The Kidnapped Smile

by Laurie Woodward

  “He is Zulu warrior and Egyptian god. He is Roman gladiator and American boxer. He is me and Bartholomew. He is art. He will battle the Shadow Swine, and this time he will win.”

  Far away atop an Artanian hill, the Thinker nodded.

  Chapter 6

  The sculpted Thinker leaned over the parapet of the castle gazing at the renaissance city below. Artania's leader had seen countless stunning landscapes in this art-created world yet never tired of the masterpiece that was Florence. Red tile roofs topped sunflower yellow or misty white walls. Crushed granite alleyways and cobblestone side streets zigzagged from one end of town to the other. The Arno River snaked through this muted palette as gently as dear Mona Lisa's smile.

  The Mona Lisa. Her face nourished and strengthened the Renaissance nation. Every citizen, whether painted, sculptured, or sketched sought her beauty. For without the “smiling one,” this magical land would no longer flow in color.

  The Thinker glanced at the surrounding castle. Ever since the attempted kidnapping, Mona Lisa had stayed within its walls. It should have calmed his fears, but for some reason, he still felt uneasy.

  Checking for fortification gaps, soldiers in striped bloomers and metal helmets patrolled the parapet wall or stood guard behind the notched battlements in the rectangular towers.

  The iron grating of the portcullis was down, leaving only doors vulnerable. After the last kidnapper made his way inside, The Thinker ordered them locked at all times. Even so, he knew in these terrible times anything could happen.

  His bronze gaze rested on the river and the short docks built beside the walkway. The peaceful waters should have relaxed his bent form. All was as it should be.

  He thought.

  He barely relaxed his shoulders, when a flash caught his eye. She shouldn't be there!

  Mona Lisa had somehow gotten outside and was strolling along the cobblestone path skirting the river. The Thinker drew a breath to call for soldiers to bring her back, but she looked so happy that he hesitated.

  He instantly regretted his decision, for suddenly a man dressed in rags leapt out of one of the rowboats tied to the dock and ran toward her. Her back to him, she didn't notice.

  “Lisa!” The Thinker cried.

  When she turned, the snarling man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward his boat.

  “Let me go!” Mona Lisa screamed.

  Soldiers appeared and rushed down the embankment, Guardsman Nicolo in the lead.

  Mona Lisa strained against the beggar's grip, but it was no good. He was half a head taller and outweighed her by fifty pounds. He dragged her ever closer to the rowboat. A few more feet, and they'd be on the river.

  “No!” Her anguished cry sent shivers down The Thinker's spine.

  “Halt,” Nicolo cried, booted feet flying to the dock. “Halt, I say!” He sprang over the cobblestone path and drew his sword. With a final leap, he was between them, thrusting a blade under the beggar's chin.

  The ragged man raised both arms as five condotierri soldiers surrounded him, their pikes pointed inward.

  Sharp blades glistened in the sun to reflect triangular lights up the fortress wall. Cringing, Mona Lisa clutched her veil in a milk white grasp.

  “Rest over here, my lady,” Nicolo said indicating a bench beside the walkway.

  With a thankful nod, the trembling maid stepped past the condotierri and lowered herself onto the wooden bench.

  “It's the dungeon for you, beggar,” Nicolo growled. “Take him away.” The young guardsman waved his fellow soldiers on and stepped to the still shaking lady. Placing a hand under her elbow, he led her home.

  Later, in the dungeon, a bearded man in hose and soft leather shoes joined the sculpted Thinker. Both stood immediately outside the iron bars of the dank cell, watching Nicolo interrogate the beggar. The Thinker hated seeing one of his people—however wrong he might have behaved—subjected to hours of questioning inside that chamber of horrors.

  “For the twentieth time, who are you?” Nicolo demanded from inside the cell.

  “A simple pilgrim,” the beggar replied, a half-smile on his grimy face.

  “That is no answer,” Nicolo said stepping closer. “Tell me who sent you.”

  “Do you think I'm a fool?” the man spat. “As a beggar, I learned long ago when to keep quiet. You slavemasters will know nothing until it's too late.” He glared at Nicolo and wrapped his tattered rags tighter around his head.

