birthday, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Daddy was upset with me that I wouldn’t acknowledge it, but I remember that night — it was the night he told me about the plans for me living out here in the swamp with Mirage for six months. I was so mad I’d stomped upstairs and didn’t even come down for supper.

  Now I clear my throat. “The red is so dark it looks almost like blood, but it’s real sparkly, too.”

  “Ruby stones are beautiful. And it’s kinda like blood kinship for you and me, eh? When I turned twenty years old I got the best birthday present of my whole life — you.”

  I just keep staring at the charm bracelet so I won’t have to look into her eyes.

  “The charm bracelet will be yours next year on July thirty-first when you turn twelve. Kind of unexpected you finding it, but I guess not too surprising. This room used to be mine when I was a girl.”

  I feel sort of shivery thinking about her growing up here, and wonder if she ever used to think the wardrobe was spooky, or hide inside pretending it opened up into Narnia. But I’m not gonna ask.

  “I do got somethin’ special for your eleventh birthday today. Be right back.”

  She goes to the kitchen and returns almost instantly with a cake on a foil-covered piece of cardboard. A castle cake with a moat and a drawbridge and turrets made of gold candies. “It’s never too late for a castle cake, is it?” she asks.

  I chew on my cheek and shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s chocolate inside, your favorite. I made it myself. Almost forgot to clean your room I was so busy getting it done in time.” She pauses. “I know the cake is a year late. But I hope it’s not too late for us, shar.”

  I get this strange yearning to throw myself into her arms and start bawling like a baby, but I don’t. I hold myself real still and think about all the things she missed because she left and only cared about herself and not me. Not only my birthday, but the story I wrote that got voted best in the class, the Christmas Choir Program where I got to sing two lines all by myself, LizAnn’s new baby sister. All kinds a things. Things I’m not going to tell her. Because she doesn’t deserve to know.

  “Don’t eat it all at once,” she says, trying to smile at me as she backs out the door and shuts it behind her.

  I let out my breath, and it suddenly feels like I’ve been holding it the whole time she was here.

  I stare at the cake and it’s pretty, just like a bakery could make. White frosting is spread on the ground around the castle walls like snow and there’s a walkway made of sparkly glitter and red hearts framing the double castle doors made of chocolate candy bar pieces.

  I set the cake on top of the bureau and just stare at it. Lick a dab of the frosting with my finger. Wish Daddy were here to share it with me. I want to eat some right now because I love chocolate and it looks delicious, but I don’t want to spoil the architecture.

  I can’t figure Mirage out. Is the cake a peace offering or is she just trying to get rid of her guilt for everything she’s done? A cake won’t take away any of the last year. Not by a long shot.

  Kneeling down to replace the drawer from the wardrobe, I see that the back panel of the drawer broke off and has fallen into the empty space underneath.

  I tilt the lampshade up so the bulb shines better into the black hole and see something else — something that dropped to the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Reaching in with my hand, I pull out a key, an old-fashioned brass skeleton key. It’s small, just like a charm, and a little bit faded and rusty. With a silver loop at the end exactly like the loops on the charm bracelet.

  Taking the bracelet off my wrist, I finally find a spot where there’s an empty silver loop, half open. I slip the key through the loop, then close it up tight so it won’t fall off again.

  A key. I wonder if it’s just a charm — or if it actually opens a lock.

  I try the key in the wardrobe but it doesn’t fit. I try my bedroom door, but it doesn’t fit there, either. There aren’t any keyholes in the nightstand or the bureau. No jewelry boxes or latches or padlocks that I can see.

  Setting the bracelet on the dresser, I put the drawer back together best I can, then crawl into bed and flop my head down. Grandmother Phoebe told me to bring my own pillow and I’m glad I listened to her.

  The rain drums against the roof and I jump up again to retrieve the bracelet from the bureau. The charms slip around my wrist, tickling my palm. A flash of lightning illuminates the ruby-red birthstone against my pillow’s white slipcase and the stone seems to glow l
ike fire.

  My fingers dart out from under the sheet and I reach for the note from the blue bottle. I unfold it and look at the words in the dark.

  Don’t forget! Tonight’s the Night!

  Come to the bridge — and hurry!

  It’s a message to someone. But who? And what bridge is the note talking about?

  A funny tingle crawls up my legs.

  A sense of ancient history seems to float on the night air. The bedroom grows stuffy so I jump out of bed to crack open the window.

  I can’t believe my eyes when I see the figure of a girl move out from behind the blue bottle tree. She’s wearing shorts and a blouse and she’s barefoot.

  A moment later, she starts dancing under the silvery half moon, whirling in circles, leaping around the yard.

  Who is that?

  When I press my nose against the glass the girl stops dancing and looks straight up at me. I freeze, not daring to breathe. We stare at each other and then she disappears behind the trunk again.

  The mysterious shadowy girl looked at me, saw me. Watched me!

  I can hardly gulp down a decent breath, but I have the crazy notion to run right out the back door in my nightgown.

  There’s a girl out there, and I get the strangest feeling that she’s waiting for me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A SPLIT SECOND LATER, QUIET AS I CAN, I’M RUNNING DOWN the hall, slipping through the kitchen and down the porch steps. My feet sink into the soft, wet grass, mud sticking to my toes. At least it’s not raining any longer.

  Ducking under the bottom branches of the blue bottles, I peek around the tree trunk and my breath rushes out like a gust of wind. The yard is empty.

  The shadows of hundreds of cypresses circling the house seem to watch me. A breeze lifts the dripping moss and I watch it float in the air like invisible hands are running their fingers through it.