The Ruined City

by John Wilson

  “Are there any signs that it’s working?” Cate asked.

  “Hard to say. There are brief moments when we seem to get a response. Nothing much—a flicker of the eyes, a turn of the head—but it is a response. We mustn’t lose hope. The brain is immensely complex, and for all our science, we understand only a tiny fraction of how it works.” Dr. Roe turned back to Howard. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Your dad’s in bed, but feel free to take him for a walk to the lounge.”

  “Thank you,” Howard said, holding the door open for Cate.

  The room was not large, but it looked nothing like a hospital room. There was a carpet on the floor, and the walls were painted a noninstitutional yellow and decorated with cheerful art prints. It was furnished with a closet in one corner, a coffee table with magazines on it and an armchair beside it, a bedside table with clock and light, and a bed with a wooden headboard and bright duvet, flanked on each side by a chair. One wall held a flat-screen TV. Out the window was a view of the institute’s gardens. The storm had passed, and Howard could just make out Heimao’s dark shape slinking across the lawn in the twilight.

  The only hospital-like elements in the room were the guardrails to prevent his father from falling out of bed and a camera fixed high on the wall. Howard’s father was propped up by a pile of pillows and staring at the TV, where a documentary about whales was playing with the sound muted. He was dressed in paisley flannel pajamas, and he didn’t react to the people entering his room.

  Every time he came to visit, Howard was struck by how much his dad had changed. Even though he was not physically ill and physiotherapists worked on him every day, he was slowly wasting away. It was as though his muscles, deprived of any useful purpose, had simply given up. His hair was neatly brushed and his eyes were open, but there was no expression on his face. Sometimes Howard thought this wasn’t actually his dad sitting before him.

  “Hi, Dad,” Howard said, forcing his voice to be cheerful. “How are you feeling? I’ve brought someone to visit. This is Cate. She’s in my grade at school.”

  “Hello, Mr. Lawson,” Cate said, stepping to the bedside. “I’m delighted to meet you. Howard has told me a lot about you.”

  Neither greeting provoked the slightest response from Howard’s dad, whose only movement was the occasional blink of his eyes.

  “Sit down.” Howard indicated a chair beside the bed. He moved around to the other side and perched on the arm of a larger chair. “It’s kind of strange talking and getting no feedback. I usually just tell him about my week at school, which is actually kind of relaxing. A little later we’ll take him to the lounge.”

  “Can he walk?”

  “Oh yes! If you slide him out of bed, he’ll stand. If you move him forward, he’ll walk. His mind hasn’t forgotten how to do things—it’s as if it’s just gone somewhere else.”

  For a while Howard and Cate talked to his dad, telling him about their classes and what was going on at school and in the world in general. Eventually, without even noticing, they began talking to each other across the bed.

  “Do you think Aileen’s story about Josiah Whateley making his fortune selling the books was true?” Howard asked. “Could selling a few books make someone enough money to build a mansion and leave enough to pass down that Leon’s dad could buy Leon a Shelby Mustang a hundred and some years later?”

  Cate nodded slowly. “I’m certain of it.”

  “How can you be certain? It was a long time ago.”

  She delved into her shoulder bag and dug out a small notebook and pen. “What was the name of the guy who built this place?”

  “Wat Heely.”

  Cate nodded, and Howard had the feeling she had remembered the name all along. She printed it at the top of a blank page in the notebook.

  “Do you do cryptic crossword puzzles?”

  Howard frowned at the wild change of topic and shook his head.

  “You should. Many clues in cryptic crosswords rely on anagrams.” Carefully she printed Whateley below Wat Heely. She held the notebook up over the bed so Howard could see what she’d written.

  At first he was simply confused, and then the answer jumped out at him. “They’re the same!”

  Cate rewarded him with a smile. “Not quite the same, but you use the same eight letters to make both names. Whateley is an anagram of Wat Heely. The odds of that being a coincidence are astronomical.”

