Gods of Manhattan

by Scott Mebus

  “I rushed back to see what was happening, but it was too late. I could not get in, and they could not get out. I heard them crying, but I could not see them. I sent them dogs, but the dogs would not stay where they could not feel the land. I spoke to them, but I could not help them and their cries tore at my heart. Penhawitz commanded me through the barrier to leave and save what I could. I am ashamed to say I did not argue. I was glad to escape the sound of my people’s tears before it tore my sanity away like bark from a dead tree. The guilt still plagues me. If only I hadn’t lost my temper that last meeting before the elders…. If I had found a way to convince Penhawitz of the plan’s folly instead of stomping off like a spoiled child, maybe I could have prevented my people’s tragedy. Instead, I am exiled. All I can do is remain here to protect our last great shell pit and await the end of days.”

  Rory looked around the small camp and felt pity for this once-proud warrior.

  “How did I meet you? I don’t remember any of it.”

  Wampage sat down by his fire and poked at the embers with a spear, absently scratching the neck of a dog lolling at his feet with his other hand.

  “Why should you? I took that memory away. After all, you asked me to.”

  This simple statement rocked Rory.

  “What?” he cried. “I asked you to? Asked you to do what?”

  “To take away your sight. I met you when you were but a small babe. Your mother would push you through the woods and you would see me. So I knew you were Sabbeleu, what the newcomers call a Light. I had not seen one in so long. I made your mother sleep, and we would visit. I took you here to see the shell pit, and I told you many stories of my people. We were…friends.”

  “I don’t remember any of that,” Rory marveled. “I do dream about you. I just can’t remember much about what happens in the dreams.”

  “Maybe one day you will remember our talks,” Wampage replied. “I would like to think those stories will survive.”

  “What happened?”

  “You cried my name one night, and I came at your call. I never leave the woods, but your voice held such pain, I crossed over the streets and climbed to your window. You tearfully told me of your father and his betrayal of your family and said over and over that it was because of you. Because you were different, that was why he left. He fooled you into thinking he cared, but he never did because you were not like him. So you begged me to make you normal, to take away the world only you saw. Not in those words, of course—after all, you were only three or four. But I understood you, nonetheless. I know what it is like to feel alone and different, the only one of his kind, and I did not see why you should feel that. So I helped you. I took away your sight, so you could have what you wanted, to be like those around you. It was my thank-you for those moments of friendship.”

  Rory felt his eyes tear up.

  “You saved me. I would have been taken away by a stranger if you hadn’t helped me.”

  Wampage shrugged.

  “Perhaps. I do not know the truth of such things. I only heeded the cries of a young boy who showed friendship. I can see, however, that someone has broken through my gift. How was this accomplished?”

  Rory told the Munsee about Hex and his mission. Wampage’s face remained impassive as he listened, betraying nothing.

  “This Hex, do you believe him?” he finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rory admitted. “It sounds really dangerous.”

  “Will you do it?”

  Rory hesitated. He didn’t want to anger his new friend. But at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to lie.

  “I don’t know. Why does it have to be me? Don’t I get a choice? I owe you, I know, but you’re the only Munsee I’ve ever met. Should I risk my life for them? Hex talked on and on about the balance and all that, but New York has lasted a hundred and fifty years with the Munsees trapped. Why should it fall apart now? I can’t help thinking that somebody else would be more qualified to do something like this.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I should lie and tell you I can’t wait to help your people. A good person would want to help.”

  Wampage shook his head.

  “It is good you do not lie. You are Sabbeleu. Truth is your meat and your air. To deny that would be to risk much.”

  Really? Rory wondered if being a Light meant more than Hex was telling him.

  “What is Sabbeleu?”

  “I am not a medicine man,” Wampage replied. “My answer would be poor and misleading. I am sorry.”

  Rory hung his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

  A smaller dog pushed its face into Rory’s hand, making the boy pet him.

  “They can sense your pain,” Wampage said. “That is what makes them such valuable allies and protectors. If you cannot truly feel the anguish of others, you cannot truly join with them. I would love for my people to be free. But you cannot do it for my sake. You must do it for more than that. You must open yourself to those you would save and join with them in your heart. Otherwise, you will fail.”

  Wampage stood up and walked over to the shell pit. Picking Rory’s bracelet off the top, he handed it over to the boy solemnly, as if it were a great sword. The purple beads glowed brighter, but softer, now. Rory could feel its power as he slipped the bracelet back over his wrist. Wampage looked down at him, his eyes deep and unknowable.

  “You stay apart. I have seen you,” he said. “You play your games alone. Your sister keeps you company at times, but too often you are by yourself, waiting for something, though I know not what that something is. I have also remained apart, for many, many years. It is lonely, Rory. It is lonely.”

