“Look!” Robin shouted. A large gray and white bird had flown through the open window and, just skimming the strawberries, had come to roost on the back of Bridget’s chair. At first Robin thought it was a wild bird that had blundered in by accident, but she quickly realized it was very much at home. The bird leaned forward and peered meaningfully at the cookie in Bridget’s hand. “Awk,” he announced in a demanding voice.
Bridget shook her head. “Daniel!” she scolded. “You’re such a beggar. Oh, pardon me, Robin. I’d forgotten you two hadn’t met. This is Daniel—another member of my family. Daniel is a mockingbird.”
“I know,” Robin said. “That is, I know it’s a mockingbird. But I’ve never been so close to—Oh! Look out!”
Daniel had accepted a large beakful of cookie, and with a flop of his wings glided to the floor—not two feet from where Damon was awakening with a humped-backed stretch. “Look out! Damon will catch him.”
But Bridget did nothing at all. “Watch,” she said. Damon finished a white-fanged yawn and leaped lightly to the floor. Robin gasped. It took a moment to realized that Damon was only interested in Daniel’s cookie. Daniel cocked his head at the cat, picked up his cookie, and hopped away. But a piece had broken off, and Damon pounced. The mockingbird quickly gulped the rescued portion and looked back to where Damon crouched, cat fashion, over his captured morsel. Then, as Robin gasped again, Daniel hopped back, and with righteous indignation, pecked Damon firmly on his ear.
“Why doesn’t Damon eat him?” Robin demanded. “I thought all cats ate birds.”
“Not if they’re trained very young,” Bridget said. “I waited to get a kitten until I had a young bird to raise with him. Daniel was an excellent cat trainer. He has always had a very strong character.”
After the tea was over and Robin had helped clear away, she spent a fascinating half hour playing with Damon and Daniel on the cottage floor. Even nocturnal Pythias managed to wake up enough to accept a bite of cookie, which he promptly washed to crumbs in his drinking bowl. It was as good as a circus, but Robin suddenly realized that if she didn’t leave soon there would be no time to visit the big house on the way home.
“I think I’d better go now,” she said, shooing Daniel off her shoulder. Bridget picked up her cane and slowly lifted herself from her rocking chair.
“You’re going home by way of Palmeras House, I imagine?” she said. Robin nodded. “Wait a moment.” Bridget put out her hand as if to stop Robin, but then for a second she stood still, as if she were trying to decide something. Finally, she said, “I want to give you something.”
She crossed the room with her tiny slow steps and stopped before a carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She called Robin and showed her how to lift the lid and run her hand down the side past layers of clothing and blankets until she felt a little box. Robin lifted it out, a small white box that seemed to be made of ivory. She couldn’t see any opening at all, but Bridget did something with her fingers, and a lid flew open. She reached inside and brought something out. It was a large, rusty key. When Robin had replaced the box in the trunk, Bridget took her hand, put the key in it, and squeezed her fingers tightly over it.
“I may be doing the wrong thing,” she said, “but I think you should have this.”
“What is it?” Robin asked. “What shall I do with it?”
Bridget shook her head. “That I won’t tell you. Except that you must promise to keep it a secret. If you can’t find what it is for, perhaps it will mean I’ve made a mistake and you weren’t meant to have it.”
Search for a Keyhole
WHEN ROBIN REACHED PALMERAS House, the key was squeezed tightly in her hand, and she was so excited that her heart seemed to be bouncing against her ribs. Bridget hadn’t said so, but she was certain—well, almost certain—that the old key would let her into Palmeras House. What else could it possibly be for?
In the patio at the back of the house Robin took a moment to inspect the key more carefully. It was larger than most keys she had seen, and the metal was rough and discolored. The handle end was round and decorated with a pattern of leaves and flowers, now partially worn away. It reminded Robin of the ironwork above the gates that led to the palm-lined drive. Spanish! That was it! It looked Spanish, so it must belong to the adobe part of the house instead of the Irish part.
