Gods of Manhattan

by Scott Mebus

  As Kaylee was led away, hungry fingers pulled Jenny Fingers under the table, snatching the glowing locket from around her neck. Then the dark form disappeared, leaving the body of the goddess alone on the floor, the light in her eyes gone forever.

  Unknowingly passing by the table under which poor Jenny Fingers lay, Bridget followed her mom through the huge store, struggling to keep her in sight. They reached the escalators, where Mrs. Hennessy took her daughter’s hand.

  “Down one floor. You ready? Isn’t this exciting? Mother-daughter day, just you and me. I hope you know the type of shoes you want. Don’t let the saleswoman try to sell you on something you don’t like. Be firm. Ready? Here goes!”

  They stepped on the escalator. Bridget was getting excited. Shoes! Pretty new shoes! But what kind of shoes? Open-toe? Sandals for the beach? Sneakers? There were so many choices.

  She thought about Rory’s face that morning. She’d already forgiven him for their fight. She just hoped he didn’t get into any trouble without her there to save him. He wasn’t good with trouble. He was more of a thinker. Bridget was the butt-kicker in the family. She was the muscle; he was the planner. She just wished she knew what he was planning….

  They reached the kids’ shoe department. As always, the sheer number of shoes took Bridget’s breath away.

  “So beautiful…”

  Mrs. Hennessy looked down at her daughter’s shining face and smiled.

  “Now try not to get distracted. Go!”

  Bridget rushed down the aisles of shoes, leaving her mother to shop another section. Her head swam with all the choices. She saw a lovely pair of flip-flops with a big yellow sunflower over each big toe. She looked at a wonderful pair of pink sneakers that had tiny little zippered pockets on the sides just large enough to fit a single dime—as useful as plastic fruit, but so cute. A juicy pair of Pumas caught her eye. She lifted them off the shelf and almost screamed. A cockroach stood inside the left one, waving two of its brown insect legs.

  “Hello! Bridget!” it said.

  “You’re a talking cockroach!” Bridget said loudly. Another shopper looked at her oddly and moved away. She leaned in and whispered, “Rory said he saw something like you.”

  The roach sat on the lip of the shoe as it cursed to itself.

  “You can see me. I knew it! I thought Rory might have begun using his gift to point out Mannahatta to other mortals and I was pretty sure he’d start with you. Looks like you’re already at the point where you don’t need Rory’s help at all to see into our world. A little girl like you wandering around Mannahatta? My head aches at the thought of it. Do you mind?”

  The roach reached up and lifted its head up and off. Under the insect shell there was a flash of pink as a small human face was revealed. Bridget gasped.

  “You’re a little man!”

  The man-roach pointed a leg at her disapprovingly.

  “I’m a roach. I’m no man.”

  “But you have a head!”

  “This is what roaches really look like. This is our armor.”

  He knocked his chest, which made a hollow sound.

  “So you’re a guy in a suit!” she said.

  “Battle armor! This is our battle armor.”

  “Do you do battle a lot?”

  “I am a battle roach. I’ve been fighting since before your mother’s mother was even thought of. We used to fight for the Mayor, but we had a bit of a falling out. Now we’re on our own.”

  “The roaches are out on their own?” said Bridget, trying to understand.

  “Not all of us. Not even most of us. Just me and my people. Where are my manners? I haven’t even told you my clan name. I’m Fritz M’Garoth of the M’Garoth clan.”

  “I’m Bridget.”

  She reached out to shake his hand but pulled back when she realized the physical impossibility. Fritz snorted.

  “I know who you are.” Fritz looked over her shoulder. “Is your mother nearby?”

  Bridget looked around. Mrs. Hennessy stood on the other side of the walkway, looking at sweaters.

  “She’s way over there. She can’t hear us.”

  “She can’t hear me no matter what. I just don’t want her thinking you’ve gone loony. Put the shoes down and pretend to look around.”

  She replaced the Pumas on the shelf and made a big show of checking out the plain brown sandals next to them.

  “Are we like spies or something?”

  “Try not to move your lips too much. Where’s your brother?”

  She moved down to a ridiculously ugly pair of Birkenstocks, trying to keep her lips closed.

  “E’s ack ome.”

  She heard Fritz snort.

  “You can move your lips more than that. You look like a bad ventriloquist.”

  She pouted, giving Fritz a mean look.

  “I said: he’s back home.”

  “That’s good. I was hoping he’d stay put today. I’ve been watching over him since he was a baby, and I’ve watched you both grow up. But now he’s in great danger. My friends and I didn’t want to contact Rory before we knew more—he’s probably freaked out enough as it is—but we really have no idea what’s going on with him. So I decided to follow you and introduce myself. Get a little information before revealing myself to your brother. At least find out how he woke up. Can you help me with that, do you think?”

  Bridget knew she had no reason to trust this little roach-man, but something about that honest, open face put her at ease. So she explained about Hex and his magic tricks. Then she went on to talk about the Munsee rescue mission. As she spoke, Fritz’s face drained of all color.

  “That has been tried before,” he said. “A long time ago we sent in a team to turn that key. It ended in disaster. Everyone died in the attempt. This Hex person may mean well, but this is much too dangerous for Rory.”