  “Was it Shadow Swine?” Nicolo demanded.

  The beggar said nothing, but his eyes betrayed him. He glanced down at the dirt floor as if looking for help from the enemy underground.

  “Look and see what happens to people who refuse to answer.” Nicolo waved a hand at one of the room's torture devices.

  “But I was only seeking renewal in her smile,” the beggar said.

  “Perhaps the rope will twist the truth from you.”

  “Nicolo!” The Thinker scolded. “We are Artanians. This is not our way.”

  “But Leader,” protested the father of the lady. “She is my daughter. Without answers, she might be…” the bearded man's voice trailed off.

  The Thinker whispered into his friend's ear, “I understand, Leonardo. Yet we cannot become Shadow because we fight it.” To Nicolo, he said, “Continue as an Artanian should and report to me later.”

  The bronze statue decided to get Leonardo away from the prisoner before there was trouble. Hastening through the hall, he gestured for Leonardo to follow him.

  The chalk sketched man padded along the dark corridor, glancing back at the cell as he walked.

  “It is just like the others,” The Thinker said when they were out of the beggar's earshot.

  “I don't understand. How are these traitors getting so close to her?”

  “Our enemy grows stronger each day.”

  “The humans. Are they not creating?” Leonardo asked.

  “I have not checked for weeks. Perhaps something is keeping them from paint or clay.”

  “You know what will happen if she is captured…” Leonardo clutched his long gray beard with an intense stare that moved The Thinker. This man loved his daughter so much.

  “Yes,” The Thinker said, not adding she would indeed become a mindless slave. “But remember, hope lies in the hands of twins.”

  “Yes, yes. Still something is wrong. Don't you feel it?”

  The Thinker tapped his forehead with his bronze fist.

  “Events will unfold when they are meant to,” he said raising his head. “Our denial or refusal will not change what is written on the Soothsayer Stone.”

  “I pray you are right,” Leonardo said, “and that young Alex and Bartholomew can hold back the evils which lie waiting.”

  Chapter 7

  “I see wealth and brains don't always go together.” Ms. Buttsfert smirked as she handed Bartholomew back his latest algebra test.

  Bartholomew didn't have to look. He knew. Another F.

  “Bring it back signed tomorrow,” she ordered, her double chin waggling with each word.

  Bartholomew nodded miserably. He couldn't hide these grades much longer. Mother said he only had one more chance to bring up his math scores, and if he wasn't Borax-excellent by the end of the month, it was homeschooling again.

  “That goes for all of you. Signatures on every subpar quiz,” Ms. Buttsfert said. “Class dismissed.”

  “This is a disaster,” Bartholomew said to Alex as they shuffled out the door before telling him about the homeschooling possibility. He left out his forging of signatures on the last two tests because ever since Mrs. Devinci suffered her heart attack, Alex become a big rule follower. He wasn't obsessed or anything, just avoided doing anything that might put a strain on a weak heart.

  Bartholomew pulled the hand sanitizer out of his pocket and rubbed it in. He kept seeing the instructor's book with the answer key. If only he could get his hands on it. “I should just cheat,” he mumbled.

  “What? Are you cr
azy? Do you know what'll happen if you're caught?”

  “About the same thing as if I fail math.”

  “You know, my dad is a math professor. He could help you.”

  “No one can. I just don't get numbers. I have to cheat. It's the only way.” Bartholomew noticed two shadows out of the corner of his eye; Ty and Conrad circled them.

  “What do you jerks want?” Alex said, turning to face them.

  “You don't own the school, so shut up.” Ty stood up taller, his purple Mohawk towering over them.

  “Maybe so, but this is a private conversation,” Alex replied.

  “What if I want to join?” Ty challenged, puffing up his chest.

  “In that case…” Alex put his hands on his hips. “…I'd still say no.”

  “Then, I'd just have to tell Ms. Buttsfert about your cheating plan, wouldn't I?”

  Bartholomew gulped. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Lies. Heard you.” Con said in his usual monosyllables.

  “We were just talking.” Bartholomew winced. That was so loud.

  “You're right.” Ty's rat like eyes narrowed into specks. “We should. Then Donkey farts would back off.