So Robin started at the adobe wing and carefully inspected all the doors and windows. But she couldn’t even find a keyhole to try the key in. Boards had been nailed over every door so that the keyholes were not visible. She was sure that Bridget hadn’t expected her to tear off any boards. And even if she were able to, it would surely be against the law, so there just had to be a door somewhere that wasn’t boarded up. She finally gave up on the adobe wing and tried the rest of the house, but with no better luck. Everything was boarded up except for the big front doors of the main entrance, and they were secured with an extra latch and padlock besides their regular built-in lock.
She knew she had to be getting home. She’d already been gone much too long, and if she didn’t return soon, she might lose permission to go to Bridget’s at all. So, reluctantly, she gave up and started for home. That is, she gave up for the time being.
When Robin got home, she found some heavy string, tied it to the key, and hung it around her neck, inside her dress. All afternoon, while she helped with the laundry and carried wood from the woodpile, she could feel its rough weight against her skin. The feel of it made her shiver, like a promise of excitement.
On a trip to the woodpile she met Theresa. “Allo, Robin,” she said. “You wanna play when you tru work?”
“O.K.,” Robin said. “What shall we do?”
“You got any paper dolls?”
“No, I used to have some, but they’re lost now.”
“Me neither. Hokay. We play marbles. Julio got lots of marbles.”
Theresa’s brothers were already using the marble holes in her yard, so the girls dug some new ones in the Williamses’ yard. Robin had never played marbles much, but Theresa knew all the rules.
“How come you not know how to play marbles?” Theresa asked. “Don’ your brothers teach you?”
“Rudy’s too big for marbles,” Robin said. “Besides, he never did play much, except building things and making things run. And Cary never plays any games that anyone else made up. He thinks up his own games.”
Theresa was hunched down making spansies in the dust with her brown fingers when suddenly she stopped and looked up at Robin. “Hey!” she said. “I see you comin’ home again—from over there!” She pointed towards Palmeras House and the word there was heavy with significance. “What you want to go over there for? Deen’t I told you eet’s a bad place?” She looked around as if to see that no one was listening. Then she whispered, “Deed you see the bruja?”
“The bruja?” Robin repeated. “What does that mean? What on earth’s a bruja?”
“A bruja! A bruja!” Theresa said, as if by saying it over she could make Robin understand. She stopped and thought a moment. Then her face lighted. “A weetch?” she said questioningly. “Yes, that’s eet. A weetch leeves over there.”
“Oh, a witch,” Robin said, suddenly remembering what Gwendolyn had said about Bridget and the Village children. “You mean the lady who lives in the little stone house?” Theresa nodded emphatically. “That’s silly. She’s not a witch at all. She’s ... Robin was about to tell about Bridget: her kindness, her wonderful pets, the cookies; but suddenly she decided not to. Instead she just asked, “What makes you think she’s a witch?”
Theresa shrugged. “Everybody know eet. And Francisco, my brother, he see she’s a weetch. Weeth hees own eyes. Francisco ees very brave, and he go and hide and watch and he see! He see thees beeg cat ...
Robin nodded. “Damon,” she said.
“Si!” Theresa cried with surprise, as if Robin had suddenly agreed with her. “That’s what Francisco say, too. Francisco say that he see thees beeg cat eating from a dees
h and some birds eat weeth heem, in the same deesh—and he deedn’t even try to eat the birds. Francisco say that thees ees not a real cat. He ees uno demonio, a demon. Francisco say so, too.”
Robin couldn’t help giggling. “That’s not what I meant. He’s not a demon at all.”
Theresa looked indignant. “Eet’s true. And besides, that beeg house ees a bad place, too. My grandmother even say so. My grandmother told me a long time ago a leetle girl got keeled in that house.”
Theresa took Robin’s shocked expression to mean that she was beginning to listen to reason. “Now maybe you stay away from that Palmeras House,” she said. She looked around and lowered her voice. “My grandmother say that a something bad leeves in there. She say eet ees La Fantasma de Las Palmeras.”
