Spiderweb for Two - A Melendy Maze (9 page)

“What! Before I take the cookies out! You can't go now before you've even et
one!
”

They saw that he was really a little hurt; and the delicate warm scent of spice that now pervaded the kitchen was certainly delicious. They sat down willingly, but when the cookies were cool enough to eat it was found that excitement had impaired their appetites. Oliver could only manage seven, and Randy came close to choking on her fifth.

“All right then, run along,” said Mr. Titus resignedly. “Only soon as you can, you tell me all about it, now. I may be gettin' on in years, but far as I can see the human curiosity don't age a day. I want to know!”

“We promise,” they said.

As soon as they were out of earshot Oliver handed the clue to Randy. “Read it,” he said.

“All right. Listen:

‘Sing a song of sixpence,

    
A pocketful of gold,

A treasure trove in springtime,

    
Worthless in the cold.

Start from your doorstep

    
Faces turned west,

Up the wooded hillside,

    
Over its crest.

Down among the giant stems,

    
Down across the glen,

To where the cattle feed and browse,

    
And uphill again.

Find a prelate in a pail,

    
A crown upon a tree,

Find the garden of a nymph,

    
And there find me.'”

Oliver was disgusted. “They forget I'm only nine years old,” he said. “I don't know what a prelate is. What is a prelate, anyway?”

“A religious person, a dignitary of the church, I
think.
We'll look it up when we get home.”

“And where in heck are there any nymps around Carthage? Or Braxton either? I'd like to know.”

“It's a figure of speech,” said Randy. “At least I guess so. Now, goodness, we'll have to look up all the
nymphs
there ever were. Just after going through all those emperors, too.”

“Maybe we won't have to. This one does seem to give pretty good directions at least. ‘Up the wooded hillside' and ‘faces turned west,' and all that.”

“Sounds like a good long trek, too,” said Randy. “We'll have to wait till Saturday again. Gee whiz. It's tantalizing. I wish I could write to Rush and ask his advice about all this, but we have to keep it secret, and anyway I bet Rush planted the things himself. Who else in the world would have thought of Mr. Titus's alarm clock?”

It was growing dark. A cold breath rose from the fields and ditches. The crows sounded lonesome flying home.

“It's an awful long way off to summer,” Oliver said.

“But it's only thirty-three days to Thanksgiving, and they'll all be home! And after that it's only thirty-one to Christmas, and they'll be here a long time then.”

“All my children are going to be taught at home,” said Oliver, and Randy agreed that she had decided on this course for
her
family, too. “But you're still here at least, thank goodness,” she said. “Imagine if there was only one of us!”

Oliver had occasion to remember this remark when the next Saturday arrived.

CHAPTER V

A Pocketful of Gold

Sing a song of sixpence,

    
A pocketful of gold,

A treasure trove in springtime,

    
Worthless in the cold.

Start from your doorstep

    
Faces turned west,

Up the wooded hillside,

    
Over its crest.

Down among the giant stems,

    
Down across the glen,

To where the cattle feed and browse,

    
And uphill again.

Find a prelate in a pail,

    
A crown upon a tree,

Find the garden of a nymph,

    
And there find me.

The next Saturday Randy woke up without any voice. She did not know it at first. She got out of bed, went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and turned on the water for her bath. Vigorously running bath water always caused Randy, as it does nearly everyone, to wish to sing. But now when she opened her mouth preparatory to a vigorous rendering of “Oh, what a beautiful morning,” no voice came forth. It was disconcerting. She turned off the bath water just to be sure, tried again, gave it everything she had, and succeeded in producing only a sort of whispery squawk.

“Laryngitis,” whispered Randy disgustedly. She had had it once before, long ago. “Wouldn't you just know I'd get it on a Saturday!” She peered anxiously into the mirror; but one thing about laryngitis is that it doesn't show. She looked remarkably healthy. Saturday, she thought: the search for the clue, and now if Cuffy finds out, she'll keep me in all day and maybe in bed! Cuffy mustn't find out, that's all, I'll just have to be terribly careful.

She took her bath, dressed, and went downstairs feeling nervous and slightly guilty.

“Hi,” said Oliver looking up from a king-sized bowl of cereal. “You sure slept long enough. I've been up since six.”

Randy yawned as though still drugged with slumber and not interested in conversation.

“She needs her sleep. She's growing,” Cuffy said. “I declare I think she must have grown a yard this year. They measured you yet at school, Randy?”

Luckily Randy was saved from having to answer this question by a sudden shrill whistle from the kitchen kettle which always took this hysterical method of proclaiming that the water was now boiling. Cuffy hurried into the kitchen to catch it before it literally blew its top, or rather its whistle-spout, wildly into the air.

“Oliver!” whispered Randy urgently.

“Hunh? What are you whispering for? Why don't you talk out loud?” asked Oliver in clear full tones.

“Sh-h-h,” hissed Randy, fierce as a cobra. “I can't, that's why. I've got laryngitis, and my voice is gone. If Cuffy finds out she won't let me out of the house, and I won't be able to go clue hunting. Help me, will you? If she asks many questions, think of something! Do something!”

“Well, gee, I'll try.”

Cuffy came back into the dining room with the coffeepot and a platter of bacon and eggs. “You young ones! Always whispering! Such conspiracies and secrets.” She sat down comfortably. “And what, if I may ask, are you two going to do today?”

“Oh, well, I guess we'll go out,” said Oliver lamely. “Just go out or something.”

“That's a good comprehensive answer,” said Cuffy dryly. “That way I get a real vivid picture of the day's activities. Randy, why aren't you eating your oatmeal?”