  “But we don't have the book,” Bartholomew blurted.

  “Bartholomew, why are you even talking to these guys?” Alex's tone grew puzzled.

  Bartholomew knew he should stop right there and then. Say no. Tell those two to go away. They were trouble. Big trouble. “I…” He glanced at Ty whose constant sneer reminded him of a Shadow Swine he'd met in Artania. Ty couldn't be trusted. Still he might be a good partner-in-crime. He swallowed hard. “We'd need to find a way in…” Bartholomew began.

  Alex gaped at his friend unbelieving. “No friggin way.”

  “I have to. Don't you see?” Bartholomew looked away.

  “No, you don't. My dad can help you. Come on, Bartholomew, let's go.”

  “Oh, I think he wants to stay,” Ty said, his voice like fake silk. “You can leave, wuss.”

  Opening and closing his mouth, Alex raised his palms.

  Bartholomew would always regret what he did next. How he failed to defend his best friend. How instead of telling Ty to shut up and Alex was the farthest from a wuss you could be, he'd turned away and immediately began to plan how to steal the answer book. How after long moments, Alex stomped down the hall, angry feet echoing in Bartholomew's ears.

  Chapter 8

  A light breeze blew back Alex's hair as he and Gwen skated way through the streets of Santa Barbara but did little to cool his fears: Mom still sick; Bartholomew ready to make a huge mistake; and what about Artania, the endangered world that could call upon him any time?

  He he noticed Gwen popping her board up along a curb for a grind and almost smiled before he saw long cracks breaking the curb into earthquaky bits. Jagged edges could snag her wheels and trip her into a scraped and bleeding heap. “Watch out!” he called.

  Skidding to a halt, Gwen flipped her board into her hands. “What?”

  He pointed at the crack.

  She gave him a long look. “Dude, chill. I got it.”

  “But—”

  “Been grinding for a year. Anyhow, don't we have enough to do without you getting all dad on me?”

  “I know. It's just … just everything.”

  “Worries. I get it. Hey, how about you show me your kick flip?”

  Deciding anything was better than standing around worrying, Alex kicked off toward a smooth place in the sidewalk perfect for the move. He tried one. Board flew. Tried again. Went down.

  Gwen held out a hand to help him up. “See? Falling's part of it. Now, put your foot closer to the bolts.”

  He fell two more times.

  Gwen shook her head. “Farther ahead.”

  Yes!” he cried when he finally got enough air to spin the skateboard and land square on the deck. Bringing a fist down in a victory pump, he curled a goofy lip at Gwen before heading along the street. “Come on. It's around the corner.”

  A few minutes late,r they were skidding sideways to halt in front of a wrought iron gate. Immediately, Alex's smile faded, replaced by a determined scowl.

  The week before, he'd been pretty ticked about Bartholomew taking Ty's side and wanted to hit that stupid B-three upside the head. Even after Alex cooled, the plan seemed even crazier. Bartholomew could get suspended, fail math, or end up full on homeschooled again. Then they'd never get to hang out. So Alex tried to talk his friend out of it. Whenever he approached Bartholomew in the halls, he'd continue to argue. No dice. The Richie insisted that nothing was going on.

  Alex knew better. Zach had overheard B-three plotting with those two criminals the week before. According to Zach, the three were planning to steal Ms. Buttsfert's book on Wednesday. Alex needed stop his friend before then.

  Glancing at the huge mansion, Gwen whistled long and low. “My dad does all right with his gyms, dude, but this place is huge.”

  “I guess B-three's family is pretty rich,” Alex said, approaching one of the stone pillars at the bottom of the long flagstone driveway. “Some huge cleaning empire or something.” He stepped up to the intercom box and pushed the button.

  A voice crackled from the speaker. “Yes? Whom may I say is calling?”

  “It's Alex and Gwen from school.”

  “One moment, please.”

  While he waited for what felt like forever, Alex rolled his board back and forth with one toe. Sighing, Gwen paced, did a few toe touches, and shuffled her feet on the stones.

  Finally, the droning voice returned. “You may enter … but there will be no running, jumping, shouting, or horseplay on the premises.”