Robin tried to get Theresa to tell her more, but she only shook her head. “Eet’s bad luck to talk about eet,” she said.
But in spite of La Fantasma de Las Palmeras, Robin was back at Palmeras House that very evening. With a little talking, she was able to get Dad’s permission to bring Betty in, and that gave her the excuse she needed to get away. She’d also found out from Dad what La Fantasma de Las Palmeras meant—the Ghost of The Palms. It certainly had a scary sound to it, but Robin didn’t believe in ghosts; and besides, if Theresa’s ghost wasn’t any more dangerous than her witch, there wasn’t much to worry about.
The sun was almost down when Betty had been returned to her shed and Robin finally reached the brick paved patio of Palmeras House. There wasn’t going to be much time before it got dark. She would have to hurry, but she really didn’t know where to start. Where could she look besides the places she had already inspected?
There ought to be a way to figure it out. There just had to be a keyhole, and there must be a way to find it. She decided to sit down and try to think it all through carefully.
The boarded-up well was handy, so Robin climbed up on it and sat down. She pulled her knees up to her chin and started thinking. If you started with the key, which was certainly a good solid fact—a cold hard fact on a scratchy string—you had to expect that there was something somewhere that it was meant to open. And if you ... Robin’s train of thought went off the track, and she just sat, staring. There in front of her, not two inches from her bare toes, was a large rusty latch. It went over the edge of the well covering, and there was something looping through the hole in it that looked like—! Robin leaned forward and looked over the edge—it was! A padlock! She jumped down from the well and inspected the padlock carefully. It was very large, and the pattern of leaves and flowers with which it was engraved was crusted with rust.
As Robin struggled with the string that held the key around her neck, her mind was seesawing between elation and disappointment: elation that at last she had found a keyhole; and disappointment that it was only to a well. Why on earth had Bridget given her the key to a well? It occurred to her that there might be a treasure hidden under the water of the well, but the disappointment was still there.
The key fitted the padlock perfectly. It turned with a grating sound, and the U-shaped bar clicked open. The lid to the well was made of thick wood crossed in three places with heavy metal reinforcements. It was almost too heavy for Robin to lift, but she found that by pushing she could slide it to one side until there was room to look down. By the light of the last steeply slanting rays of sunlight Robin could see—that the well was not really a well at all! It was not as deep as a well should be, and the bottom was perfectly dry. But even more amazing, a sturdy metal ladder ran down one side to the bottom.
Without even stopping to think, Robin was over the side and down the ladder. It was fairly dark at the bottom of the well, but after a moment her eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to allow her to make out the outlines of a door—a heavy metal door that curved to fit the contour of the well. A loop of iron seemed to serve as a doorknob. Robin grasped it and pulled, and the door swung open with a rush of damp air. But there was nothing to see. The door had opened on the deepest darkness she had ever seen.
Robin put out her hand, half expecting it to be swallowed up by the darkness. Then she bit her lip and moved forward one step into the tunnel. Her outstretched hand found the tunnel wall. It was damp, and the surface was rough, as if it were lined with stone or brick. She didn’t go any farther.
Instead, she stood there, one step into the tunnel, and almost cried with frustration. Here she was in a secret passage leading directly toward the stone house, and she knew she would never have the courage to go through it in the dark. And if she went home for a candle, she would not be able to come back until tomorrow. How could she wait that long?
Gwen and Robin
IT WAS TERRIBLY HARD TO have to close the tunnel door, climb back up the ladder, and shut and lock the well covering. But her disappointment was almost greater the next morning. At breakfast Dad said, “Robin, when you go to Bridget’s this morning, I want you back in ten minutes. I’m riding in to town with Mr. Criley today to pick up some equipment, and I want you to come along so we can get your work permit. Now that you’re twelve, you’re eligible for one. Pitting season will be starting in a week or two, and Mr. Criley wants every family in the Village to put as many hands in the shed as possible.”
“Oh, Dad!” Robin had nothing against having a work permit, but today, of all days, to have to go into town! “Why do I have to have one? I’ve worked without one before.”
