by Scott Mebus
Slowly gliding down the river toward him was a ship. Or at least the tattered remains of one. It sported three tall masts with ratty sails billowing out despite the huge holes ripped through them. Battered crow’s nests sat atop the two taller masts, and Rory could just make out a small figure up on one of them, pointing out toward the Hudson. Rotted wood hung from the hull of the ship, forming huge gaps in the side that should have sunk the boat, but somehow the vessel stayed afloat. Cannons poked out of the side, some half-hanging over the water. It looked for all the world like a pirate ship falling apart. But it couldn’t be. What was it? Maybe it was Old Broken-down Ship Week at South Street Seaport.
“Finally you have heard me. Did Peter send you?”
Rory whirled around at the sound of this new voice. He came face-to-face with a man in an old-fashioned black wool jacket with a white collar. The man held a trumpet. Rory stared.
“Was that you blowing the horn?” Rory asked.
“Of course, young squire,” the man said. “I am the Trumpeter, after all. So Peter didn’t send you? What is the use of posting me here to give warning when no one heeds me? Things have been run very poorly, if you ask me. Danger is approaching, and I am blowing my trumpet and no one hears!”
“I heard you. And I heard you the other day. That was you!”
The Trumpeter gave a snort.
“And now you stroll up, two sunrises later, like you are out on a morning constitutional. Why do I even bother? Why should I kill myself watching out for danger if you’re all just going to ignore me? I slave for you people, working myself half to death, or at least it would be half to death if I wasn’t already dead, and I get nothing in return. Nothing! Not even a pie! I don’t know why I bother!”
The Trumpeter sputtered out. Already dead? Rory didn’t want to think about that one, so instead he smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what it was.”
“It’s not hard. It’s a trumpet. See?” He blew the horn, almost bursting Rory’s eardrums. “I mean, it’s obviously not an oboe.”
“Please,” Rory said, putting his hands over his ears. “I’m here now. You don’t need to blow it again.”
“Fine,” the Trumpeter said. “So is Peter coming?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You don’t know Peter? Ol’ Peg Leg Pete? Don’t tell him I called him that. He hates it.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Rory said.
“Well, if you see him, tell him about the danger.”
“What danger?”
The Trumpeter pointed out to the ship.
“The Half Moon is sailing. That can only mean one thing. A storm is coming. It only sails before a storm.”
Rory watched the ghostly ship sailing closer, a shudder running down his spine.
“What kind of storm?” he asked.
“It’s not my job to figure that out,” the Trumpeter replied. “That is for those more important than myself. But I know danger when I see it, and that’s why I’m blowing my horn, just like Peter told me to.”
“Is that why you blew it two days ago?” Rory asked. “Because of this ship?”
The Trumpeter shook his head.
“Oh no. I saw someone chasing Van der Donck over the river, so I sounded out to warn the citizenry. But no one heard me, as usual. Do you think Peter has forgotten about me?”
Something in the Trumpeter’s sad voice got to Rory.
“Nah,” Rory replied. “And if I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him.”
The Trumpeter brightened.
“You do that! You just go and do that! Everyone must be warned! And tell ol’ Peg Leg Pete I like blueberry. For my pie, I mean! I don’t think a pie is too much to ask, do you?”
With that he turned and ran into the trees. Just before he disappeared, he spun around and blew his horn.
“That one’s for you, young master!” he cried. “Danger!”
And then he was gone.
Rory smiled ruefully. He knew he was in danger, all right. He didn’t need a trumpet to tell him that. The ship had just about reached him, and he wanted a closer look. So he walked down to the shore, not noticing the black shadow that danced behind him before disappearing into the trees.
