The Tombs

by Deborah Schaumberg

  I glanced over; Geeno was sound asleep. I didn’t know how he did it. My body ached from the flimsy cot. And with the clicks and taps of the mechanical creatures moving around in the other room, a sound night’s sleep was out of the question.

  As always in the morning, my thoughts went to my father. Is he safe? Khan checked on him as often as he could. Apparently the crows had come to the shop a few times, but Jeremiah Thorn’s scouts warned my father of their approach, allowing him to disappear until they left. He spent the rest of his time locked in the basement, continuing to work on his mysterious project.

  Khan hadn’t been able to take me to the camp on Sunday, and as it was too risky to go by land, I’d agreed to wait until tonight. I was anxious to get back. It felt like valuable time was slipping through my fingers.

  I’d waited by the bonfire Saturday evening, until Mr. Moralis returned holding a wooden box that looked so old it was a wonder it hadn’t rotted through. Its stained, blackened surface was covered with crusty barnacles like those on the bottom of boats. Mr. Moralis sat down, a gleam in his eye, placing the box on his lap.

  “On an expedition to the Empire of Brazil, I met a shaman,” he said. “I stayed with him for a time, and he taught me much about energy seers. Ancient civilizations used crystals to channel energy, to harness and amplify it. When I left, he gave me one of these crystals. In legends of old, they were called Lemurian Seeds or God Stones. Some were carved into skulls or spheres. This one is very old—and very powerful, so I’m told.”

  Unlatching the box, he’d removed a thick smoky-clear stone, like ancient glass, faceted to a point on one end. He held it almost reverently in both hands. There was something beautiful about it, something unearthly, the way it caught the light of the fire, of the stars, almost as if it was lit from within. He was right; I’d never seen anything like it.

  His voice shifted to a whisper. “When your mother held this stone, she said she felt its vibration.”

  I carefully took the stone from him, running my fingers over the surface. It was polished smooth except on one side, which was lined with ridges. It was the length of my forearm, and my fingers could almost encircle it. But I didn’t feel any vibration. I didn’t feel anything at all. “Are you sure this is what my mother wanted you to give me?”

  He nodded. “It must be.”

  I shifted into my second sight. Still nothing. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t understand what it’s supposed to do. How is it magical?”

  “Supposedly, in the hands of the right seer, this stone will reveal ancient knowledge or expand your energy in some way. Your mother is the only seer I know who has ever felt anything from it. I hoped it would work for you. Maybe as you learn of your gift, the crystal will respond. I’ll keep it for you. When you come back, you can try again.” He put it back into its box, frowning.

  Back in Geeno’s crate, I felt a tickle on my arm. “Avery, time to get up.” I must have fallen back asleep. I opened my eyes to the sight of Geeno getting ready to pounce on me.

  “Whoa, there,” I said, smiling. “This cot is not strong enough for two.”

  I pushed aside thoughts of the crystal as I dressed. I had to trust my mother. She’d wanted me to have it for a reason—I just had to figure out why.

  Geeno and I stealthily made our way to the Works, every step darkened by thoughts of black-cloaked figures.

  When we arrived, we saw Leo sitting on the steps outside the door, his face wet with tears.

  “Leo, what’s wrong?” I sat down next to him.

  “Scarface fired me.” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He said people don’t want to work with a Negro anymore. And they won’t drink from the fountain if I do.”

  “What? That’s terrible!” I put my arm around him. “It’s not right.” Maybe this was provoked by the riot. “Any chance your folks will let you go to school?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think so. We need the money.” He stood up. “I’d better go. ’Bye, Ave. ’Bye, Geeno.” Leo walked away, head hung low.

  A hot ember burned in my chest. Maybe Khan could find him some work. The flame continued to build as I set up my station. It wasn’t fair. Leo was good at his job. The uneasy feeling I’d had watching the rally returned.

  As the only girl, my position was probably just as vulnerable as Leo’s. I noticed an envelope leaning against my welding gun. It was the same stationery as the one Mr. Matteo had delivered last week.

