“But why can a few people understand when most people can’t?” This was the first time I’d seen the peanut man close up. His face looked a little like a peanut shell, sort of—crinkly, with squished-in cheeks.
No, Crinkly wasn’t the right word. I wished I knew more words so Gentleman Jack could be proud of me and say I was shiny.
“No one really knows,” said the peanut man. “It often runs in families.”
It took me a minute to realize that I’d asked the peanut man to whistle our plans for Gentleman Jack down Main Street, where the Sheriff would hear and understand. That gave me a sick sort of feeling. I had to be very careful not to underestimate anyone, especially the Sheriff. He looked like a mouse man, but he was really a cat.
“But the Sheriff can’t speak the Whistling?” I said.
“He doesn’t have a gift for it, like you,” said the peanut man. “He asked me to teach it to him, so he could understand as many people as possible in the Indigo Heart.”
“I don’t have a gift for it,” I said.
“But you didn’t ever have to learn to understand. And you have piping in your voice.”
That’s what the dolls had said, too. But I didn’t understand how an ugly voice like mine could have piping.
Now I was glad I had to wait to tell Gentleman Jack when I saw him in eight days. I’d tell him about the Songbird. Then I could see his best smile. Then I could see how happy he was. I’d make him so happy, he’d say I was the brightest star. He’d say I was brighter than any of the Seven Sisters. When I told him about the Songbird, I would shine like a star—how I would shine!
The stores were all closed. I knew the word Closed because it was so different from the word Open. The word Closed started with the unfriendly letter C that made you bang yourself against its outside curve. It made a hard, choking sound when you said it.
Closed. The door to buttercream cottage would be closed, and I didn’t have a key. The Chinook still blew. I breathed in the sharp, watery smell. I breathed in the promise of mud. The snow still lay on the street and on the railings and windowsills of the buildings, but only on the shady side. On the sunny side of the street, the snow was melting and trickling down the sides of the buildings.
It’s funny how, when you step away from your thoughts, you make room in your brain to find the just-right word. You can find it even though you don’t know enough words. I knew the word for the peanut man’s face. Corrugated. That’s what his face looked like and that was also what a peanut shell looked like.
What if Gentleman Jack knew that I knew the word Corrugated?
It was in the square that I saw a swirl of rusty-crow skirts moving toward me. It took me a moment to recognize the skirts and the rusty-crow hair. They rustled toward me; they knew where I would be. Inside those skirts was Mrs. del Salto, and inside Mrs. del Salto was a person, waiting.
MRS. DEL SALTO HAD BEEN FRANTIC. School had ended, and I hadn’t returned. “Frantic!” she said.
I could hardly answer, I was so surprised to see her in the sun, in the Chinook, with the snow melting all around. I hadn’t thought she could exist outside. Then came the words I’d been thinking over and over. “I don’t have a key.”
Mrs. del Salto’s mouth slipped sideways. “Did you think I wouldn’t let you in?”
I didn’t want to say what I thought. I didn’t want to make her mouth slide off her face.
“For star’s sake!” Mrs. del Salto grabbed my hand. She turned it over, then looked me up and down. “I’ve never seen such a grimy child.”
“Are you barbaric when you’re grimy?” I said.
“What makes you ask?”
“Mrs. Elton,” I said. “She said I was a filthy savage. She said my britches were barbaric.”
“I’ll fix that,” said Mrs. del Salto. “I’ll fix it if it kills me.” She was silent a long time, before she said, “Which it probably will.”
It was getting dark, but none of the metal bowls were filled with fire. I asked Mrs. del Salto why.
She said tonight was the night of the Dark Moon. She said they didn’t light the bowls because they wanted to see the night sky. “It’s harder to see the stars,” she said, “when the moon is shining in the sky and fires are burning on earth.”
“There’s no moon?” I said.
“There’s always a moon,” said Mrs. del Salto, “but this is one of the nights you can’t see it. You’ll see the sun set at five forty-two, but you won’t be able to see the moon rise.”