8
THE STRANGER
At the northern tip of the island, the waters of the Harlem River Ship Canal dipped into the land, forming a salt marsh that stayed calm as the deeper waters behind it surged past under the ugly blue metal of the Henry Hudson Bridge and out into the Hudson River. Rory walked down to the waterline, keeping his eyes on the impossible ghost ship as it passed. He could hear strange voices on the breeze, yelling sailing instructions as the ship sailed by. He could make out faces now, of all races, bobbing up and down with the ship’s movement. Who were these ghostly mariners? Were they trapped on the ghost ship? A face turned to him on the deck, and suddenly all those thoughts flew from his head.
It couldn’t be! It was impossible!
Rory sat down heavily on a bench by the water. He blinked, and when his vision cleared the figure that had shocked him so had disappeared. He had no idea if the sailor had seen him or not. It was nothing, he told himself. The more he thought on it, the more convinced he became. It was nothing at all.
Rory was so focused on denying what he thought he saw that he didn’t notice the shivers at first. It took an involuntary shake of his shoulders to snap out of it, his eyes finally noticing the goose bumps on his arms. The base of his spine felt cold and numb, a creeping chill climbing up, one vertebra at a time. Looking around wildly, he searched the park for signs of shadows, but the trees and benches seemed normal and clear. Another shiver ran through him and he knew. A Stranger is here.
Where was it? He twisted in his seat, trying to find some sign of those searching lights. It had found him. Somehow it had found him. The chill was overpowering now, causing him to shake uncontrollably. It must be close. But where? There was no place around him to hide. His vibrating arm accidentally slammed into the hard wooden bench. Suppressing a shout of pain, he clutched his elbow to his stomach. Stupid bench. His eyes widened. Slowly, he looked down between the wooden slats into the darkness underneath. A pair of glowing eyes stared back at him as a child’s pink finger reached up to graze his ankle.
“Come.”
Rory flew back away from the finger, falling off the bench in a heap. He could see underneath, where the familiar small boy, the Stranger, knelt on its hands and knees, beckoning to him.
“Come.”
“I don’t want to come with you. Leave me alone!”
Rory scrambled to his knees as the Stranger climbed out from the shadow. Rory looked around wildly for help, but no one was paying attention. The creature with the glowing eyes ambled over to him.
“Come!”
Its small voice sounded put off. It didn’t like being denied. Rory sat on the path around the inlet, frozen in fear as the child-thing came closer.
“Leave me alone!”
The Stranger stopped a foot away, regarding Rory with its head cocked to the side like a puzzled puppy. It smiled, showing teeth that were larger than they should have been for such a small mouth. And so much sharper. The light glinted off those tiny white knives as it answered Rory’s plea.
“No!”
The little boy-creature’s eyes glowed as its smile turned evil, the lights within screaming up and out of the sockets. Rory had just enough time to raise his arm before the boy was upon him, mouth open as it brought its sharp teeth down on skin.
Wszzp!
Light blazed out for a moment, sending sparks up into the air from Rory’s wrist. The bracelet! The wampum bracelet! The boy-creature stumbled back, rubbing its burning mouth. The purple beads glowed for a moment longer before fading back to a dull shine. Rory felt a wave of relief run through him. It worked! It really worked! The relief did not last long as the Stranger shook off the pain, its eyes as fierce as ever, and advanced
on him once more. This time its gaze was locked on the source of the shock, the circle of wampum around Rory’s wrist, and it raised its hand to reach for it.
“Take it off! Burns. Take it off!”
“No! Go away, or I’ll burn you again! Leave me alone!”
Rory scrambled back as the child-thing kept coming, hand stretched out before it. Rory wasn’t fast enough as the Stranger reached out and grasped the bracelet. Light flared from the jewelry, scorching its skin, but this time the creature refused to let go. The Stranger tugged on the bracelet, trying to pull it loose. Horrified that the bracelet wasn’t stopping it, Rory kicked the child-thing away as he pushed himself to his feet. The child stared up at him with a look of contempt.
“Never stop. Take it off you. Then bite, bite, BITE!”
Rory backed away, trying to figure out what to do. The Stranger stood between him and the exit to the park. He had only one option, little though he might like it. Gathering his strength, Rory spun around and sprinted off down the path toward the worst place he could go. Toward the cliffs.
