The Crown of Zeus: The Library of Athena Book 1

by Christine Norris

  Harriet shook her head violently. “No, thank you. You won’t get me to touch that thing. I’ll just watch if it’s all the same to you.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself.”

  An eerie quiet dropped over the room, leaving only the crackle of the fire. “Uh, Madame Rachel? What do we do now?” Megan whispered. She’d never used a spirit board before, despite having attending a number of slumber parties over the years. She didn’t even know anyone who had one.

  “We need to put our fingertips on the pointer.” Rachel said loudly, breaking the spell the quiet weaved over them. Harriet jumped, but tried to cover it with a cool, calm look.

  “She surprised me, okay?”

  Rachel arched one eyebrow. “Yeah, Harriet, right.” She gave Megan and Claire a surreptitious look. “Someone needs to ask a question, and we’ll all concentrate on it.”

  Megan, Rachel and Claire placed their fingertips on the pointer. “Who’s got a question for the spirits?” Rachel said in low, spooky tone. No one spoke up.

  Rachel gave a mischievous smirk. “Fine, I’ll go first. Come on now, put your fingers on. Everyone ready? Okay then, here goes.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Who killed Sir Gregory Archibald?”

  Megan snatched her fingers from the pointer. “Why would you ask that? That’s not funny.” Strange thoughts ran though her head.

  I don’t know why I thought they wouldn’t bring it up. It’s the real reason they came, isn’t it? They probably just acted like my friends so they could get a peek inside my house, and brag about how they spent the night in the spook house. Has this all been a big joke?

  She pushed the thought away. Maybe that had been the reason when she first invited them, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t anymore.

  “Who was trying to be funny?” Rachel said. “It was an honest question.”

  “Let’s not talk about it, okay?” Megan, trying not to show she was mad, laced her fingers together. “I looked it up in the school library yesterday. The newspaper obituary says that Sir Gregory died of a heart attack. Nobody killed him. He was in his eighties, for crying out loud, he had to die sometime. I already told you, there’s no ghost.”

  “Sure, that’s what they say.” Harriet’s eyes were wild in the candlelight. “That’s what they want you to believe. What if someone poisoned him, making it look like a heart attack.”

  Rachel shook her head slowly. “Nutter. Honestly. Sorry, Megan, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Harriet glared at Rachel, but said nothing.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Claire said. She seemed nervous about the conversation; Megan wondered if Claire really did believe in ghosts. “He died, end of story. Who cares how? Let’s get back to the game. Someone ask a different question.”

  “Good idea.” Megan was thankful for Claire and her sensible attitude.

  The three girls put their fingertips back onto the pointer. A sudden, icy blast of wind swept through the room. The candles dimmed to nearly nothing, then went out. Only the light from the fire was left.

  “Megan?” Harriet whispered. “Did you leave the balcony doors open?

  “No, I didn’t. I made sure they were shut before we got in bed.”

  Rachel laughed. “Come on girls, it was just wind. Probably came down the chimney.” She went to the fireplace.

  “What are you doing?” Megan said. Rachel was on the hearth, doubled over and craning her neck trying to look up the chimney. Megan got off the bed, knelt beside her and put her head next to Rachel’s.

  “Just looking up the flue to see if I can feel anything. Before Harriet starts blaming Sir Gregory’s ghost.”

  Claire spun around on the bed to face the fireplace. “Do you even know what you’re looking at?”

  “Of course,” Rachel said, not very convincingly. “But I can’t really see without putting my whole head in the fire. She stood up and dusted off her hands. “We’ll just relight the candles and make sure we keep them out of the draft.”

  Megan pushed herself up. As she did, the hearthstone under her left hand moved, throwing her off balance. She fell forward, toward the flames. “Whoa! Help!”

  Chapter Three: Book, Poem and Key

  “Hey!” Rachel caught Megan by the arm just before she fell into the fire. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Rachel pulled Megan back, and she landed on the hearth, hard.

