The Eye of Midnight

by Andrew Brumbach

  She slung the empty bag over her shoulder and was about to place the cigar box back inside, but Maxine stopped her.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, snatching the satchel. “Maybe Binny and ST don’t have to know we took the package.” She grabbed the ashtray from the corner of the sink and dumped the contents inside the leather bag, and then, for good measure, she dumped the ashtray in as well.

  “At least this way they won’t figure out anything is missing from the bag until they open it up,” she said. “It might give us a head start.” She returned the satchel to its hook, and Nura nodded approvingly.

  William pressed his ear against the black door and grasped the handle, but at that instant a ringing concussion on the other side made him recoil as if the knob were red-hot. The trio froze for a moment, then backed away from the door. Out in the warehouse they heard a string of shots—ten, maybe twelve—all in the time it takes to blow out a match.

  A great commotion followed. Curses and running feet and the caustic smell of spent shells. The truck engine coughed to life.

  “We can’t go out there,” William whispered in alarm.

  “There must be some other way,” said Maxine. She glanced around the room, then down at the floor. At her feet a handful of shadows wove dizzy circles in a sallow puddle of light. She glanced up suspiciously at the moths that flitted around the bare bulb.

  “How do you figure they got in here?” she asked.

  Without waiting for an answer, she pushed open the crippled stall door. Just above the water tank behind the toilet was a small, dusty window, open a crack. Outside, the lights of the city winked in the distance.

  Another volley of angry shouts erupted in the warehouse, and Nura hugged the cigar box close to her chest. “They know we are missing,” she said.

  Maxine motioned toward the open window. William nodded, pushing Nura through the stall door and boosting her unceremoniously onto the tank above the toilet.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  An eight-foot drop later, William and the girls stood in a shining-wet alley behind the warehouse. Nura wiped the grit from a bloodied knee, and the three of them bolted off into the night.

  The skies were clearing; the Hare Moon glinted through the breaks in the skidding clouds. In the distance, the sunburst of the unfinished Chrysler Building rose high above Midtown like an eternal flame, a beacon of true north. They galloped on, away from the deserted backstreets toward the living city, with only the sound of their own pounding footsteps for company.

  Two blocks up a familiar green delivery truck passed through the intersection, driving slowly. The children ducked behind a sidewalk newsstand as it vanished from sight; then they sprinted off once more, past shuttered jewelry shops and empty delicatessens and a darkened church that regarded their coming and going with monastic indifference.

  Maxine halted finally, beside the steps of a corner barbershop. “I have to stop,” she gasped. “Just for a minute.”

  They leaned heavily on their knees and gulped for air. Somewhere far behind them a dog barked belligerently, touching off a chorus of yaps and howls that swelled above the city.

  Nura slumped down on the wet steps and clutched the parcel to her chest.

  “We did it, didn’t we, Nura?” whispered Maxine, covering her mouth in a kind of elated disbelief. “We got the package! We got the package, and we’re still in one piece!”

  Nura laid her palms on the cigar box and stared at it for a long while.

  “So when do we get to see what’s in there?” asked William. He elbowed Nura in the ribs, but she only blinked vacantly, and her hands never moved.

  “Come on, Nura,” begged Maxine. “I think I’ll positively have kittens if you don’t open it!”

  Nura gave her a weak smile, and then, slowly and deliberately, she untied the string around the package.

  They peered at it in the sickly light of the corner streetlamp.

  “You didn’t travel six thousand miles just to deliver a box of cigars, I hope,” said William.

  Nura ignored him and lifted the lid with trembling fingers, and the cousins gazed at last upon the strange object for which they had risked their lives. Until this moment they had known it only by its influence and aura—the violent greed it had stirred in Binny and ST, the longing and dread it held for Nura, the urgency it had spurred in Grandpa. Now that it was unveiled before their own eyes, they found themselves strangely unsettled in its presence.

  A shining object glinted inside the box, nestled atop a folded length of black silk. Nura tugged at the end of the wide silk ribbon, piling several feet of it in her lap, then lifted the flashing silver article to which the black ribbon was attached, dangling it in front of them.

