by Greg Cox
Mary still looked dubious. “You’d better not be pulling my leg.”
“Who, me?” He slowed to a stop and watched the carousel rotate past him. “Is there anything else in that rhyme that might be a clue?”
“Just the lines on the sampler,” she asked, “or the rest of the rhyme?”
“There’s more?”
“Oh yes! Everybody knows the beginning of ‘Simple Simon,’ the part about the pieman, but there are actually several more verses.” She took a deep breath before reciting them.
Says the pieman to Simple Simon,
Show me first your penny;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Indeed I have not any.
Ezekiel had not noticed any coins or coin slots on the carousel. “Keep going,” he said to Mary, who continued with the rhyme.
Simple Simon went a-fishing,
For to catch a whale—
“Wait!” he interrupted her. An ornate chariot fashioned in the shape of a spuming white whale rushed past him. “Why is there a whale on a merry-go-round? Unless.…”
Very sneaky, he thought, figuratively tipping his hat to some long-dead Goose heir. You need to know the whole rhyme, not just the part on the sampler.
“You think the pages are hidden in the whale?” Mary asked.
“I’d bet the farm on it, or my name’s not Ezekiel Jones.” He congratulated himself for solving the puzzle without any help from the rest of the team. “Now I just need to check out that whale.” He glanced up at the sky, which was still inconveniently bright and blue. “What time does this fair close for the night?”
“I’m not sure,” Mary said. “Ten or eleven, probably.”
“That late?” He frowned and shook his head. “So much for sneaking in after closing time. Guess I’m going to have to do this in broad daylight.”
Mary looked apprehensive. “Do what?”
Ezekiel grinned in anticipation. “Just sit back and watch a master at work.”
A distracted tween walked by, clutching a long string of paper tickets. Refusing on principle to pay for a ride on the merry-go-round, Ezekiel adeptly detached several tickets from the string without anybody being the wiser, aside from Mary, who frowned in disapproval. As the carousel came to a halt, he handed the tickets over to the ride’s pimply-faced teenage operator and made a beeline toward the whale.
Thar she blows, he thought. That’s a whale thing, right?
Unfortunately, a little girl got there first. Ezekiel was no good at estimating kids’ ages, but she looked like a munchkin in pigtails. Freckles peppered her chubby cheeks.
“Great,” Ezekiel muttered, wondering why an investigation into Mother Goose had to have so many inconvenient ankle biters getting in the way. “Excuse me, kid. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather ride one of the horses … or the unicorn maybe?”
“I like whales.” She planted herself squarely on the bench inside the chariot.
“What about the lion?” he asked. “Lions are cool.”
“I like whales.”
“Look, kid. How about I buy you some ice cream or cotton candy if you let me ride the whale instead?”
She regarded him suspiciously, her pudgy arms crossed atop her chest.
“Are you a stranger? ’Cause my mom told me never to talk to strangers.”
Ezekiel realized that he was fighting a losing battle. “Okay, okay,” he said, backing off. “Suit yourself.”
Claiming a gleaming painted stallion directly behind the whale, Ezekiel was forced to endure one entire ride on the carousel before it finally slowed to a halt again. He spent the time planning his next move, while pocketing the brass ring at the end of a wooden arm suspended alongside the carousel. As the passengers disembarked, he hastily ran forward to claim the whale chariot.
Finally!
More tickets bought him another ride. Tapping the bench suggested that there was indeed a hollow space beneath the seat. Feeling around beneath the edge of the bench, his expert fingers located what felt suspiciously like a hidden release button. A triumphant grin betrayed his success.
Ding, ding. We have a winner.
Now he just needed an opportunity to crack the bench open and inspect its contents. Fortunately, he knew just how to make that happen. Extracting the small brass ring from his pocket, he covertly hurled it through a narrow gap between the wooden panels at the center of the carousel and into the mechanical guts of the ride. As anticipated, a loud grinding noise came from the motor, along with puffs of oily black smoke, as the merry-god-round lurched to a sudden stop. Alarmed passengers, gasping and crying out, hastily disembarked. The carousel’s operator pulled back on a lever, shutting the ride down.
“Nobody panic!” he called out. “Please exit the ride in an orderly fashion!”
Ezekiel went into action. “Excuse me!” he said, getting in the operator’s face. “I’m a special inspector with the Rides and Attractions Regulatory Commission.” He held up his phone to display some false credentials from his extensive collection of same. “I need to conduct an immediate investigation of this incident.”
“Hang on,” the operator said. A name tag on his shirt identified him as “Jimmy.” He seemed predictably discombobulated by the sudden crisis. “Let’s not overreact. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that!” Ezekiel hopped back on the ride. “This ride is shut down until I say so. Secure the perimeter and keep out of my way.”
“Hold on there!” Jimmy started to follow after him. “You can’t just go barging—”
“Jimmy Doggle!” Mary said sharply, running interference. “You let this nice man do his job. We need to take this matter seriously.”
“Mrs. Simon?” Jimmy sounded cowed by the librarian. He looked young enough to have attended story time not all that many years ago. “But—”
“But nothing,” she said. “I’ll vouch for the inspector here. You just do as you’re told and I’m sure we can straighten this whole situation out in no time.”
