The Eagle's Quill

by Sarah L. Thomson

  Marty had flopped down on a window seat whose cushion had been shredded. Polyester stuffing drifted up into her lap. “Octagons especially. He based a lot of Monticello on an octagon pattern. That central hall, for a start. Just like the one you have here, Abby. Eight sides. It created a pattern that he really liked . . .”

  Sam dropped another book onto his pile and tuned Marty’s voice out. An idea was tickling at the back of his brain.

  Pawing through all the stuff in the house was no good. It was like staring at that giant map in the tourist center, trying to come up with a clue. That wasn’t a puzzle; it was just a pile of information. A puzzle was not like that. A puzzle had hints or clues. Something to catch your eye, something to give you a starting place.

  Often that starting place was something that didn’t quite fit. That stood out. That caught your attention or that seemed just a little bit wrong.

  Something a little bit wrong. Sam lifted a hand. “Marty, say that again.”

  “Say what? About Thomas Jefferson’s recipe for ice cream?”

  “No, not that. About geometry. About shapes. About—”

  “Octagons? Like the front hall?”

  The front hall. Sam had been stuck in that safe room for two hours, staring up at the monitors. One screen had showed the hallway where Evangeline and Abby’s parents had been held.

  Jefferson really liked octagons. Octagons had eight sides. And something wasn’t quite right here. Something Sam had seen on that monitor . . .

  “It’s wrong!” he blurted and ran out of the room.

  The others followed him as he skidded to a stop in the hallway, turning slowly around in a circle. “Sam? What is it? It’s a sugar rush from all that candy, isn’t it?” Marty asked. “Or maybe it really is PTSD.”

  “No! It’s an octagon! The hallway! I mean, it’s not!” Sam grinned widely. They’d gotten it! He and Marty together had figured it out. The first step of the puzzle, the place to start!

  “Look, either it’s an octagon or it isn’t,” Marty said. “It can’t be both.”

  “It’s supposed to be an octagon, but look! Count the walls! This room only has seven sides! It’s a seven-sides-a-gon.”

  “A heptagon.” Marty’s eyes brightened, and she turned in a slow circle, looking at the ruined hallway. “Seven sides. Seven Founders. Sam, that’s it! Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams . . .”

  “Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, John Jay . . . ,” Theo chimed in, nodding.

  “John Jay? Didn’t he play for the Red Sox?”

  “Sam! Be serious!” Marty glared. But suddenly, briefly, Abby smiled. She got it, Sam realized. Marty talked when she was nervous. Sam joked when he was on the verge of solving a puzzle. He could feel it at this moment, that electric fizz of excitement when all the pieces were about to slide into place.

  “And the last one, of course, is our old friend, George Washington!” Sam bowed toward Theo.

  “So we’re looking for . . . Thomas Jefferson’s wall? Maybe?” Marty frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t see anything specific . . .”

  “Let’s hope Tom’s wall wasn’t the one that got blown to pieces,” Sam said. Theo had moved over to the walls of the room and was walking slowly along them, running his fingers lightly over the white-painted paneling.

  “Abby? Any ideas? You’ve lived here all your life,” Sam said.

  Abby shook her head. “My dad never told me anything special about this room. Maybe he thought I wasn’t ready or something.”

  “Or maybe he just didn’t know,” Sam added.

  “Or maybe there’s nothing after all.” Marty chewed her lip, looking worried.

  “There’s something.” Theo stopped at the wall that was farthest from the room’s outside door—or where that door had once been. “Look. Well, don’t look. It’s hard to see. But come and feel it. Right here.”

  Sam came to Theo’s side and rubbed his fingers gently over the wall where Theo showed him. He could feel shallow grooves, lines that had been carved, very lightly, into the wall’s paneling, and then painted over. They were so faint they were hard to see, but Sam traced them carefully with his fingertips. A triangle. No, a pyramid. A pyramid with something inside it—a feather with a curled top. A quill.

  “This is it!” Sam grinned with triumph and slapped his palm on the Founders’ symbol, as if he were giving the wall a high five. “Thomas Jefferson’s wall—whoa!”

  The panel was shifting. He snatched his hand away as the panel slid aside, revealing a dark opening in the wall.