  It was a mirror, slightly larger than a tea saucer and dusky, its lustrous surface polished to a flawless reflection. The metal disk had been cast in one piece, without frame or handle, and an image of the crescent moon was engraved upon it, embracing the silvered face within its pointed horns. Nura turned the disk over to reveal a swirling confusion of Arabic calligraphy that licked flamelike across the opposite side, interrupted by five staring eyes carved amid the chaos. A series of irregular slits were fashioned along the outer edge, and through one of these the long black sash was tied.

  It was an extraordinary object—a worthy addition to Grandpa’s basement collection—but looking at her dark reflection in its polished surface, Maxine shrank back inexplicably. The thing was not pleasant to her sight.

  “What is it?” William asked.

  “The Eye of Midnight,” replied Nura. “The Key to Paradise.”

  “We saw a strange telegram back at Battersea Manor that mentioned an Eye,” whispered Maxine. “ ‘Seek the Needle, find the Eye,’ that’s what it said. We thought maybe it meant your necklace.”

  “No,” said Nura. “This is the Eye of which the telegram spoke.”

  “Is it magic?” asked William. “Grandpa told us a story about a magic mirror that belonged to an old jinni.”

  “Magic?” said Nura. “Who knows for certain? But it is not belonging to any jinni. It is his—the Old Man of the Mountain. He wears the mirror next to his heart, bound to his bosom with the black silk sash. In its darkened glass, the Hashashin believe the Old Man sees all things past, present, and future. It is the holiest of objects to him and to his servants—the Key to the Garden of Paradise and the symbol of his power over the fida’i.”

  “The who?” asked William.

  “The fida’i—the Old Man’s destroying angels. They are the faithful, the living daggers of the desert fortress of Alamut. Within the ranks of the Hashashin, it is the fida’i who carry out the master’s bloody bidding. For him, willingly and unquestioningly, they will give their lives, and with their curving daggers they will kill.”

  Nura paused and polished the mirror with her sleeve.

  “Put it back,” said Maxine with a shudder.

  “What does Grandpa want with it, I wonder?” asked William, watching as Nura swaddled it with the black silk sash. “And why did the Old Man ever give it away?”

  “He is not giving it to anyone,” she answered. “It was stolen from him.”

  “Stolen? By who? And how did you end up with it?”

  Nura looked at the cousins with a level stare. She replaced the black bundle in the cigar box, tied it shut carefully, and would say no more.

  William rose from the barbershop steps and wandered away from the girls into the empty street.

  “So now what, Nura?” he asked, turning back toward the stoop. “I thought you said the mirror would lead us to Grandpa.”

  “No,” she replied, lowering her eyes. “I only said we had no hope of saving him without it.”

  Maxine stiffened. “You can take us to him, though, can’t you?” she asked anxiously. “You can find him?”

  Nura laid a finger behind a wet pebble and nudged it off the step. “I do not know where he is,” she said.

  “Then it was all
for nothing!” Maxine cried. “We risked our lives to get the package back, and all we have to show for it is wet clothes and skinned knees. We’re no closer to getting out of this fix than we were before.”

  “I had hoped that when we found the Eye of Midnight we would find Colonel Battersea as well,” Nura said.

  “Well, that’s just fine,” said Maxine hollowly. “Only all we turned up was a bunch of gangsters.”

  William kicked at a scrap of rusty can in the gutter. “Doesn’t that seem a little strange?” he said. “What would Binny and his gang want with a weird old mirror?”

  “I cannot say,” answered Nura. “It is an ancient relic, belonging to a different world. It has nothing to do with them.”

  “Then why were you bringing the mirror to Grandpa?” asked Maxine. “It has nothing to do with him either, does it?”

  “My mother and father sent me to deliver the Eye of Midnight to Colonel Battersea,” replied Nura. “They told me he would know how to help.”

  “No offense,” said William, lifting an eyebrow, “but why didn’t they just bring it to him themselves? Seems like maybe they shouldn’t have sent you off all on your own.”