  I glanced around as I picked it up. No one seemed to be watching me. After a moment, Tony caught my eye and came over. “Did you see Leo? He wanted to say goodbye.”

  I nodded, afraid that if I talked about it, I’d cry.

  He spied the envelope clutched in my hand. “Is that from Malice?” I knew Tony and I were wondering the same thing: Am I about to get fired?

  “I think so.” I slit open the envelope, pulled out the note, and read aloud.

  Miss Avery,

  The investigation is concluded. I would like to see you in my office immediately.

  R. Malice

  Tony nodded up at the ceiling. “The boss wants to see you up there?”

  “This can’t be good.” I looked up at the perch. None of us had ever set foot inside.

  “I’ll come with you.” My heart swelled—Tony, always willing to sacrifice himself.

  “No, Tony, you can’t. If I’m getting fired, I don’t want to take anyone down with me.” I took a deep breath. “I have to do this alone.”

  “All right, Avery. Good luck,” he said.

  Whatever was going to happen, it’d be worse if I kept Mr. Malice waiting. Tony and Geeno stopped work to watch me go. My boots felt heavy, as if I’d welded metal plates to the soles. I dragged them toward the far side of the mill, where an iron stairway crisscrossed its way to a point eighty feet up the concrete wall. I gripped the handrail and started up. The metal treads were corroded through in places. The wall bolts dripped rust like orange tears. My legs got shakier with each switchback of the stairway.

  At the top platform, I made the mistake of looking down. My knees wobbled. I still had to walk across thirty feet of narrow metal catwalk with only a thin guide wire on each side. Pushing damp hair from my face, I grabbed the wires and shuffled onto the bridge. Of course, Mr. Malice had a private steam-driven cage elevator, or he’d never make it to his office. I wondered what he’d do if it jammed, picturing his bulk navigating this walkway. The hysterically funny image eased my fear a bit. Another catwalk spanned out from the opposite side of the perch but was off-limits, as it passed directly over Bessie and her incinerating volcano.

  Taking slow, careful steps, I made it across. Sweat trickled down my back, fed by the haze of heat rising up from the furnaces below. The thrum of the machinery pulsed through my body; the blood quivered in my veins. I lifted my hand to knock, but stopped when I heard Mr. Malice talking.

  “That’s preposterous! I refuse to do that to the people in my employ.” I couldn’t hear a response. A second passed, and then Mr. Malice bellowed, “I don’t care who you are! If you attempt it, I’ll alert the authorities!”

  To whom is he speaking? And what do they want him to do? At least Mr. Malice was standing up for us. When a few minutes went by with no other discussion and no one emerging, I knocked tentatively on the door. Mr. Malice barked, “Enter.”

  The door grated against the metal floor as I pushed it open.

  He was alone, when I’d expected someone to be with him. Was he talking to himself? It took me aback and I fumbled my words. “You wanted . . . you asked to see me?” My mouth felt dry. “Sir,” I added quickly.

  There were windows on three sides of the room, file cabinets bursting with papers, and an iron box that said “Security Safe” on it, looking heavy enough that I wondered how it did not fall through the wooden floor. To my right was the gate of the elevator; in front of me, a cluttered desk with Roland Malice sitting fatly behind it. A bandage covered his bald head. Another cradled one of his
meaty arms. He held up his good hand, indicating I wait as he finished reading some papers.

  I glanced at the wall next to me, which was covered with newspaper articles and photographs—the entire history of Cross Street Ironworks, laid out before me. Built by Roland Malice’s father, Tyber Malice, a fierce-looking mountain of a man, it was one of the largest iron mills in the country. Tyber Malice still owned it. There was an article on Roland, describing how he took over daily operations of the mill a year after his boxing career ended abruptly. He’d been prematurely pronounced dead at a heavyweight match. I recalled the rumor I’d heard when I first started at the Works, the stories that he’d died in the ring and come back to life. So it’s true. I squinted at the caption under a photograph of him posing with a girl. The Polish Punisher, he was called. The girl looked sad. I wondered who she was.