  “But if Wat Heely and Josiah Whateley are the same person, why didn’t anyone recognize Whateley when he returned to town?”

  “People see what they want or expect to see, and Heely was a recluse, remember. Most people only ever met Hei, his Chinese servant, and Heely could have changed his appearance when he returned as Whateley. Of course, it could have been someone else using the name. But why not use a different name?”

  The two were pondering this when Howard noticed that his dad’s arm was twitching as if he was trying to raise it.

  “Dad, can you hear me? What’s going on? What are you trying to do?”

  Howard’s father was still facing the TV, but his expression was changing. Surprise, worry and fear chased each other across his features, and his mouth moved as if struggling to form words. With obvious effort, he raised his arm and pointed at the TV screen.

  Howard and Cate swiveled to look. The whale documentary was over, replaced by scenes of what looked like an archaeological dig. A Chinese scientist was talking at the camera and pointing at trenches that appeared to have been dug randomly across the landscape.

  “He’s never done that before. What’s happening?” Howard asked worriedly. “Should we call a nurse?”

  “You told me he was an archaeologist,” Cate said. “Maybe this reminds him of his work.”

  Howard stared at his dad. His eyes were wide and more alive than Howard had seen them since the madness descended. He was struggling to say something, but only odd gurgling noises came out.

  Just then a nurse bustled through the door, alerted by the camera on the wall. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Cate said without turning around.

  “What are you trying to say, Dad?” Howard asked.

  His dad was panting heavily, but between breaths he forced out a word: “Ma…sk…”

  “Mask?” Howard looked back to the TV. The scene had changed to the inside of a museum. The scientist was still talking, but now he was pointing at a huge glass case in the middle of the room. Inside the case was a vast head, the size of a small car and with unnaturally protruding eyes, winglike ears and a wide, almost smiling mouth. “What’s that?”

  “Sanxingdui,” Cate replied.

  Howard was about to ask what or where that was, but before he could form the question, his dad turned, grabbed Cate’s wrist and said, “Yes.” Then he looked back at Howard and added, “Have…to…go.”

  “Go? To Sanxingdui? Cate, where is this place?”

  “China.”

  “Dad, we can’t go to China—” Howard began, but something niggled at his mind. “Wait! You went to China on an archaeological dig before you got sick. Did you see this…mask thing there?”

  “Have…to…go,” Howard’s dad repeated. He was becoming more agitated.

  “Shall I get Dr. Roe?” the nurse asked.

  “Not yet,” Howard said. He knew this was a breakthrough of some sort and didn’t want the doctor interrupting whatever was happening. “Let’s see where my dad wants to go. Maybe he just needs to go to the washroom.” Howard lowered the sides of the bed and helped his father stand. He was shaky on his feet, but his jaw was clenched with determination. He pushed toward the door to the corridor.

  “Okay,” Howard said, “let’s try the lounge. But you’re going to have to put your bathrobe on if we’re going out in public.”

  As he helped his father into his robe, he looked over at Cate and shrugged. This was all immensely confusing, but Howard’s heart was racing. He hadn’t heard his dad speak or seen him move purposefully i
n months. Did this mean he was coming back?

  With Cate on one side, Howard on the other and the nurse following behind, Howard’s dad led them along the corridor to the old center of the building. Progress was slow, and he needed help to stay on his feet, but there could be no doubt that he was leading the way. Howard was close to tears and grinning broadly.

  “He’s never done anything like this before?” Cate asked.

  “No, never.”

  Howard expected his father to head for either the lounge or the reading room. Instead, he led them toward the back of the building.

  “There’s nothing down that way,” the nurse said.

  “Then there’s no harm in us taking a stroll there,” Howard said over his shoulder.

  At the end of the corridor they came to two doors that led onto a stairwell. Howard’s dad kept stumbling forward until he bumped into them. Howard tried the handle of one, but it didn’t move. There was a small keypad on the wall to one side.