  Nura’s face fell. She turned away and tried to master herself, but her lip quivered, and she covered her eyes with her hand. Tears rolled down her cheeks like drops of hot wax.

  William winced and scratched the back of his neck, wondering what he had said. “Forget about it, Nura,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I mentioned it.” He shook her shoulder gently. “Things aren’t so bad. We got the mirror back, didn’t we? All we have to do now is track down Grandpa.” He looked her in the eye and forced a smile. “We’ll find him soon. We’ll find him and be back at Battersea Manor safe and sound before you know it,” he said, raising two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  It was a reckless promise, of course. Anyone inclined to superstition would be quick to point out that even uttering such a notion aloud was a foolishness, that audacity of this stripe could only ever have ended in catastrophe. In truth, however, there was no indication that William’s impertinence played any part in what happened next. Certainly no fateful sign materialized. No black cat or cackling raven appeared. The moon did not darken. In fact, the only omen of impending calamity came in the form of a faint and curious noise.

  Nura heard it first. A fading echo on the wet streets, a muffled, indistinguishable sound. She lifted her head and dried her eyes.

  “What is it?” asked Maxine.

  Nura shook her head and listened, and they all heard it then: a faint growl that rose and fell unpredictably on the breeze. By some trick of the empty, echoing streets, it was difficult to tell where the sound was coming from. Their eyes flitted about the crevices of the city, searching the dim alleys and doorways and balconies that surrounded them.

  They thought of diving for cover, but it was too late. All at once the vague growl swelled to a deep rumble. Out of the clotted darkness roared a red motorcycle, and bent low over the handlebars sat a goggled rider in a flapping black coat.

  The cycle sped past in a swirling eddy of spray, and William and the girls prayed for the red taillamp to continue on and disappear in the distance, but instead it slowed, and the machine swung in a wide arc, returning to the stoop.

  “Salutations, regards, et cetera et cetera,” said the rider with a morose nod, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead.

  It was the Pigeon.

  “Swallowed your tongues, eh?” he said, watching them closely. “Well, let’s hope your legs still work. The Benedetti gang is out here somewhere looking for you, you know.”

  “Wh-what happened to them?” asked William. “To Binny and ST?”

  “I didn’t wait to find out, to be honest. When the bullets start to fly, I make it a habit not to stick around.”

  “But you—you work for Binny, don’t you?”

  “I work for all the gangs in town, kid. I stay alive ’cause I don’t get involved. I don’t play favorites, and I don’t flap my gums. Never took a bribe and never missed a drop. I do know what’s what, though, and I know the three of you need to get yourselves out of town. You don’t belong here.”

  “We can’t leave,” said Maxine. “We’ve got to find our granddad. Somebody grabbed him at the train station.”

  The Pigeon tapped one of the gauges between his handlebars. “You mean the old colonel,” he said, and he nodded slyly. “I might know something about that.”

  Nura and the cousins stared at him in disbelief.

  The Pigeon made a croaking laugh. “Hickory Dickory, plots and trickery!”

  “But how?” said Maxine. “How could you—”

  “Like I said, Freckles, I do business with all the gangs in town. Nothing happens that I don’t hear about.”

  Maxine rose from the steps. “Can you take us to him?” she asked.

  But the Pigeon stamped his boots and looked away.

  “Listen, kid, this is bigger than all of us,” he said. “There’s a storm coming. A black cloud stretching out in every direction. So let me give you three a piece of advice. Do yourselves a favor and get out of the city. Nothing here for you but broken bones and tombstones.”

  “Please, we have to find him. Can’t you at least tell us where he is?” Maxine pleaded.

  The Pigeon muttered an oath under his breath.

  “Something evil’s sleeping underneath these streets,” he said at last, kneading an earlobe restlessly between his thumb and forefinger. “Waiting to devour, and burn, and destroy. It won’t stop until it’s picking the whole world out of its teeth. If you’re hoping to find Granddad, well, then you’ll have to enter its lair.”