  “What’s in there?” Abby asked, coming to stare over Sam’s shoulder.

  “Theo, be careful,” Marty warned, as Theo reached gingerly into the dark hole.

  “There’s something—I got it. Here!” Theo pulled his hand out, clutching two objects. He put those down on the little table where they’d found the satellite phone.

  Sam studied the two objects, feeling his grin spread wider over his face. Things were pretty dire—Gideon Arnold had tracked them down, Evangeline and Abby’s mom and dad were in danger—but he and Marty could still beat the Founders’ puzzles. So that was something.

  For a moment Sam thought the first thing Theo had recovered was a tiny clock, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Then he realized his mistake. The brass circle had letters around its edges, rather than numbers: N, S, E, W. North, south, east, west. It reminded him a bit of the sundial he and Theo and Marty had found on the top of a mountain in Death Valley, except for the slender needle that quivered and swung in its center. A compass!

  The other thing—Sam had no idea. “What’s that?” he asked as Marty picked the object up with gentle, cautious fingers.

  “It’s a wheel cipher,” she told him.

  “A cipher?” Sam was intrigued. He leaned closer to get a better look. A cipher was a code—and a code was a puzzle. It was the kind of thing Sam was good at.

  It looked to Sam like a long cylinder made out of wood, with letters carved all around its edge. But when Marty handled it, Sam saw that it was actually a series of wooden disks, all threaded onto a metal rod so each could rotate independently of the others. Marty spun one disk gently with her finger.

  “Thomas Jefferson invented this,” she said in an awed tone. “He used it to send secret messages.”

  “How?” Sam’s fingers itched to take it from her to see if he could figure it out. But he restrained himself.

  “All the disks have the letters of the alphabet around the edge. So you spin the disks to spell out a message. One letter to each disk.” Marty twisted the disks and arranged the letters.

  “Then, to send your message, you write down the letters on a different line—maybe the one above.” Marty pointed to a nonsense row of letters: HWD QH W PNNLXH. “You send your secret message to somebody, and they line up those letters on their cipher wheel and then look around the disk to see which line actually makes sense. So you can read—”

  “SAM IS A DOOFUS,” Sam read. Theo’s mouth twitched very, very slightly. “Thanks, Marty. Thanks a lot.”

  “It makes sense that Josiah Hodge might have had one of those ciphers,” Abby said. “After all, he was working for Thomas Jefferson.”

  “But what are we supposed to do with it?” Sam asked. “Send somebody a secret message, or decode one?”

  “Somebody else would have to have a cipher wheel just like this one,” Marty said. “Either to send us a message or to understand one that we sent.”

  Sam nodded. “I don’t suppose you guys know of anybody in the world with a wheel cipher just like that one?” Nobody did. Sam shrugged and turned his attention back to the compass, watching the sensitive needle inside the case shiver and swing as he moved it. He turned it over and saw words inscribed on the wooden case. “‘In matters of style, swim with the current,’” he read. “‘In matters of principle, stand like a rock.’”

  Abby’s shoulders slumped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You k
now,” Marty said. “If something isn’t super important, like what kind of coat to wear, do what other people do. But—”

  “But when something is important, don’t change. Stick with your principles,” Theo said, cutting Marty off. “Do what you believe is right.”

  “I know that.” Abby looked impatient. “I mean, what is it telling us to do? How is it supposed to help find my parents?”

  “I don’t know, but—” Marty started to answer her.

  “Which way is north?” Sam broke in, staring down at the compass in his hand.

  “Sam, you’re holding a compass, and you’re asking which way is north?” Marty sighed.

  “I’m serious.” Sam kept his eyes on the compass. “Which way?”

  “Well, the sun is rising there.” Marty pointed out the door. “So that’s east. So that’s north.” She pointed a different direction.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s not like the sun is going to rise in the southwest today. Sam, what’s up?”

  “The compass doesn’t point north.” Sam looked up, feeling that fizzing excitement again.

  “It has to,” Marty insisted. “The earth’s magnetic field—”

  “Marty, it doesn’t. It’s pointing northeast.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “No, it’s not.” Sam grinned. “It’s a clue.”