  Megan was unable to catch her breath. Her hands shook, her heart raced, her chest felt tight, and—did she smell burnt hair? “Thanks,” she said between gulps of air. Rachel sat next to her.

  “I couldn’t very well let you fly face first into the fire, now, could I? What was that all about? It’s not like you to be so ungraceful.”

  “One of these stones came loose, and I lost my balance.” She could breathe now, but her voice still trembled. She waved Rachel aside and scooted herself backwards to get a better look at the gray hearthstones. They were all different sizes and shapes, held together by thick mortar.

  “This one.” Megan touched the offending stone. The mortar around it was thinner than the others. She curled her fingers around the edges and pulled. The stone came away.

  Rachel peered over Megan’s shoulder. “Hey, look, a hole.”

  There was a space beneath the stone, about ten inches deep.

  Rachel looked inside. “There’s something in there.” She reached into the hole and pulled out a rolled-up sheet of paper and a small book.

  “What is it?” Harriet asked. She jumped down from the bed and sat on the floor next to Megan.

  “Beats me.” Rachel unrolled the paper. A large brass key fell out and onto the floor with a clonk.

  Megan picked it up, and the firelight painted it red and gold. She wondered what it opened.

  “There’s something written inside the wrapping.” Rachel scanned the writing. “It’s a note.”

  “Maybe it says what the key is for,” Claire said.

  Rachel took the note to Megan’s desk and turned on the lamp. She sat in the chair and smoothed the paper on the surface.

  Megan looked over Rachel’s shoulder at the note. Harriet and Claire crowded around Rachel.

  “What’s it say?” Claire said.

  “Give me a minute,” Rachel said. “Let me read it.”

  Megan chewed on her thumbnail. This was unexpected, but exciting. A secret compartment in her room! She thought about the portrait by the stairs, of the young man with the mischievous grin. It made her stomach do a flip-flop. Maybe her father had been right, and there was a secret passage, too.

  “It’s a poem,” Rachel said at last.

  “A poem?” Claire said. “Why would someone hide a poem?”

  Harriet wore a half-hearted grin. “Maybe they were a really bad poet?”

  Rachel gave her a look. “I don’t know. But listen to this.”

  She cleared her throat and read.

  “From her father’s head

  Born was she

  Now she guards the door

  For thee.

  When night-bird falls

  The way is clear

  But be fair warned

  There is much to fear

  If still you enter and

  wish to find

  Sacred treasures that

  Once were mine

  Those tales of old

  Will be your key

  If unversed you are

  Then trapped you will be.”

  At the bottom of the page was drawn a small tree with branches extended, like a fruit tree.

  “What do you suppose that means?” Harriet said.

  “I haven’t the slightest.” Rachel sat back in the chair. “It’s not signed, so I don’t who wrote it. And it doesn’t say anything about what the key is for.”

  “Ooo, a mystery,” Harriet said. “This is even better than my gran’s ghost story.”

  “Let’s look at the book,” Megan said. Even if this all turned out to be nothing, it was something besides th
e same old slumber party stuff. Something for them to talk about at school on Monday.

  She picked up the small, brown, leather-bound book. The cover was plain, with only the letters “G.A.” embossed in faded gold in the lower right-hand corner. On the back cover, in the center, was the same little tree as at the bottom of the poem. She flipped through the pages. Most of them were filled, all written in the same neat script. Some of the pages had detailed diagrams in addition to the writing.

  Why do people hide their journals? To hide their secrets, perhaps? The thought made a chill run up her spine. She turned to the first page and read out loud.

  16 April, 1940

  Paris is beautiful! The streets are lined with exquisite buildings filled with elegant people. The Champs-Elysées, the Eiffel Tower, the cathedral of Notre Dame. And at night! It truly is the City of Lights. One would not know that war rages a mere few hundred miles from this pristine place.