But Mrs. del Salto had killed time. How did she know about five forty-two?
“Why do you want to see the stars?” I said.
“Because then we can see if the Blue Rose has returned to visit her sisters. You can see the Seven Sisters best when the sky is dark.”
“Why do you care if she’s in the sky?”
“It is said,” said Mrs. del Salto, “that that’s the best time to crave a boon of her.” On we went, into the almost dark. “Or,” said Mrs. del Salto, “to discover if she’s granted a boon you’ve not yet craved.”
Time was all jumbled up when it came to the Blue Rose. How could you ever understand it?
“Not that I care,” said Mrs. del Salto. “I’m done with the Blue Rose.”
This was the second time I’d returned to the cottage.
“Third time,” said the dagger.
“Second time returning,” I said. “Returning is different from coming the first time.” When you returned to a place, it could be familiar. It could give you a warm feeling, as though you’d swallowed the Chinook and it were melting you inside.
Now to the foyer, Mrs. del Salto opening the drawer of the little table, putting her key into the drawer, where it lay on the green felt lining. It seemed so long ago that I’d discovered you might build a drawer to hold a key, and a table to hold the drawer—
“Not this again!” said the dagger.
And a room to hold the table, and a house to hold the room—
“What are you waiting for?” said Mrs. del Salto.
“I’m waiting for the Judge.”
“Suit yourself,” said Mrs. del Salto.
Quick as quick, while I could still speak, I whispered to the dog, “You’ll see what happens when the Judge comes home.” Even the dog’s tail and ears had pointy wisps of fur. He was a perfectly dog-like dog.
It seemed a long time we waited, but it was hard to tell because of no time passing. Then came the Judge, pounding his feet on the porch stairs, shuffling his boots on the sunflower carpet, turning his key in the front door.
“Now you’ll see,” I said. “The Judge will put his key in the drawer.”
The Judge paused when he saw me and looked down his granite-cliff cheekbones. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting,” I said.
“Waiting for what?” The Judge put his key in the drawer.
“See?” I said to the dog, but only inside my head so the Judge couldn’t hear. “You know what’s going to happen in the cottage.”
“I have something to say to you,” said the Judge. “It will be easier in the kitchen.” He went through the glass door into the corridor, and I followed.
The Gentlemen never said they had something to say. They just said it. They didn’t have special places to make it easier.
We went through the library, passing the photograph of Magda and Isaac, the coins, the inkwell, the box taking joy from its cornflower lid. We swung through the door into the kitchen, where it was easier to say things.
The Judge gave me milk and bread and butter and honey, which I now knew was called a Snack. A snack is something quick and gobbly. “You didn’t stay a whole day at school,” said the Judge.
Should I nod or shake my head? Yes, I hadn’t stayed?
No, I hadn’t stayed?
“You still have eight days of school before you visit Gentleman Jack.”
“But—” I said.
“You may not be violent,” said the Judge.
“You must follow the rules.”
“Only if they’re Gentleman Jack’s rules.”
“Then you may not see Gentleman Jack,” said the Judge. “Even though he’s been asking for you.”
“Asking for me!” I said.
“Asking for you.”
Was that good or bad? I couldn’t tell. Why did a person feel worried when a thing might just as easily be good? Why was the feeling of badness stronger than the feeling of goodness? The Judge handed me a piece of bread, butter, and honey. I took it but I wouldn’t eat it. That would be like agreeing with him. That would be like saying I was willing not to be violent.
“You may not be disrespectful.”
“I will be disrespectful when people lie to me,” I said. “Mrs. Elton said no one’s allowed to dig for gold in the Indigo Heart, because that’s digging into stardust, which is like digging into the Blue Rose. But I know you dig for gold. Gentleman Jack said you have a substantial stake in a gold mine.”
“I do,” said the Judge, “but the difference is that I don’t dig into stardust. All working gold mines are located outside the Indigo Heart.”
Could that be true? I was pretty sure a Judge always had to tell the truth. That would explain why I’d seen no wooden surrounds or metal tracks or just plain openings in the rock.