  Marty insisted on running back to her room for her own compass and using it to check against the antique one they’d found in the wall. Her sleek black compass pointed directly north, but the needle of the old one definitely swung in a different direction.

  “Old TJ gave us a clue at last,” Sam said. “The Quill has got to be northeast of here.”

  “Then let’s go!” Abby looked ready to set off immediately.

  “Hold it,” Theo said. “Wait a minute.”

  “Wait?” Abby swung around to face him. “That Quill might be the only chance I have of seeing my parents again. What am I supposed to wait for? Why can’t we start right away?”

  “For one thing,” Sam pointed out, “we’re still wearing our pajamas.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The four of them hurried back to their rooms to pull on warm clothes and hiking boots and stuff backpacks with essential supplies. Then they met outside what remained of the ranch’s back door. The park was too big to explore on foot, Abby pointed out, and they might have to cover a lot of ground. They would need transportation.

  Sam was really hoping that she meant a jeep, or perhaps a few ATVs, although his last experience on one of those, being chased across a desert by Gideon Arnold’s hired thugs, hadn’t been all that fun. Still it would be better than—

  “Horses,” Abby said. Sam groaned quietly, following her as she led them downhill toward the stables.

  Once inside the stables, Abby quickly selected four mounts, leading them out of their stalls and hauling out saddles and bridles. Marty expertly saddled up a dark-brown mare with a black mane and tail. Abby said her name was Polly Peachum. “I used to take lessons once a week at this stable near our house. I loved it!” Marty said happily, stroking Polly on the nose.

  Theo also seemed to know what to do with the saddle Abby handed him, putting it on a big gray horse and cinching it up tight. “That’s Silveret,” Abby told him. “You’ve ridden before?”

  Theo nodded. “Wilderness camping. With my mom. In the summers.” He took the bridle from Abby and turned his back on her to pull the complicated contraption over Silveret’s face.

  Abby saddled up another brown horse called Ethelinda for herself, which left a black beast who seemed to have a mean glint in her eye for Sam.

  “Here you go.” Abby handed Sam a bridle. Sam stared at it in dismay.

  “What do I do with this?”

  “You put it on the horse,” Abby told him.

  Sam eyed the horse, and turned to Abby with a look of wide-eyed dismay. “Which end?”

  Abby’s mouth twitched. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “Kind of.”

  “On second thought, I’ll take that.” She retrieved the bridle. “You haven’t ridden much, have you?”

  Sam considered telling her about Adam’s birthday party, but it didn’t seem like the moment. “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Okay. No sweat,” Abby assured him. “Peggy’s used to tenderfoots.”

  “Shouldn’t that be tenderfeet? And ‘Peggy’?”

  “Peggy Waffington.” Abby slapped the horse on the neck in a friendly way. Sam wondered if he could do that too, or if he’d get his arm bitten off. He also wondered who’d come up with these horses’ names. Did it have to do with Thomas Jefferson, by any chance? Had he owned horses named Polly Peachum and Peggy Waffington? If Sam had known that back in the 1700s, he definitely would not have voted for the guy.

  Theo and Marty had already taken their horses outside, and once Abby finished saddling up Peggy, she handed the reins to Sam and told him to lead the mare out into the yard. Sam tugged gingerly at the thin leather straps. Peggy rolled an eye and looked bored.

  “Harder. She has to know you mean it,” Abby told him as she led Ethelinda out.

  “Right.” Sam gave Peggy a stern look and pulled harder on the reins. Peggy huffed out a sigh and wandered slowly after him, clearly trying to make it seem that it was her own idea to walk outside, and it had nothing to do with the puny little human tugging on some pieces of leather connected to her head.

  “Lead her to the mounting block,” Abby called. “Over there.”

  Sam took Peggy over to the big square box, and, following Abby’s instructions, climbed up on it. Theo and Marty and Abby were already on their horses, hopping up easily from the ground as if there were nothing to it. Sam looked at Peggy’s broad black back doubtfully. She seemed a lot wider from up here than she had on the ground.

  “Put your foot in the stirrups—no, your right foot!” Abby shouted to him. “And just swing your other leg over the saddle. Easy.”