  He hacked and spit on the pavement, as if the words had left a foul taste on his lips.

  “There’s an old graveyard not far from here—the Knickerbocker Plainsong Cemetery. Inside the dike, look for a passing traveler.”

  “Inside the dike…a passing traveler?”

  “That’s all I got,” said the Pigeon, adjusting his goggles. “You already know more than what’s good for you.”

  And with that, the Pigeon stood in his seat and gunned the starter with his heel. The cycle roared to life, and he vanished into the night.

  Maxine looked up from her map and glanced over her shoulder at William and Nura. The street ended abruptly before them at a tall, wrought-iron gate. A creaking signboard above the entrance indicated their arrival at the Knickerbocker Plainsong Cemetery.

  “You’re as good as a slobbery old bloodhound, M,” said William.

  “Thanks, I think,” Maxine replied uneasily.

  A low mist had settled inside the fence—a gauzy veil that clung to every headstone and hollow. Tangled vines groped the arched gateway and the crumbling monuments.

  They shuffled through the gate in a skittish cluster, their eyes darting about the brooding shapes of the lonely graveyard.

  “Do you see anything?” whispered Nura.

  “Plenty,” Maxine replied. “Nothing I like, though.”

  “Maybe the Pigeon had it wrong,” said William. “This hardly seems like the kind of place Grandpa would end up.”

  Their feet squelched in the sodden earth as they crept between the neglected headstones, and the graves all around seemed to press closer as they went, as if the monuments were not quite rooted to the ground.

  William turned and eyed the stones closest to him. “ ‘DeBoer…Van Kiehle…Janssen…,’ ” he read. “What kind of names are these?”

  “Dutch, I think,” said Maxine. “New York City was founded by Dutch settlers.”

  “That’s a good sign, I guess—seeing as we’re looking for a dike.”

  “Dike,” said Nura. “What does this word mean?”

  “I dunno,” said William. “It’s some kind of dam, I think. Dutch people are s’posed to be crazy for ’em. I remember a story about a little Dutch boy who plugged a hole in a dike with his finger. I never saw anything like that in a graveyard, though.”

/>   Maxine pushed William forward, and they continued on, hunched low like scavengers on a moonlit battlefield. They reached the back fence of the cemetery but found no ditches, pools, or dikes, only a silent boulevard of decrepit crypts that jutted from the hanging fog. Beyond these the hulking shape of a darkened factory loomed distant in the mist.

  “End of the line,” William said to Maxine, conceding defeat. Nura wandered on, though, roaming the long row of the houses of the dead, reading the names inscribed on each.

  She stopped at the largest of the crypts. A carved pair of weeping figures guarded the door, their hooded faces bent toward the ground.

  She called the cousins with a low whistle, and pointed to the name inscribed on the lintel.

  “ ‘Van Dyck,’ ” read Maxine.

  “That’s it, Nura!” cried William with unconcealed admiration. “Inside the dike…You found it! This has to be the dike that the Pigeon was talking about!”

  “Maybe.” Nura shrugged. “Maybe it is nothing.”

  “What now?” asked Maxine.

  “We go inside, I guess,” replied William.

  Maxine paled. “Into the tomb? But it’s sealed shut.”

  William stepped up to the door and laid his hands against the stone. A carved skull stared him in the face, grinning above a solemn verse:

  Take heed, Wanderer,

  As thou art, so I once was,

  As I am, so shalt thou be.

  “There’s a cheerful thought,” he muttered.

  He gave the door a halfhearted push, expecting frozen resistance, but to his surprise, it swung open easily.

  Maxine and Nura clutched the back of his jacket, peering over his shoulder.

  “What do you see?” asked Nura.

  “I can’t make out a thing. It’s pitch-dark in there.”

  The inside of the crypt was indeed as black as a cannon bore. William fumbled in his pocket for the box of matches he had been carrying ever since they left the manor. He fished it out and labored to strike a light in the damp air, but soon the flame popped and flared. Three pulses fluttered weakly as the children clutched their hands to their mouths and shuffled one by one through the doorway.