  A large hand slapped over the picture. I jumped and spun around, bumping into Mr. Malice’s sling. He winced and glared down at me.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sir.” I sucked my breath in through my teeth, forcing myself to tilt my head and look up into his eyes. He could crush me with his one good hand.

  “She’s very pretty, the girl in the picture,” I said. “What’s her name?”

  His eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought I’d made a huge mistake. Frightened, I closed my eyes and focused on my third eye. When I opened my eyes again, my second sight took over, filling the room with a light only I could see. My mind surged with images, memories. The girl from the picture begging Mr. Malice not to fight, telling him she would leave him. Roland’s face and body pounded. Roland’s jaw cracking. Spitting out blood and teeth. Hitting the mat, his eyes slits in the purple pulp that was left of his face. Somehow, waking up six months later in a hospital bed, his girl long gone, nobody knew where.

  I sensed his confusion as he stared down at me. Although the memories had played across his mind, he did not know I’d seen them as well. I blinked, clearing my sight.

  “Yeah, well, that was a long time ago,” he said, removing his hand from the photo. “And none of your damn business.” He stepped back. “I called you up here for a reason. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about the explosion, Miss Avery?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “The investigation was inconclusive. A cause cannot be determined. There are no gas leaks.” He glared at me. “I’m giving you a chance to tell me if someone purposely set off a charge in my factory.”

  I stiffened. “Sir, I don’t know how the explosion happened.”

  His gaze never wavered. “I will not tolerate trickery or theft amongst my employees.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Miss Avery—” But we were interrupted by a ringing sound from across the room. “Eh, what now?” Mr. Malice mumbled, lumbering toward his desk. He picked up a brass cone hanging from a sleek wooden box mounted to the wall. When he held it to his ear, I realized it was one of Bell’s telephone machines, the first I’d seen since the Centennial Expo. He must have been on the device before, as well.

  While he was talking, I turned back to the photographs. I was overcome with the desire to test my skill. Maybe I could somehow heal Mr. Malice’s spirit. Pressing my hand to a tintype photograph of Roland Malice and his father, I closed my eyes, just the way I remembered my mother doing.

  Images floated through my mind. I saw Tyber Malice and Roland arguing. Roland agreeing to fight. His father telling him that if he lost, he was to give up boxing and take over the factory. Roland sleeping. Tyber Malice pouring something into Roland’s water jug. Tyber Malice laughing as he bet big money on the other contender to beat Roland.

  Mr. Malice was drugged. My mind spun. Mr. Malice’s own father let him be beaten nearly to death and caused his love to leave him, just to get what he wanted, to have his son take over the factory. And he made money off the fight. These are Tyber’s memories. I’d seen my mother retrieve memories from a photograph. For a moment I felt giddy with delight. Then I jerked my hand away.

  Thank goodness, Mr. Malice was still talking into the machine. Did he know what his father had done? I certainly did not want to be the one to show him. But with a father like that, I was beginning to understand why Mr. Malice was so cantankerous.

  He hung up. Holding his ribs, he eased himself into his desk chair, picked up the papers on his desk, and slid them into an envelope. “Where was I? Oh yes, did you know Oscar was stealing from me?” He ran his finger along the bandage on his head as if it itched.

  My fears were confirmed. “Mr. Malice, none of us knew, I swear. We’ll pay you back.”

  He glanced up at me, as if surprised by the offer. “No. That’s not necessary. But I don’t care how good a welder you are. If something like this happens again, you’re fired. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” He thinks I’m a good welder, then? I realized the answer mattered to me.

  Mr. Malice gazed out the window at the city of machines below. “A very important client just rang me up. He needs his work finished by tomorrow. You are to be personally responsible for the welding tabs under the name of Richard Morris Hunt. Stay as late as you must to complete them.” He looked at me a moment. “That’s all. You may go.”

  “Thank you, sir. You can count on me. Sir, there is one more thing—”

  “Stop. I know what you’re going to say. And I know Leo doesn’t deserve it, but damn it, I’ve got to keep the peace with the other employees. A word of advice: you keep sticking your nose in other people’s business, it’s going to come back to bite you.” His voice got louder. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yet as I closed the metal door behind me, I heard Mr. Malice say, “Her name was Angelica Post.”