He reached the edge of the trees and ran up the path. Afraid to look behind him, he kept running and running, to save his life. The ancient trees arched over him, covering him from all eyes. It felt like a horror movie, where the victim ignores all common sense and heads down into the basement to get away from the killer. But what else could he do? He could only run.
The path ahead split in two, with the paved section going forward and a dirt path bending off to the right. Without thinking, he veered right, crashing through the brush up the dirt trail. The trees now closed completely around him, leaning into him, scratching him with their branches, but he was too frightened to care. A vivid picture came to him of the edge of the cliff approaching and his body shooting out of the trees and onto thin air, falling to the same death as the young lovers from the tales. But he couldn’t slow down. Then it would catch him and he’d be gone, bracelet or not.
The choice was taken out of his hands by a root, which slipped over his foot as he ran, bringing him down to the earth in a loud crash. He quickly rolled over, ready to fight off the devil. But nothing came. The trail behind him was empty, stretching off into the distance with no sign of anyone. He lay there, stunned, listening to the slight rustle of the wind through the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang, and he realized that the forest sounds and his heavy breathing were the only noises he could hear. Where were the cars rolling across the bridge? Where was the bridge, for that matter? All Rory could see were trees and more trees. The small swath of primeval forest didn’t go particularly deep—definitely not deep enough to block out all sights and sounds of civilization. So where was he?
Sure he’d lost his pursuer, Rory slowly sat up. He’d torn his jeans in flight, ripping the fabric on the knee. He gently rubbed his ankle, testing to see if it was twisted. It felt all right. The air smelled different, cooler and fresher. Sweeter, somehow. Everything felt so calm and quiet. It should have made him feel more at ease. Instead, he was surprised to find a knot of fear in his stomach totally unrelated to the Stranger. It was this forest. Something in this forest scared the life out of him. But there was nothing there.
A breeze ran through the trees, mussing his hair and making him shiver. After a moment the breeze died down, but the shivers did not. A cold chill shot up his spine, and he had just enough time to turn around before the Stranger was upon him.
It leaped out of a small shadow behind a rock by the side of the trail. Its teeth had blackened, but they were still sharp. The creature landed on Rory’s stomach, pushing him back down to the ground. It pulled at his wrist with superhuman strength, and Rory could barely hold his own. Hot breath dripped down on his face from the Stranger’s tiny mouth, smelling of rotted garbage and street sewers. Rory struggled to throw the boy-creature off, but he couldn’t make it budge. Finally the creature hooked a finger underneath the bracelet and sat up on Rory’s chest, ready to yank it off. Rory braced himself for the bite. But instead, the child-thing froze. After a second, Rory could see why. A spear had suddenly appeared in the center of its chest.
The Stranger brought both hands up to circle the spear, its eyes disbelieving. A thick thud announced the appearance of a second spear right next to its brother. The boy-creature fell back, clutching at the shafts with an uncomprehending look in its alien eyes. It landed in the dirt, the smooth wood sticking up like goal posts. Then the creature began to break apart, opening up like an overstuffed chair, spilling darkness and shadow all over the forest floor. The shadow sank into the earth until nothing remained but the two spears that fell over with a loud clatter.
Shocked, Rory crawled over to the fallen spears. No trace of the Stranger remained. He was reaching out to touch the wooden shafts when a rustle behind him sent him scrambling away toward a nearby rock. A pack of golden dogs bounded into view, falling over one another as they rushed into the clearing. They saw him and let out a howl. Rory tried not to panic as they surrounded him, fighting to get to him. They were just about to leap upon him when a sharp whistle set them back on their hind legs at perfect attention. Behind them, out of the shadows, stepped a tall man with light brownish-red skin. His head was shaved except for a thick mohawk of dark hair that split his scalp in two. His chest was bare, as were his legs, with only a brown loincloth covering his middle and soft moccasins on his feet. Unlike the Indian in Central Park, his cheeks were bare of tattoos.