“We think it reasonable,” said the Judge, “to banish a person who doesn’t respect our land and our laws. To banish a person who has a disagreeable tendency to burn us in our beds.”
“Gentleman Jack doesn’t burn people,” I said. That was Rough Ricky’s job.
“It seems that both you and Mrs. Elton violated our agreement,” said the Judge.
What agreement?
“The agreement Mr. Elton and I arrived at after your visit to the General Store.”
“When Mr. Elton accused me of stealing,” I said. “And I hit him with a hammer.”
“Do you remember what we agreed?” said the Judge.
I remembered it exactly.
“Accept your sorrows,
If you cannot change them.
Embrace your joys,
So you don’t estrange them.”
“You have an excellent memory!” said the Judge. Sometimes I could fool people into thinking I had a good memory, but I could never trick Gentleman Jack.
“Did you accept your sorrows?” said the Judge.
I’d never thought about sorrows. Did I have them? Did Mr. Elton dragging me through the store count as a sorrow? I didn’t like remembering it. It gave me a varnish-smell feeling, the feeling I’d had in school when I didn’t understand how anything worked. I remembered that dreadful moment with Mr. Elton: the store, silent, except for Mr. Elton yelling about sticky fingers; the crack-crack-crack of my teeth on the candy; the Judge, caught in the middle of his hat takings-off and puttings-on.
Maybe the varnish-smell feeling was a sorrow. That was a new thought. And then I had another new thought. I would see if I believed it when I said it.
“But Mrs. del Salto doesn’t want to accept her sorrows,” I said. Mrs. del Salto had said she was done with the Blue Rose. “When you stop time, you don’t accept your sorrows. When you stop time, you want everything to be the way it was before.”
The Blue Rose was about new beginnings, and Mrs. del Salto didn’t want any new beginnings.
“That is a most perceptive observation,” said the Judge. We looked at each other for a long time, and then the Judge became judge-like again.
“The Indigo Heart only welcomes people who obey our laws,” said the Judge. “Our laws protect the Blue Rose, which means they protect us, too, because the Blue Rose breathes spirit into all creation.”
“Breathes spirit?”
“Brings to life,” said the Judge.
“But Gentleman Jack breathed spirit into me.” Gentleman Jack had brought me to life when he found me in the wilderness. I wanted the Judge to realize he didn’t know anything about Gentleman Jack. Gentleman Jack didn’t burn people in their beds. He hadn’t burned Marshal Starling. I’d seen the Federal Marshal, sitting on his horse, looking surprised. Holding his stomach, the blood leaking around his fingers.
“Mrs. del Salto said there’s a Dark Moon tonight,” I said. “Are you going to see if the Blue Rose is in the sky?”
“Yes,” said the Judge. “Maybe I’ll discover she’s granted me a boon.”
“Did you already crave one?” I said.
“I don’t have to have done so. The Blue Rose exists in the future and the present and the past. She can see in all directions. She is our Guide to endings and middles and beginnings.”
That was kind of what Mrs. del Salto had said. That on a night of the Dark Moon, you could discover whether the Blue Rose had granted your boon even if you hadn’t made one.
“Another piece of bread?”
I glanced at my hand. I’d decided not to eat the bread because that would be like agreeing with the Judge. But I’d eaten it without noticing. I’d been a traitor to myself. The taste of honey lay on my tongue. I scraped it off with my teeth.
I remembered something from school today. “But to get a marvel, your heart has to be open to whatever the Blue Rose brings you. What if the Blue Rose brought you Gentleman Jack? What if he’s the marvel and your mind has to be open to him?”
The Judge smiled inside his mouth. You could tell by the way his eyebrows moved up. “An excellent argument.”
But Gentleman Jack said girls shouldn’t argue, which was how I knew I hadn’t. “I never argue.” I always obeyed Gentleman Jack.
“Good to know,” said the Judge.