  Back at my station, I got right to work. If I was going to finish my current tabs and the ones for Mr. Hunt, I’d have to make haste.

  All in all, the meeting had gone better than I’d expected. I think Roland Malice has a heart after all—deeply buried, yes, but in there somewhere.

  The boys came to visit one by one, as I knew they would. Without stopping work, I repeated what had happened. I told them about the articles on the Works and Mr. Malice’s career-ending fight, watching the astonishment dawn on their faces. But I avoided any mention of the things I’d learned using my second sight.

  I barely heard the end-of-day whistle, but I saw the boys cleaning up their stations and the men lining up to sign the time roll. Tony and Geeno approached my workbench. They were filthy, as was I. When they lifted their goggles, it looked as if they had masks over their eyes, the areas where the layer of fine black soot hadn’t touched their skin.

  “See you tomorrow,” Tony said, flipping his thumb back toward an officer from the House of Detention standing by the door. “Can’t keep the long arm of the law waiting.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Geeno and I said simultaneously.

  The factory shut down with jarring abruptness. The great machines shuddered to a stop, the massive conveyor belts ceased their endless loops, and the haze began to settle around us. We heard the occasional sizzle and pop of hardening steel. Lanterns lit the perimeter of the factory and the perch, but the afterglow of Bessie was enough light to work by. She remained blistering hot all night until they fired her up the next morning. Sparks flew up from her boiling guts for hours. I imagined that from up in the perch, our welding guns looked like two shooting stars in a night sky.

  When I glanced up, I saw the blocky silhouette of Mr. Malice watching us.

  After an hour or so, Geeno and I sat in the shadows, taking a water break.

  “Almost done,” Geeno said.

  “Yup, I’m starving. What say we pick up something for supper on the way home?” I took a long drink from a canteen I’d filled at the water fountain. Glancing at my timepiece, I said, “Too bad Mauricio will be closed up for the night.” Mauricio was our favorite pushcart peddler. He only spoke Italian but was so animated in his sales of spaghetti caldo th
at people flocked to his cart. But by now many vendors would already be back at the pushcart stable for the night.

  “Let’s finish up.” I put on my helmet and was about to lower my goggles when a cold draft slithered over my shoulders. “Wait.” I held up my hand and listened. Across the factory we heard a door slam, the scrape of boots on the concrete floor. I pointed to the cluttered space under the worktable. “Geeno,” I whispered, “hide.”

  “Avery—”

  “Shhh, not so loud.” I crouched next to him. “I’ll be right back.”

  “It probably one of the men, forgot something,” he said, voice low now.

  “Probably, but either way, don’t move.” He nodded and ducked under the table. I didn’t want to alarm Geeno, but something felt wrong. My neck tingled. It did not sound like someone who knew his way around the factory.

  I crept along the welding stations. It was easy to stay hidden behind all the equipment. Getting closer was risky, but I had to see who it was. I stopped and listened again. More footsteps, methodical and slow, paused every few feet, presumably looking for something . . . or someone.

  There was another noise, a quieter one. A swishing, like fabric. It fanned out around me so that I couldn’t pinpoint its location. But it was close.

  A cold sweat dampened my neck. I lay down and rolled my body under a low metal shelf. I tried to be quiet, but my goggles, pushed up onto my helmet, tapped the bottom shelf as I went under. On my back, I held my breath as the swishing sound came toward me. The hem of a heavy black cloak licked the length of my arm. Through the holes in the metal shelf, I clearly saw a crow-shaped mask.

  Please, Geeno, don’t move, I prayed. Dust and sweat burned my eyes, but I dared not breathe. It seemed like an eternity before I heard the swish of the cloaks fading. There was more than one crow skulking about the place. Carefully, I rolled onto my stomach, preparing to jump up and run. But I heard them moving farther off into the factory, and I crept back toward Geeno. He looked at me, tight-lipped and still. I wedged in near him, where I had a view out, putting my finger to my lips.