“She is,” said Oliver hastily. “She's eating it now, Cuffy, see?” And it was true that Randy had suddenly begun to devour the oatmeal with wild haste. She did not care much for oatmeal, she never had, but Cuffy was firm in her belief that the consumption of large quantities of old-fashioned porridge would help to build a noble character.

“You don't need to take it quite so fast, Randy. This is Saturday, you know; there's nothing to hurry for.”

“There's everything to hurry for on
Saturday,
” argued Oliver. “There's just one Saturday in the week. The schooldays could all be each other: they could all be Monday or Thursday or something, but Saturday is different and all by itself. So is Sunday; but Saturday's best.”

“I—” began Randy; but stopped herself in time, turning the queer, croaking whisper into a cough. She had been about to argue that the days of the week all seemed different to her; they had different colors, even. Monday was blue, for instance; Tuesday was yellow, Wednesday red, and so on.

“Have you written to your brothers and sister this week, Randy?” asked Cuffy.

“
I
have,” said Oliver quickly. “I wrote one letter and copied it off to each of 'em. I told about the Northern lights and the Regalis cocoon and Willy's bunion—”

“Yes, my lamb, I know. I helped with the spelling, remember? But you, Randy, did you get around to it?”

Randy smiled and nodded her head.

“Well, that's good. Here Randy, honey, here's your eggs and bacon. My what a lovely day! What a lovely long fall we're having. Means a cold winter they
say.
”

Cuffy sipped her coffee slowly and luxuriously: she held the cup between her two plump hands and stared dreamily over the edge of it through the steam. Randy ate industriously, not daring to look up for fear of bringing on more questions.

“I'm glad you children are taking advantage of the weather. Out all day, that's the best thing. Who are you going to play with? The Cottons? Daphne Addison? How
is
Daphne, anyway?”

“She's fine,” said Oliver at once, though Daphne was more Randy's friend than his, and he had not seen her in a month.

“That's good, she's a nice girl. Randy, more toast?”

Randy smiled again and shook her head.

“Matter? Cat got your tongue? Well, you've had enough, I guess,” said Cuffy.

“Can we please be excused?” cried Oliver, his eyes shining: for the ordeal was nearly over, they had all but won. “We'll go straight out and do the dishes,” he said with unusual alacrity, for though the children always did the dishes on Saturday, Oliver's heart was never in the project, and he had a quiet, efficient way of drifting out of earshot immediately after breakfast.

“All right, skedaddle,” said Cuffy. “I think I'll just sit here and have another cup.”

“Yes, do,” said Oliver enthusiastically. “You just take your time, Cuff.”

“We did it!” whispered Randy when they were in the kitchen.

“Well, just about,” said Oliver cautiously.

Randy ran the water, full force, into the dishpan and shook out a huge extravagant cloud of soap flakes. Both children sneezed. Randy washed with a great clatter and clinking, and Oliver sang noisily as he dried and put away, to cover up the lack of conversation for Cuffy's ears.

It was going to be a fine day: sunny, and there was no wind; a fine day for clue hunting. If Randy could have joined Oliver in song she would have.

Cuffy struck open the kitchen door unexpectedly.

“Heavenly day, the
racket
—I been
calling!
Randy, Pearl Cotton's on the phone for you.”

Randy stared at her mutely. Oliver, too. He could not help now.

“Am I a Gorgon? Are you turned to stone, or what? Pearl's still waiting, you know.”

“I can't talk to her,” whispered Randy.

“Why not, honey? What's the matter? Did you quarrel? Are you worried? Tell me,” said Cuffy, all concern, letting the door flap and coming to Randy.

“Oh, no, it's just that I plain can't
talk,
” whispered Randy.

“Laryngitis,” said Oliver glumly. The game was up.

In no time at all Randy found herself in bed with Vicks ointment on the outside of her throat and an aspirin tablet going down the inside of it. (Oliver finally remembered to inform poor patient Pearl Cotton of the turn of events.)

“But I feel
fine,
” Randy whispered rebelliously. “It doesn't hurt or anything.”

“Bed's the place for you,” said Cuffy unswervingly, and in bed Randy stayed.

Oliver came up to see her. “We'll wait till next week,” he said.

“No, you must go. Next Saturday may be rainy; we can't take chances. You must go alone.”

“I'm kind of dumb,” said Oliver humbly. “I don't see how I'll ever find it by myself. I don't know anything about nymps.”

“You're not dumb at all. You've caught onto these things quicker than I have most of the time. The dictionary says a nymph is ‘a youthful female nature divinity.' Remember?”

“I don't know how to tell one if I see one,” said Oliver.

“Oh, it's not literal. It's probably someone with a nymph's
name,
or something. You'll find out; you're smart.”

Oliver left reluctantly, and Randy lay back on her pillows somewhat tired from this show of good sportsmanship and sisterly encouragement. “Well, I hope he finds it. Yes, I
really
do!” she whispered to herself defiantly.

Oliver decided to take his lunch along with him, and after a brief verbal tussle with Cuffy (who believed almost as strongly in a hot midday meal as she did in porridge) was allowed to do so. At ten o'clock he set off, carefully facing west, and Isaac accompanied him in a haphazard, preoccupied manner. It was very warm for the time of year, almost as warm as summer, but the trees were nearly bare: only the oak trees clung to their dry purple and crimson foliage. A late swallowtail dipped and rested on the air. “Brother, you nearly missed the boat,” said Oliver. The butterfly ignored him, lilting off through the sunshine as though it were July and every field in flower.