Gentleman Jack had told me about taking a bath in Grandmother’s house. There, water came rushing from a pipe in the wall into a copper bathtub. The water came out hot, sometimes too hot, said Gentleman Jack. You had to wait until it was just bearable and you got in and your skin turned red.
It was different from a bath in the hideout. There, you jumped into the river at the bottom of the ravine. We didn’t do it very often.
Mrs. del Salto boiled water on the stove and poured it into a wooden tub in the kitchen. Then she told me to give her my britches.
“You’ll take them away,” I said.
“Certainly,” she said.
I wouldn’t give Mrs. del Salto my britches. She’d see the sheath at my waist; she’d see the dagger in the sheath. She’d see the dog in my pocket.
“You can’t have them,” I said. “I will claw and bite.”
“Dear me,” said Mrs. del Salto.
“And sting and mortify.”
“Most invigorating,” said Mrs. del Salto. But she decided to leave me alone to take my bath and explained about the soap and the washcloth and also about washing my hair. She said that if there was a speck of dirt on me, she’d put me in the bath again and scrub me with a brush.
The water was almost too hot, even though it didn’t come rushing from a pipe. I eased myself into the tub; I felt the house settle in around me. The walls breathed in and out. Their breath smelled of indigo. The fire shifted and sighed.
“Don’t forget about Grandmother’s house,” said the dagger. “What will Grandmother do when you get there?”
“She’ll say, ‘This is my girl, bright as a star.’ She’ll let me sit in one of the velvet chairs.”
“Crimson velvet,” said the dagger.
“I’ll sit in crimson velvet,” I said. “Grandmother will brush my hair.”
In buttercream cottage, you had two cloths, one for washing dishes and one for washing yourself. So many cloths! Mrs. del Salto had left the dishcloth to scald on top of the stove. We scalded gently together, the dishcloth in its pot, the washcloth and I in the tub, and when I got out, I was red all over.
The light was dim. The bar of soap and the washcloth were white, and so was the nightgo
wn Mrs. del Salto had left draped over a chair. I liked the way the nightgown felt on my skin. I liked the way it felt to be clean inside a soft, clean nightgown. It was all right to put on the nightgown because it was after five forty-two, and it was dark.
I talked to the dog as we climbed to the attic. “These are the stairs. There’s even a carpet on the stairs. The carpet is held down by rods with pineapple decorations.”
“A wooden dog can’t hear you,” said the dagger.
“There’s no carpet on the attic stairs,” I said. “The attic is different from the rest of the house.”
“A wooden dog can’t see the stairs,” said the dagger.
“Neither can a dagger,” I said.
There was something new in the attic. The children’s rocking chair from the library now sat in front of the dollhouse. The Judge couldn’t have brought it. He’d been away all day. Maybe Mrs. del Salto had brought it when she was frantic. Maybe she was frantic for someone to sit in it and play with the dolls. But she didn’t know the dollhouse was alive and playing on its own.
“This is the dollhouse,” I told the dog. “See how it looks just like the people house?” I opened the two big doors in the front of the dollhouse. The mother and father dolls sat in the parlor. They leaned against embroidered cushions. The sight burst upon me like the flesh of an apple.
I reached for the dog.
“He won’t come alive,” said the dagger.
“Stop stepping all over my thoughts!” I said.
“I don’t step,” said the dagger. “I don’t have feet.”
The dagger was too un-bendy to understand words that compared one thing to another. It wouldn’t understand about the Blue Rose breathing spirit. It even complained when Gentleman Jack said Grandmother’s hands felt like silk. “Hands feel like skin,” it always said.
The dolls leaned forward, away from the embroidered cushions. I set the dog on the carpet. The dog shook himself. He wagged his tail. The mother doll whistled, a nice, easy whistle. “Here, boy!”
The dog rocked forward on his little legs. He set his chin on the mother doll’s knee.
“Oh, Starling,” said the father doll. “You have brought us our dog!” The father doll patted the dog. His china hand made a little thunk-thunk-thunk on the dog’s wooden head. “We are so happy.”
The Robber Girl Page 14