  “These doors are kept locked,” the nurse explained. “We should probably take Mr. Lawson back to his room.”

  “Where do the stairs lead?” Cate asked.

  “They’re the back stairs to the reading room. They also head down to the basement—a furnace room and storage.”

  “Maybe he just wants to avoid the difficult spiral staircase to the reading room,” Howard suggested. “Maybe he wants to look up a book about the TV show he saw. Do you know the code?”

  “Yes, I know the code, but I don’t know if we should be doing this.” The nurse sounded uncertain. “Patients aren’t usually allowed through here. I should check with Dr. Roe.”

  “Dr. Roe said stimulation was good for Mr. Lawson,” Cate pointed out. “And it’s clear he wants to go through these doors. I don’t think Dr. Roe would be very happy if Mr. Lawson sank back into lethargy while we waited for permission to open a door.”

  While Cate was speaking, Howard’s dad began slowly and rhythmically bumping his forehead against the door.

  “There’s three of us here to look after him,” Howard pointed out. “As soon as we’ve got him to the reading room, one of us can go and find Dr. Roe.”

  The nurse sighed, but she reached over and punched five numbers into the keypad. There was a loud click, and the door handle turned in Howard’s hand. His father pushed forward and, to everyone’s surprise, ignored the wide stairs leading to the reading room and headed for the narrower stairs that led down to the basement.

  As the group slowly descended the stairs, the light from the landing above faded. The stairs led to a corridor that disappeared into gloom. Howard was uncomfortably reminded of the creeping darkness of his dreams. Maybe following his dad down here wasn’t the smartest idea after all. He was about to suggest that they turn back, but as he stepped off the last step onto the bare concrete floor of the corridor, the world suddenly exploded into intense light.

  Howard stumbled backward in fright, almost pulling his dad and Cate with him.

  “Easy,” Cate said, steadying the trio. “It’s just a motion sensor. It saves power in places that aren’t visited much.”

  “Good idea,” Howard said, recovering his composure. He was looking along a concrete tunnel lit by a series of long, flickering fluorescent tubes. Silver ducting, black pipes and multicolored cables ran along the ceiling on either side of the light fixtures. The walls were painted an institutional green, and the floor was dirty gray. There were doors off either side at irregular intervals, and the one at the far end was open, revealing a room full of machinery.

  “That’s the boiler room,” the nurse explained. “The rooms are either storage or electrical.”

  Howard’s father was making no attempt to go down the corridor. He seemed content simply to be in the basement. Howard felt sad. The surprise of the lights going on had pushed his dad back into his catatonic state.

  “There’s nothing here,” the nurse said. “We should go back up. I’ll go and tell Dr. Roe what happened. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas about how we can build on these developments. Can you bring your dad back up to his room?”

  “Okay,” Howard agreed. If his father wasn’t leading the way, there was no point in taking him down the corridor.

  The nurse climbed back up the stairs.

  “Come on, Dad,” Howard encouraged. “Let’s get you back to your room. This has been enough of an adventure for one day.”

  Howard grasped his father’s arm and tried to turn him. He was surprised to meet resistance. Then his father’s whole body tensed. Both Howard and Cate looked at him. He was still staring down the corridor, but there was a frown on his face. He began to speak, and this time Howard recognized what he was saying. “Jinse de mianju.”

  “Isn’t that the name of the book you found upstairs?”

  Before Cate could answer, the husky voice continued, “Jinse de mianju. Zhe ben shu zai zheli. Ni yinggai kanshu. Xiaoxin sizhe shei mengxiang.”

  Howard recognized the phrase in the middle that Madison had said to him earlier. But before he had a chance to tell Cate, dizziness swept over him, and the solid concrete walls of the corridor wavered and began to melt. Darkness rushed in from the edges of his vision, forming a tunnel that led to the door at the far end of the corridor. The door was filled with a long, narrow smiling Chinese face that looked vaguely familiar. A voice echoed inside Howard’s head: Welcome. I have waited long for you.