Rory’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the Indian from the other day, standing underneath the trees. And from my dreams. That thought bubbled up in his mind as the Indian walked by Rory without a glance, absently petting a dog or two as he passed, and then knelt down to retrieve his spears. As he looked over the bright copper tips for damage, he spoke.
“Are you well?”
Rory didn’t know if he was in more danger or not, so he thought it best to answer politely.
“I’m okay. Thank you for killing that thing.”
Now the Indian did turn, and his eyes gave Rory a jolt. Deep and green-brown like the forest, but so sad and wise, they felt more familiar than the man’s face. The Indian spoke again, his voice soft with a slight English accent.
“There are many more. The Tschepsit have always fed on the unwary. Though this one hunted bolder than most.”
“It was after me.”
The Indian nodded slowly. “I know, Rory.”
Rory felt a shock.
“You know me?” he asked.
“Of course. And you know me. Come, we must attend to the wampum before another Tschepsit finds you.”
He pointed to Rory’s wrist, where the bracelet rested. Rory fiddled with it nervously.
“It burned its mouth.”
The Indian shrugged.
“Burning is not killing. It would have taken you, bracelet or no bracelet. This wampum must be made strong again. Come.”
“Are you a Munsee?”
The brave looked surprised.
“I had thought that word forgotten. Yes, young one. I would call myself a Munsee. There is much we need to speak of, now that you can see once again.”
He whistled to call the dogs to him as he turned to head deeper into the forest, but Rory held back a moment.
“What is your name?” he asked hesitantly.
The Munsee turned and smiled.
“You do not remember? Wampage. I am Wampage. Come.”
Wampage. That name rang familiar in Rory’s head. He’d known this man once. But when? And how had he forgotten? Only one way to find out.
“I’m coming.”
Picking his way carefully through the brush, Rory followed the Munsee and his dogs deep into the dark forest.
9
THERE’S A ROACH IN MY SHOE
Macy’s on 34th Street overflowed with people. One could barely squeeze through the throng, which was just the way Kaylee Morton liked it. It made it less likely anyone would notice her as she happened to grab some pretty clothing and w
alk out without paying. Glancing around, she couldn’t see any security guards, so she went for it, snatching a bright scarf and tossing it in her bag with one quick motion. Without waiting to see if anyone had noticed her crime, she slowly made her way to the exit doors, not drawing attention to herself. Another day’s work done well.
Kaylee didn’t see the smiling girl sitting on the handbag display, even though she walked right by. In fact, no one noticed the girl with the impish eyes and quick hands who went by the name of Jenny Fingers. She’d earned that name back during her mortal days, so far in the past she could barely remember. She’d been Jenny O’Toole, she knew that, until her skill at stealing earned her the nickname Jenny Fingers. She became famous on the street for her talent. Stories sprung up in her wake. A shopkeeper could keep his eyes on her the whole time she skipped through his store and he would swear she took nothing, but once outside and around the corner she would always pull out the store’s nicest piece of merchandise and run off laughing. These tales became legend, so after her death she was reborn as Jenny Fingers, the Goddess of Shoplifting, looking after the quick-fingered scamps who’d rather run than pay. Kaylee was one of her favorite disciples, since she was so quick on her feet and never got caught.
Jenny practically lived at Macy’s. Its huge glass doors and the masses of people going through them made it very hard for her followers to get pinched. Jenny opened the large bag by her side and placed a ghostly scarf inside, laughing as it disappeared into the darkness within. Closing it with a tug, she hopped down from the display table, her mind already on other items to stick in her bottomless sack, but she never had a chance to steal them. A dark form stepped up behind her and a long arm snaked around her throat, pulling her down to the floor. A bright knife flashed through the air, ending Jenny Fingers forever. As Jenny fell, an unseen security guard stepped out and grabbed Kaylee right before she could leave the store, placing her under arrest. Her otherworldly guardian was no more, leaving Kaylee on her own.