  The shoes in front of Bridget blurred as her eyes filled with tears. And she’d tried to push Rory to help Hex. Fritz paced inside the Puma.

  “But Rory is in great danger, anyway,” he said, talking to himself. “The Strangers will come back. There has to be a way to keep him safe.”

  Bridget brushed her tears away and stood up straight.

  “So what can I do?”

  Fritz pulled his helmet on, becoming a full cockroach once again.

  “Don’t do anything. I’ll talk to my friends and come back tonight. Tell Rory not to do anything until I arrive! Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The cockroach saluted and crawled away. Bridget looked at the Pumas. Cute. But even though she knew now that the cockroach was just a suit of armor, it still gave her the willies. So no Pumas for her.

  “Any luck?”

  Fritz had left just in time. Her mom walked up behind her. Caught off guard, Bridget looked around at the remaining shoes wildly. She had no idea what she wanted. Then she saw them.

  “Those. I like those.”

  Mrs. Hennessy wrinkled her nose.

  “But those are boots, honey. I think they have steel tips. I don’t even know why they make them in children’s sizes. Are you sure those are what you want?”

  Bridget nodded, grabbing them from the shelf.

  “Absolutely. They’re perfect.”

  No matter what might pop up in the future, at least she’d be ready to put a dent in its head.

  10

  WAMPAGE

  Alexa led Nicholas down a dark alley on the Lower East Side. He cursed as he stumbled over a fallen garbage can.

  “Are you sure it’s here?” he asked crossly, kicking the garbage can away. Alexa turned and put a finger to her lips.

  “Be quiet!” she hissed. “Remember where we are. This was the only entry I could decipher, or we would have gone after a different door, believe me. Now try not to call attention to yourself.”

  She continued leading them down the alley. Nicholas made a face at Alexa’s back. He had searched many times for the Fortune Teller, and he’d never found anything but rumors.
Alexa had always maintained that her father visited the Teller the three times allotted, but after studying her father’s journals through the night, she found reference to only one of the doors. It was just their luck that the door was in such a bad part of town.

  This section of the Lower East Side had once been filled with tenements, poorly constructed apartment buildings with no bathrooms or electricity that were so tightly bunched together that no sunlight could peek through. Children grew up inside these foul structures without ever seeing the light of day. Death and misery were the daily companion of the tenement dwellers, and their lives were often painfully brief. Their plight was eventually discovered and publicized by the great crusading photographer Jacob Riis, and the tenements were torn down and the people within given help. But the memory of their suffering was so strong that the shadows of the tenements remained here in Mannahatta, filled with the angry, lost souls who had once called them home.

  Looking around at the dismal place, Nicholas began to regret sending Albert, Lincoln, and Simon out into the city for news. He’d feel a little more comfortable with a few more eyes watching his back. A moan made him jump.

  “I hate this place,” he complained. He knew whining wasn’t heroic, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Me too,” Alexa said. “Father brought me here once, to show me why we must never forget who we fight for. I couldn’t wait to leave. And I heard that some of the gangs have been hiding out here.”

  “I heard that, too. If you don’t mind the cold hand of a damned soul on your neck, it’s not a bad place to lay low.”

  Alexa shuddered. “Let’s do this quick and be free of here.”

  They hurried down the thin, dark alley. Above them, shadows moved past the darkened windows. Nicholas tried not to look, for he did not want to attract any more attention from those miserable creatures. Alexa finally pulled up in front of a dirty, rusted iron door.

  “Here we are.”

  Nicholas crept forward, gazing intently at the run-down entrance.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s where Father said it would be. One of the three doors.”

  Finding the Fortune Teller was not meant to be easy. There were only three doors, and seekers were only allowed to pass through each door once. After a door was used, it would be closed to the seeker forever. The location of these doors had always been a closely guarded secret known to very few, and those who had guarded that secret had long since faded away. So now no one knew where to find the doors. Somehow Adriaen had tracked them down, through study or long years of searching. If he had not left a clue to the location of at least one of the doors, the knowledge would have been lost with his death. That is, if this really is one of the doors, thought Nicholas with no small measure of doubt.

  They stood there a moment, frozen, each unwilling to be the one to turn the knob. A moan from far above finally spurred them to reach forward and open it together. The scent of exotic spices and sweet smoke drifted out of the open doorway. They quickly ducked inside, closing the door on the misery outside.

  The room they entered was smoky and dim, lit by only a few candles along the walls. A small couch sat across from a folding table with a cardboard box underneath and a single folding chair behind it. Sitting on the folding chair was an enormously fat woman in a bright red and gold dress, smoking an equally fat cigar. She turned and spat in the corner before addressing them.

  “You here to donate your clothes?” she asked in a low growl.

  Confused, Nicholas and Alexa exchanged a glance.

  “Um, no,” Nicholas answered.

  “Furniture, then?” The woman looked past them, trying to see what they brought. “Bring it up here. I don’t have all day. It better have all its legs, whatever it is! No three-legged tables, can’t move ’em!”

  Nicholas and Alexa were thoroughly confused.