  A feeling of dread overwhelmed him. Howard was anxious, scared and alarmed all at once. His breath was coming in short, urgent gasps, and he was breaking out in a cold sweat all over. He felt like he was about to throw up, so he reached out blindly, searching for something to hold on to—something solid to counteract the spinning nausea. The air was suddenly numbingly cold. Time seemed to stand still. Was he having a seizure or a stroke? Panic hurtled at Howard like an express train. He tried to take a step forward, but the blackness was closing in. The tunnel of his vision was getting narrower. The door and the face were getting smaller and smaller and moving farther away. Howard screamed, “Cate!” Then the blackness overwhelmed everything, and he fell to the ground.

  SANXINGDUI

  ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS

  “It’s beautiful.” Ting had almost forgotten that she was being dragged against her will across the plain toward the Min Mountains. Shenxian, Ting, Fu and twenty of Shenxian’s soldier bodyguards had been traveling since midnight. At last the sky was brightening behind them, and Shenxian had ordered a halt for the day at a temple a mile or so off the main route. Half of the soldiers were already asleep, and the other half were keeping watch, including one whose job it was to carry the small cage with Fu in it. He had strict orders from Shenxian to drop the cage and the dog down the nearest deep well should Ting attempt to escape.

  Ting was exhausted, but Shenxian had insisted that she follow him down a long flight of stairs to a room deep beneath the temple. The room was brightly lit, and an old monk sat to one side. In the center, standing on a stone pedestal, was a huge bronze egg. Its surface was covered with intricate carvings and swirling writing. Eight golden dragons were arranged around the fattest part of the egg, their tails intertwining as they wound to the top of the egg. Their whiskered faces looked down to the bottom of the egg, where eight copper toads sat with wide-open mouths. In the mouth of each dragon lay a small copper ball.

  “It is beautiful,” Shenxian agreed. “But it is also practical.”

  “Is it magic?” Ting asked, despite having promised herself she wouldn’t say a word to her kidnapper on the journey.

  “It’s magic only to those who don’t understand,” Shenxian said. He turned to the old monk and asked, “How many balls have been fed to the toad since yesterday?”

  The monk took out a string of beads and counted. “Fifty-two,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Shenxian said. “And always the same toad? You are certain.”

  “Yes.”

  “And do the shakes in the ground become stronger?”


  The monk shrugged. “Some do. I felt more through my sandals than the day before.”

  “How can you feed copper toads?” Ting interrupted.

  As if in answer, a ball dropped from the closest dragon’s mouth into the mouth of the toad below it. Ting jumped back.

  “It is magic,” she said. “How else can a golden dragon spit a ball into a copper toad’s mouth?”

  “It is magic only because you cannot see what is going on inside the bronze egg. There is a pendulum in there, and even the faintest vibrations in the earth will set it swinging. If the vibrations last long enough, the pendulum will hit a dragon, tilting it so that the ball in its mouth is released to the toad below.”

  “But I didn’t feel any vibrations,” Ting said.

  “That’s because the pendulum is much more sensitive than your feet. It can detect vibrations from hundreds of miles away.

  “When I see which ball falls,” Shenxian went on, pleased to show his captive how clever he was, “that tells me where the vibrations come from. This one”—he lifted the most recent ball from the toad’s mouth and gently replaced it in the dragon’s mouth—“tells me that the vibrations are coming from the Min Mountains. The frequency with which this ball has been falling tells me that the vibrations are increasing in number, and our friend here”—he waved at the monk—“says they are getting stronger.”

  Ting gasped as she suddenly understood what Shenxian was telling her. “So this is how you know when the Min Mountains will fall!”

  “Clever girl. There are more vibrations every day. When they run together, the mountains will fall, and the Golden Mask will be mine.”