Dad frowned. “Only because it was necessary,” he said. “It isn’t now.” Robin could tell there was no use arguing, and really, she knew that Dad was right. She had hated having to hide or pretend she wasn’t working if an inspector came around. But Palmeras House and the secret tunnel! It was just too much of a disappointment.
And because she was so disappointed, everything seemed to go wrong. Robin’s own shoes were too ragged to wear, so she had to wear a pair of Theda’s that were much too big. It was a terribly hot morning, and it was going to be stifling in the cab of the truck. There seemed to be all sorts of things to be angry about as Dad and Robin walked up the road to the mule barns where they were to meet Mr. Criley.
Hot choky dust swirled up from Dad’s high-topped work shoes and Robin’s dragging feet. Dad coughed, and Robin looked up quickly. The skin of Dad’s face looked thin and tight, and a sharp stab of worry made Robin angrier than ever. Not at Dad—not really—but at the aching fear that so often hit her when she was thinking about Dad. Robin glanced around her, but of course there wasn’t a chance of wandering off right then. So she pushed the thought aside and went back to being angry at Mr. Criley.
“I don’t see why Mr. Criley should care how many people from the Village work in his old pitting shed,” she said sulkily. “He can always get more temporary people than he can use just by going down to the labor office. I mean people like we used to be, before you got this job.”
Dad’s smile looked tired. “Well, Robin, the way I figure it is that if a man’s family didn’t work, they’d have to pay the man himself enough to keep his family going. But Mr. Criley has another reason. He says that fewer fruit tramps he has hanging around the ranch, the happier he is.”
It was a relief to have something more definite to feel mad at. “That’s a pretty mean thing to say,” Robin said indignantly. “I knew that Mr. Criley was a mean man the first time I saw him.”
Dad laughed and put his hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Simmer down, Robin,” he said. “Let’s just say Mr. Criley’s a pretty forgetful man. From what I’ve heard, the Crileys were doing a bit of tramping around looking for work themselves not so many years ago.” They both laughed, and Robin felt better.
The ride into town in the cab of the truck might have been fun if it hadn’t been quite so hot and if Mr. Criley hadn’t talked so much. All the way in he explained loudly what an important man he was and how necessary he was to everything that went on at Las Palmeras, or the McCurdy Rancho, as he called it. Dad caught Robin’s eye and smiled now and then.
The
stop at the city hall to get the work permit didn’t take long. The library was nearby, and Dad pointed it out, reminding Robin that now that they had a permanent address she would be able to have a card again. That is, as soon as the Model T was fixed, so they could get into town regularly. Just looking at the outside of the library made Robin lose herself for a minute, remembering the feel of libraries. There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books. Libraries had always seemed almost too good to be true. It didn’t seem possible that anything as important as a book could be free to anyone—that is, to anyone who had a permanent address.
The equipment that Dad helped Mr. Criley load at the farm-supply store was to be delivered to El Pasto. Robin had heard about El Pasto. It was the part of Las Palmeras that was still really a rancho, because cattle were raised there and a few horses. It was up in a canyon, south of the main ranch.
When they passed the main gate of Las Palmeras, Mr. Criley stopped the truck to let Robin off. She waved good-by to Dad and started up the gravel road past the big new McCurdy house. Thinking there might still be time to get to Palmeras House if she hurried, Robin began to run. But she didn’t get very far.
The rolling white gravel and Theda’s too big shoes made a dangerous combination. Robin’s ankle turned, and she came to a sliding stop on one bare knee. For a minute the twisted ankle hurt so much that Robin thought it must be a real sprain, and the skinned knee burned like fire. She limped over to the side of the road by the hedge and sat down. She had taken off her shoe and was rubbing her ankle when she heard a voice say, “Hi! What’s the matter with you?”
Robin turned around, and there was Gwen McCurdy looking through a thin place in the hedge. “I turned my ankle,” Robin said, putting her shoe back on quickly to hide the hole in her sock.
The Velvet Room Page 5