  “Um, we don’t have any furniture,” Alexa said. “We thought…that is…”

  “Out with it!” the woman boomed. “It’s not old board games, is it? If I see one more Monopoly board with only a shoe and Park Place left, I’m gonna scream.”

  “We’re not here for that,” Nicholas said, completely lost. “We wanted a seeing.”

  A look of understanding dawned on the woman’s face.

  “You came through that door. I didn’t notice. It’s been such a long while since anyone has come through that door that I don’t even pay attention anymore. So no donations, huh? It’s fortune-telling for you. Hold on a second…”

  She leaned down and rifled through the cardboard box. She lifted out various odds and ends, looking for something. There seemed to be far more items in the box than should have been able to fit inside. Finally, she pulled out a dirty old crystal ball. Plopping it down on the table, she dusted it off.

  “There we are. Go on, pull up the couch.”

  They grabbed the couch, dragged it over in front of the table, and sat down. The couch proved both low and extremely uncomfortable, but they made no complaint. The Fortune Teller gazed down at them, puffing on her cigar.

  “So, you have payment?”

  Nicholas pulled out an old knife from his jacket and handed it over.

  “My father gave me this knife and taught me how to whittle with it,” he said, giving it a sad look. “It is the only gift, both the knife and the skill, I remember getting from him.”

  “Well, hand it over, hand it over,” the Fortune Teller said. “Old knife, a little dull, but maybe still useful.”

  The covetous look on her face told Nicholas that the gift was more than just useful. She turned to Alexa. “And you, dear?”

  Alexa reluctantly pulled out a small ribbon and handed it over, though not without a last sorrowful caress.

  “It was my mother’s,” she said simply and left it at that. The Fortune Teller took the ribbon and placed both gifts in the box at her feet.

  “So let’s take a look, shall we,” she said, gazing into her ball. The two Rattle Watchers leaned in. Eventually, the Fortune Teller began to speak, and what she told them turned their blood to water. It was so much worse than they’d imagined….

  Rory struggled to keep up with Wampage as they made their way through the trees. He stumbled over fallen branches and scratched his arms on brambles. He asked the tall Indian question after question, but Wampage refused to speak. They walked for a long way, much farther than should have been possible, the dogs running ahead and then bounding back again and again. All of Inwood Hill Park couldn’t have been much larger than a half hour’s stroll, but they never seemed to reach the end of the trees. Finally, Rory spied a clearing up ahead. Expecting to come out at Dyckman Street, Rory was surprised to step into an open area in the middle of the forest. A small cave jutted out of the ground, the smoldering remains of a fire in its mouth. More dogs waited, barking as they greeted their fellows back from the hunt. But what drew Rory’s eye was the large mound of white in the center of the clearing.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Finally, Wampage spoke.

  “It is a shell pit. Come closer.”

  Stepping up, Rory could see that the mound was in fact made up of thousands of shells of all shapes and sizes, most white but some purple or black. He reached out to pick one up.

  “Do not touch!” Wampage shouted, and Rory pulled his hand back quickly.

  “Why not?” Rory asked.

  “It is not for you to touch.”

  “But they’re just shells.”

  “These are not just shells, little one. This is what makes a Munsee. Give me your bracelet.”

  Rory pulled off the string of beads and handed it over. Wampage laid it carefully atop the pile, and to Rory’s surprise, the bracelet began to glow.

  “What’s happening?” he asked in wonder.

  “Your wampum was weak. This will make it strong.”

  “Is that what those shells are for? To make wampum strong?”

  Wampage shook his head.

  “No!
This is where wampum comes from, where the weavers would work to make our jewelry and amulets. This was the source of our strength, this and the others like it, which have since been lost. But now the Munsees are gone, and only I remain to protect this last shell pit.”

  “Could you make another bracelet?” Rory asked. “For my sister?”

  “I am sorry, Rory,” Wampage replied. “If you come across more wampum, the bracelet will let you know, but I cannot make you new pieces. I am not a weaver. All those with the knowledge are trapped within the Blue Abomination. I remain to protect the shell pit, but I have no power to help my people. Not anymore.”

  “Why aren’t you in the Trap, too?” Rory asked.

  Wampage’s eyes grew distant and sad.

  “When we received word of the Mayor’s offer of Central Park, I did not trust it. I was shocked when our sachem, Penhawitz, agreed to take the Mayor’s gift. His son, Tackapausha, convinced him that this was the only way to end our endless strife. Tackapausha had always been a peaceful man, and he believed the Mayor’s promises. I did not trust so easily, not after centuries of blood. I was the fighter, Tackapausha the diplomat, and Penhawitz would usually hear our arguments and find a middle road to follow. So on the eve of my people’s journey to the park, I made my case against Tackapausha, he who was my brother in all but blood, before Penhawitz and the elders of my people, begging them to turn away from this mad course of action. But Penhawitz would listen only to his son, and brushed aside my warnings. I am ashamed to say I gave in to my anger. I cursed their gullibility and left in a rage. I came north alone to calm myself. Soon, I was surprised to find dogs pouring into camp. They were the dogs of my people; why were they leaving the dogs behind? Who would protect the tribes?