  Of course this trip was not for pleasure. I have made some purchases here to bring back to England, including several sculptures, a few pieces of furniture, and one painting. The painting was something of a surprise—discovered in a small curio shop in a tiny, quiet alley. Behind a pile of old books covered in dust lay this treasure. It is of young dancers at the practice barre, a gorgeous piece. I bought it for a mere pittance from the unsuspecting shopkeeper. I might have felt guilty if I had taken the time to think about it.

  The subjects and style is unmistakably Degas. I will have to have it formally appraised when I return home, of course. But I don’t think I will sell it. I will keep it and hang it in my flat, as a reminder of this trip.

  I have hope that the rest of the pieces will bring in enough money to help finance my first expedition. Of course I will still need the aid of the investors, but at least I will be able to pay for some of it. I cannot wait to see the Pyramids; to visit the tombs of the Pharaohs. We leave for Cairo in six months.

  Megan read the passage again to herself. “I know that painting. It’s the one in the entrance hall. I admired it the day we got here. Miranda told me it’s a Degas.”

  Claire pushed her glasses up her nose. “So then, this is Sir Gregory’s diary?”

  Megan shrugged. “I guess so. Look at the initials. G.A.—Gregory Archibald.”

  “I think it’s all perfectly creepy,” Harriet said. “Who hides their journal like that?”

  “Obviously, Sir Gregory did.” Rachel chuffed. “Read some more, Megan, maybe there’s something juicier later on.”

  “Like a secret affair,” Harriet added.

  Megan flopped in the middle of the bed and flipped the journal open to a random page.

  25 August, 1941:

  While the war in Europe rages on, I have found a new love. The island country of Greece calls out to me from every ruin, every column. The archaeological, mythological and philosophical history all run so deep and are so rich that one could study for a thousand lifetimes and barely scratch the surface. Although I know I must return home, I also must find a way to come back as soon as possible. Hitler and his armies are headed toward this island, waging a swath of destruction as they come. He will ravage this land and its people, just as he has done to France, Poland and much of the continent.

  It is rumored that the Fürer has been scouring the continent collecting archeological and occult artifacts. Why he is doing this, no one knows. I must try and take as many precious things from here as I can, to save it from this madman.

  I also feel that I am close to unearthing something truly amazing. We are digging near the Parthenon, the temple of Athena, the goddess of wisdom. Yesterday we found a winding tunnel running beneath the temple. The tunnel is carefully constructed to be confusing to anyone what might wander in, but there is a clever pattern to it. Once I discovered the secret, it was very simple to find the way.

  The tunnel leads to a dead-end in front of a stone door. There is an inscription on the door, and the door itself is sealed. I have not been able to translate the entire inscription yet, but I have copied it down and will continue to work on it. If I cannot gain entrance before it is time to depart, I will hide the tunnel. If what I think is inside, the Nazis must not be allowed to enter. If they were to get their hands on it…the consequences are too great to think about.

  I must get inside that chamber. If not, I must return as soon as possible.

  Beneath the entry was written a cluster of strange looking letters and symbols.

  Beware! The crown of knowledge

  is not to be sought without temperance.

  Megan chewed the inside of her cheek. She turned the book on its side and upside down to try and decipher the strange letters, but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. It wasn’t any language she had ever seen before. She scanned the next few entries, looking for a translation of the inscription, but the next pages were dedicated to a trip to China and something called the Mirror of Yu-Huang. The door and what lay behind it were not mentioned again.

  “Wow, he must have been all over the world,” Rachel said. “How exciting. I’ve always wanted to go off on an adventure. Read another one, Megan.”

  Megan read to them, following Sir Gregory on trips to Egypt, India, and Scandinavia. In every one he mentioned something he had discovered or was looking for. His words conjured vivid images in Megan’s mind—she felt like she was right there, digging in the hot sands of Egypt and the cold earth of Norway.