She winked at Ezekiel.
Never mess with a librarian, he thought again. Grateful for her intervention, he ignored the sabotaged motor and headed straight for the whale. The concealed switch yielded to his fingers and he heard a lock click open. A familiar thrill quickened his pulse as he closed in on his prize. Squeaky hinges protested as the top of the bench swung open to reveal a thin leather-bound volume tucked inside the hidden compartment. Embossed golden type on the front cover read:
“Mother Goose’s Melodies, Book One of Three.”
12
Northumberland
The trail up to the ruins was just as rough as Gillian had promised, making for an arduous hike. A brisk autumn wind added a nip to the air now that the sun had gone down, although the strenuous physical activity helped to keep the chill at bay. The dark of night further impeded their progress, forcing them to tread warily, using flashlights to guide their way. Stone liked to think that he was in good shape, but he had worked up a sweat by the time they neared the top of the rocky green hill. Backpacks laden with gear commandeered from the college’s geology department weighed both hikers down, although he was impressed by the way Gillian had managed to keep up with him, even leading the way most of the time. She was clearly in good shape, too, as his eyes kept reminding him.
Thank you, Clippings Book, he thought. I owe you one.
Pausing to take a sip of water from a canteen, he took a moment to enjoy the view of the rugged, rolling countryside below, where the colors of fall added variety to the wild brush and bracken. Leafy trees displayed rustic reds and yellows, while the murky waters of a deep black pool rippled at the base of the hill, reflecting the moonlight. Lifting his gaze, Stone spied the picturesque roofs and towers of the small college town not far away. Some of the older stone buildings looked to date back to the 1600s at least, as he could tell from their design and materials.
“Beautiful country,” he observed.
“Don’t I k
now it,” she agreed, taking in the view as well. A cheery red scarf kept her neck warm, while adding a spot of color to her outdoor ensemble. The vigorous exercise seemed to have lifted her spirits; if she was still scared or angry about that spooky business with the pumpkin back at the pub, she wasn’t letting it show. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“Really?” he asked out of curiosity. “Not that I don’t see the appeal of this corner of the world, but it seems to me that an individual with your brains and expertise would have no shortage of options and opportunities.”
“What can I say?” she replied. “I love this place. It’s like I’m bound to the land, as silly as that sounds.”
Maybe not so silly, Stone thought. It was entirely possible, of course, that there was nothing more to what she was saying than a natural affinity for the place where she’d grown up, but could it be that there was also some mystical force or connection keeping her here, not far from the potent spells entrusted to her branch of the family? She was an heir to the legacy of Mother Goose, after all.…
“Can’t say I blame you, considering.” He took another swig from his canteen as he contemplated the steep, irregular, and ill-maintained trail ahead. He estimated that another fifteen minutes of solid effort would get them to where they were going. “You ready for the final push to the top?”
“Try and stop me.”
A short but strenuous climb brought them to the crest of the hill and what remained of an old Roman fort that once guarded an embattled empire against the fierce “barbarians” to the north, some two thousand years ago. As Gillian had warned, time and history had all but wiped away most traces of the former stronghold, leaving behind only a few crumbling stone walls and foundations, none more than knee-high at most. Half-buried stumps were all that were left of a bygone colonnade. Weeds and moss had overgrown the ruins, camouflaging much of the locale. Stone wasn’t surprised that few visitors flocked to the site; to the untrained eye, the ruins offered meager rewards after such a demanding hike.
“Here we are,” Gillian said. “Such as it is.”
“So I see.”
Stone’s own eyes were far from untrained. Although little remained of the once-imposing fort, he could easily reconstruct the ancient frontier outpost in his mind, based on the general layout of the ruins. He walked the perimeter of the site, putting the pieces together.
“From the look of things, this was a relatively minor outpost, probably dating back to roughly 200 CE or so, with some modifications and additions over the course of the next century.” He picked up a loose stone and examined it. “This variety of mortar, made of lime, sand, gravel, and water, allowed the Romans to build the first real stone fortresses in Britain, which endured for centuries.” He tossed the stone aside. “During the Dark Ages, many of their abandoned structures were torn apart by stone robbers in need of construction materials.” He nodded toward the town in the distance. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of your older college buildings are constructed of stones pillaged from the fort many centuries ago.”
He couldn’t conjure up actual hallucinations like Cassandra, but in his mind’s eye he could see the bustling military base in its prime, superimposed atop its paltry remains. Armored legionnaires, wearing metal breastplates over their woolen tunics, guarded the sturdy stone walls and gates. Watchtowers, long collapsed into rubble and ransacked, had once looked out over the conquered territory below, as well as the thriving shops, taverns, and markets that invariably sprung up outside a fort’s walls. Stone traced the outline of the base’s defenses and interior structures.
“Okay,” he said, conducting a guided tour of the ruins, “this would have been the commander’s house or praetorium, those look like the foundations of the barracks over there, and that used to be the granary. Bathhouses were typically built outside the main walls, because the furnaces used to heat the water posed a fire risk, but a fort would still need a protected well or cistern in the event of a siege, which were often located right about … here!”