  Sam did as she said. For one quick second he was on top of Peggy. The next second he was coming down on the ground with a thump.

  “Hey! Did she buck me off?” Sam stared up at Peggy’s bulk looming above him and scuttled back so she wouldn’t step on his toes.

  Marty was giggling wildly, and even Abby looked as if she were trying to stifle a smile. Theo had turned his head away.

  “No. Not exactly,” Abby said. “You just kind of . . . slid off. It’s okay. Just get up—Peggy! Don’t do that!”

  “Hey! Get away from me!” Sam yelled. Peggy had suddenly become interested in the small human near her front hooves, which looked as wide across as dinner plates to Sam. She put her head down. A warm, velvety nose snuffled over Sam’s face and investigated his shirt. Her mouth opened, and a wet pink tongue came out. There were teeth too, big yellow ones. Sam didn’t know all that much about horses, but he was sure they weren’t carnivorous. Pretty sure. Almost completely sure.

  “I think she’s going to eat me!” he yelped.

  “Peggy! Knock it off!” Abby was swinging off her horse. “Sam, it’s fine. She just—”

  Peggy’s lips lifted back over her teeth. Frozen, Sam stared in fascinated horror. He hadn’t survived sneaking into Ben Franklin’s vault and getting kidnapped by Gideon Arnold just to become the first human being eaten by a horse, had he?

  Snap! Peggy’s teeth closed on something in Sam’s shirt pocket. She pulled it out. It was—licorice?

  “She likes candy,” Abby said, appearing underneath Peggy’s chin, gripping the reins, and pulling the horse a few steps away. “Sorry, Sam. I should have warned you.”

  Sam got up shakily. “So we’ve got something in common, huh?” he asked, watching in disbelief as Peggy Waffington chomped up his licorice in a few bites. He reached into his pocket, found a leftover piece, and held it out gingerly.

  “Keep your palm flat and let her take it off,” Abby told him. “That way she won’t bite your
fingers. But don’t be greedy, Peggy. That’s it. You know candy’s not good for you. Apples from now on!”

  Sam did as Abby told him. Peggy nibbled the treat from his hand and snorted happily. Then she vigorously sniffed the rest of his pockets in case he was holding out on her.

  “That’s it, I swear, girl,” Sam said. Obeying Abby’s instructions, he tried mounting a second time, and this time he managed to stay on Peggy’s back.

  “Just tap her with your heels,” Abby called to him as she led the way out of the corral, with Theo and Marty following her. “She’s a trail ride horse—she’ll follow the others. It’s what she’s used to doing.”

  “Listen,” Sam told the horse as they walked out of the yard behind Theo, Marty, and Abby. “Let’s make a deal. You don’t toss me off, and I share my candy with you. Interested?”

  Peggy flapped a black ear back at him in a way that made it clear he’d caught her attention, but he’d better make any deal worth her while.

  “And I’m not calling you Peggy Waffington,” Sam told her. “Because, come on. How about Snickers? That’s my favorite candy bar. So: a much cooler name and half my stash. You’re not going to get a better offer today.”

  Snickers sneezed, which Sam decided meant yes.

  In a line, the horses headed along a well-worn path that crossed a green hillside and entered a dense forest, where it branched into three distinct trails heading off among the trees.

  “Sam? You’ve got the compass?” Abby called from up ahead.

  Sam did. He pulled the compass out of a pocket in his cargo pants and checked it. “The middle trail!” he yelled back. “That’s northeast!”

  The horses took them under the cover of thick trees. Pines and firs with heavy green needles towered overhead, and pinecones crunched under the horses’ hooves. Sam found himself rocking a little with Snickers’s movements, listening to the leather of the saddle creak beneath him. He kept the compass in his hand to be sure they were headed in the right direction, toward the Quill.

  He kept an ear out for helicopters too, or airplanes, or jeeps, or ATVs that might suddenly be chasing them down. Gideon Arnold knew where they were. And how, exactly? Had he followed them from Death Valley? Had he figured out Ben Franklin’s clue on his own? There was no way to know, and it didn’t matter that much anyway, Sam realized. The important fact was that Arnold was here, and that meant danger was here too.