  There were also pages and pages of transcripts of conversations Sir Gregory had with the people in each place he visited. They were strange; they weren’t historical or archaeological, many were just folktales or local legends. One, if Megan read it correctly, appeared to be a home remedy for indigestion after being possessed by the spirit of a mongoose.

  “Weird,” Harriet said. “And boring. No secret affair or anything.”

  “Yeah, and I still haven’t heard anything that would warrant him hiding his journal away,” Claire said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Maybe he just didn’t want people snooping in his business.”

  “What about the poem, then?” Claire replied. Rachel shrugged.

  Megan ran her fingers along the side of the book, flipping the pages like a deck of cards being shuffled and thinking. Claire was right; it didn’t make any sense. And Harriet thought it was boring. That wasn’t good. Her new friends may have had other reasons for coming here, namely to see if her house was haunted, but she certainly wasn’t going to let them be bored.

  She stopped flipping and looked at where she stopped. The handwriting was sloppy, the ink blotched in places, like it was written in a hurry. She skimmed it, but was soon going back to read it more carefully.

  23 November, 1952

  The ancient magic has been revealed to me. After years of searching I have finally discovered the book that until now I thought was mere legend. The method, known only as The Art, is what I have been searching much of my life for. It is complicated and possibly dangerous, but I must continue with the plan I have put in motion. Now that I have collected at least some of the items, they will be hidden in such a way that those who seek to exploit them will not be able to find them even if they know where to look. The Library will be their resting place, until another comes to claim them.

  I can only hope that this effort will be enough to keep them safe.

  It wasn’t written on the last page in the book, but it was the last entry in the journal.

  “Hey, girls, listen to this one.” She read the passage aloud.

  “A legendary book, spells and ancient magic?” Harriet said softly. “I had no idea he was into magic. None of the stories ever said that. No wonder his ghost still haunts the place.”

  “Oh, stop it, Harriet. Magic, really. It’s obvious that at some point he went off his rocker,” Rachel said.

  “What do you think it means?” Claire said.

  Megan tapped her fingers on the page. Weird. Sir Gregory seemed like such a together kind of
guy. Smart, respected. Even if he did write about getting rid of indigestion after being possessed by the spirit of a mongoose. So why did he write about something so out there as magic? Magic wasn’t real. “I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the poem?”

  Rachel held up the poem. “Do you think he wrote this?”

  Megan held her hands out to Rachel. “Well, let’s look. Hand me the poem.” She put the poem next to the open journal entry. “Look at the handwriting. It’s the same, even the same color ink.” She flipped the book over. “Look here, and here. The same mark. He definitely wrote both.”

  Megan studied the poem; rather, the page the poem was written on. “I think this page has been torn out of the journal.” She turned to the very back of the diary. A small border of ragged edges ran along the spine.

  “A page has been torn out.” She took the poem and placed it into the book, next to the ragged edge. It was a perfect fit.

  Harriet put a hand on her hip. “So Sir Gregory wrote the poem. But what does it mean?”

  Megan scanned the page, her brow furrowed. “I think it’s a riddle.”

  “A riddle? Whatever for?” Harriet said.

  “It might be a clue to where he hid whatever he was talking about in that last entry.” Megan flipped to the page in the journal. “See? He collected items. ‘They will be hidden’, ‘The Library will be their final resting place’. ”

  “What items do you think he was talking about, then?” Rachel said. “He collected tons of stuff.”

  “I don’t have any ideas about what,” Megan said. She read over the passage again, and one word jumped out at her. “But I know where we should start looking.”

  “Oh yeah?” Rachel quipped. “Just where, do you propose, we begin our little adventure?”

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Megan called.

  The door opened and Megan’s father’s head appeared. “You girls still awake?”

  “Yeah, Dad. We were just um, uh…”

  “We were playing with this spirit board, Mr. Montgomery,” Rachel said. “You know, asking the spirits about boys we like and all that.”