Sweeping aside the surrounding weeds and vines, he exposed a rusty metal plate, about twice the size of a modern manhole cover, bolted atop a ring of heavy stone blocks, half-buried in the ground. He rapped the plate with his fist and heard an answering echo.
“Bingo.”
Gillian, who had lagged behind him, exploring the ruins, hurried to join him. “Is that it?” she asked. “The well?”
“I’d stake a couple of my degrees on it.” He tugged on the metal plate, which refused to budge. “This is hardly original to the site, of course. I’m guessing somebody ordered the well shaft covered up for safety reasons.”
“That sounds familiar,” Gillian said. “Now that you mention it, I seem to recall something about that in the papers a few years ago. There was some concern about liability, in case a careless visitor took a tumble down the well.…”
“All of which makes me think we’re on the right track.” Stone stepped away from the capped well and shrugged off his backpack. “Good thing this isn’t my first rodeo.” He retrieved a compact acetylene torch from the pack. “Just the thing for getting past this sort of complication.”
“Naturally,” she said dryly. “I never go anywhere without one.”
Her sarcastic remark elicited a chuckle from Stone. “Seriously, the Romans were already employing lead and ceramic pipes in their waterworks by the time this fort was built. Figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared in case we had to cut through some old pipes to get to wherever. Or maybe even an old iron vault.”
“All this and a Boy Scout, too.” Gillian arched an eyebrow. “You’re a man of many dimensions, Jake Stone.”
“Don’t I know it,” Stone said. “But it’s been a long time since anybody called me a Boy Scout.”
“Duly noted,” she said. “I’ll bear that mind.”
He was enjoying the banter, but there was still work to be done and that plate wasn’t removing itself. He donned a pair of tinted safety glasses.
“Stay back,” he said before igniting the torch. A steady blue-hot flame issued from the nozzle of the cutting torch as he knelt and got to work on the steel bolts holding the rusty plate in place. A fountain of brilliant sparks spewed from where the flame met the bolts, which heated rapidly to cherry red. The harsh smell of iron oxide let Stone know he was making progress. “Funny thing,” he said. “You can actually make one of these torches in the field, using only an oxygen tank, a cucumber, and some prosciutto.”
“And you know this how?” Gillian asked, maintaining a safe distance.
“Long story, but I figured why take chances? Can’t always count on having some prosciutto on hand at some old Roman ruins.…”
Years of laying pipes in Oklahoma paid off as he worked carefully but efficiently to burn through the bolts. Switching off the torch, he gave the plate sufficient time to cool before wrenching it loose and shoving it to one side. It landed with a clatter onto the rocky soil, exposing a deep shaft descending into the earth. Moonlight penetrated only the top few feet of the shaft, where rotting wooden timbers, which had seen better centuries, reinforced the plunging walls of the well in a manner favored by Roman engineers of the era. Inky darkness concealed the bottom of the shaft.
“Well, well,” Gillian quipped. “How deep do you think it goes?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Watching his step, Stone extracted some rappelling gear from his pack, along with a caving helmet with a built-in headlamp. The prospect of descending into the well did not intimidate him; as a former oil rigger, he had long ago grown accustomed to working underground in excavations, and that was before his new calling as a Librarian routinely led him into long-buried catacombs and hidden temples. Compared to that nasty hell pit in Salem, an abandoned Roman well ought to be a cakewalk.
“You stay here,” he said as he anchored a climbing rope to what seemed a fairly sturdy block of stone. “Just in case I run into trouble.”
“You’re jok
ing, right?” she replied. “Are we seriously having this conversation again?”
“Look, I appreciate all your help,” he said. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, but—”
“But nothing. I didn’t hike all the way up this bloody hill just to cool my heels while you do all the exploring.” She rescued a headlamp from her own pack and joined him at the brink of the abyss. “And I know enough about spelunking to know that going solo is the very definition of foolhardy. Suppose you fall and, well, break your crown way down there, all on your own?”
“And suppose you tumble after?” he countered. “Then we’d both be stuck down there, with no one to go for help.”
“A fair point,” she conceded. “Perhaps we should let somebody know what we’re doing before we go down there.” She crossed her arms atop her chest. “Note emphasis on we.”
“Hard to miss.”
Her insistence of accompanying him provoked unwanted suspicions in his mind. What if she was actually after the spells herself? Another classic nursery rhyme shoved its way into his thoughts:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell,
But this I know and know full well,
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
The problem, however, was that he did quite like this Dr. Fell, maybe more than he should, given how little he actually knew about her and her motives. Was she also out to be the next Mother Goose? He couldn’t let his growing attraction to her blind him to the possibility that she had her own secret agenda. The long-lost spell book was prize enough to tempt any number of heirs to Mother Goose’s legacy and power.
“Bugger,” she said, looking at her phone. “No signal.” Contemplating their remote surroundings, she sighed and put the phone away. “Where’s an ancient Roman cell tower when you need one?”