  “You mean no fun,” Gwen said under her breath to a nodding Alex.

  “Got it,” Alex said into the speaker.

  When the large gates swept open like great brooms polishing the drive, Alex gave Gwen some quick advice. “Be careful. Mrs. Borax is a clean freak. Make sure your shoes are clean before you go inside.”

  Inspecting the soles of her high tops, Gwen saluted before tucking her skateboard next to his just inside the gate.

  Alex walked a few feet up the long driveway and pointed. “Check it out. The plants are all plastic.”

  “No way,” Gwen argued.

  “Way,” Alex replied. “Feel one.”

  Bending down, Gwen rubbed a leaf between two fingers. Then as if non-believing, she felt two more. She shook her head and gaped at the acres of plastic.

  “I told you the mom was neat freak,” Alex said.

  “But we need plants. They clean the air.”

  Alex couldn't argue that one. Shrugging, he trudged up the long drive toward the mansion at the top of the hill. When they reached the high arched doorways at the entrance, he scrutinized their shoes before looking for the doorbell.

  “This is new,” he said staring at the brass rod hanging from a ball-shaped apparatus. Alex gave the pull a quick yank, and a funeral dirge gong toned. At the same time, liquid coated his hand. “Yuck!” He jerked it away, flicking off the clear gel.

  “Hand sanitizer? You weren't kidding when you said neat freak,” Gwen said wiping her feet on the mat again, though she didn't really need to. There were seven doormats outside, and they'd wiped their feet on every one.

  The giant door opened to reveal a butler dressed in black, and Alex found himself shrinking back from the man's white-gloved hands. Behind the servant glared the thin Mrs. Borax, her platinum blonde hair pulled in such a tight bun that blue veins bulged on her forehead.

  “Welcome, children,” she said in an ice cold voice.

  “Thank you, ma'am.” Alex felt about as welcome as a mosquito on someone's arm.

  “Bartholomew is upstairs studying with his tutor. However, I have given permission for him to break for this…” She cleared her throat as if a bug were stuck in it. “…visit.” Mrs. Borax turned to the butler. “Cecil, you may lead these… uhh… children up to the playroom.” She exited with
out another word.

  Alex couldn't help but take a moment to marvel at this palace. Although he had a job to do, the wide staircase lit by a sparkling chandelier looked like something out of a fairytale. Hallways of pale marble tiles led to untold rooms he'd never set foot in. The glass tables arranged at even intervals down the halls were bare except for silver bells in the center of shining trays.

  Alex knew from prior experience what the bells were for. If anyone tracked dirt inside, they'd ring, and an army of maids would descend on them with mops, sponges, and disinfectant wipes.

  Alex gripped the wooden banister for a brief second before he and Gwen followed the butler upstairs to greet a red-faced Bartholomew and his tutor, the strict Mr. White.

  The man in the vanilla-colored suit was a real jerk who seemed to totally enjoy embarrassing B-three. For the past year and a half, he'd been poor Bartholomew's shadow, waiting on the sidelines with a towel draped over one arm every time they had P.E. Then he'd lead Bartholomew to the stretch limousine parked in the lot. Why a limo? It was so his buddy could take a bath in the tub they'd installed in the back.

  Talk about public humiliation.

  “Hi, guys,” Bartholomew said waving weakly as if a strong gesture would get him slapped.

  They both mumbled hello, and there was a long awkward pause. Surprisingly, it was Mr. White's clipped British accent that broke it. “Bartholomew…” Mr. White looked at his watch. “…it is now one forty-two. You have exactly one hour of rest before we are back at it. I shall expect you in your seat by then.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. White.”

  The tutor headed for the stairs but stopped after three steps. Alex held his breath, afraid the tutor would turn and tell them to leave. Mr. White didn't say a thing. Instead, he pulled a fingernail file out and went to shaping his nails. After a few moments, he compared hands. Seeming satisfied, he marched downstairs.

  Bartholomew beckoned Alex and Gwen toward the playroom. Alex wondered why the Boraxes even called it that. There wasn't a single toy in sight—only a few clear plexiglass desks, a couch next to a big bookcase, and a poster reading: “Cleanliness is Next to Godliness.”