  Rory looked around the campsite, thinking of the centuries Wampage spent keeping a solitary watch over the last remains of his people, and a cold shiver ran up his spine. But Rory wasn’t alone. He had his family. Wampage was wrong there. He was anything but lonely.

  11

  NIGHT VISITORS

  Astor Place is one of the busiest squares in the East Village. Not two, not three, but four streets intersect there, along which thousands of cars and people stream by, headed in every direction. One of those streets, Lafayette Street, had a much more sedate history. Though it now led all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge, over a century earlier it had only lasted a few blocks before reaching a dead end. But what an exclusive few blocks they were.

  Then named Lafayette Place, it originally led directly to a beautiful mansion built for John Jacob Astor, once the richest man in New York. If you were to stand next to the ornate subway entrance on the small island in the middle of the square, you could still see the street sign for the forgotten dead end road hanging from the lamppost. It points out across the busy streets of present day, obviously just a relic from old times.

  But…if you were to stand under the sign and face in the direction it pointed, you might, if you tilted your head just so and looked very carefully, catch a glimpse of that old, lost street with its cobblestones and flowering trees lined up neatly along each side. And if you were particularly adventurous, you could step forward, ignoring the cars screaming along 8th Street, and, if you stepped correctly, your feet would land on those old cobblestones. Then you could walk along the pleasant cul-de-sac toward the towering mansion that was demolished so many years before but still remains at the end of Lafayette Place. You could walk up to the front door and step inside the house of a god.

  John Jacob Astor, God of Excess, was not at home. He was at the council meeting, as were all the members of the Council of Twelve, which was why Fritz and the Rattle Watch felt comfortable meeting in his study. Though comfortable was a strong word.

  “What if one of his men comes back to grab something?” Albert asked, clearly unhappy to be meeting in the old god’s home.

  “Daddy is completely wrapped up in this meeting, kiddo,” Simon Astor said, insolently tugging on his lacy shirt. “You worry too much.”

  “Be civil, Simon,” Fritz said, irrit
ated by the youthful fop’s attitude. “This isn’t a game.”

  “I know,” Simon replied, not looking like he cared what Fritz was saying. “That’s why I’m wearing my conspiracy shirt. I only wear it when there’s a lot of whispering to be done.”

  Simon’s conspiracy shirt was bright red with orange trimming. It was actually one of the quieter shirts he owned.

  Albert shook his head. “You are an idiot, Simon.”

  “Ooo, big, mean words!” Simon said, waving his hands in mock fear.

  “Where are they?” Fritz asked, looking around. “They should be back by now.”

  “They’ll be here,” Albert replied. “Meanwhile, you know what I heard? Caesar Prince has disappeared.”

  This caused an uproar. The God of Under the Streets was one of the oldest gods in the city.

  “When did this happen?” Fritz exclaimed, motioning for everyone to quiet down.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t show up for the council meeting and ignored all summons. They went to his home to force him to attend, which I guess they’ve done before, and he wasn’t to be found. The guy was just gone!”

  “Come on,” Simon said. “Caesar’s always been crazy, living underground with his subway trains. He probably licked the third rail or something and is sleeping it off.”

  “Or he’s dead,” Albert said.

  There was a moment of silence as they thought this through.

  “What is Kieft up to?” Fritz wondered. “Killing gods? What is going on here?”

  “I think we might have some answers to that question,” a new male voice said. They turned to the door to see Nicholas and Alexa entering.

  “Don’t tell me you actually saw the old broad!” Albert said, astonished.

  “What did you have to pay her? A finger? Two?” Lincoln asked as he and Simon tried to get a good look at Alexa’s hand. She shot them an irritated look.

  “It doesn’t concern you,” she said. “It’s what she told us that matters.”

  “And what was that?” Fritz asked.

  Nicholas held back a moment as his mind returned to that dingy, dark room. He and Alexa had waited breathlessly as the Fortune Teller ran her fat, ring-covered fingers gently over the crystal ball. The ball had begun to glow gently as the round old woman looked deep inside. Then she spoke.

  “You are at a crossroads. What you do now will change your lives forever, and the lives of everyone you love. Sorrow and heartbreak await you no matter which road you choose to walk. And the biggest choice is not yours to make—”

  The Fortune Teller had gasped, her eyes flinching. “A knife. I see a terrible knife!

  “I see death for our people,” she had said, her voice quivering. “This knife brings death to us all.”

  “How do we stop it?” Nicholas had asked, proud that his voice didn’t shake too much.

  “There is a Light,” she had said. “A hidden Light. He must come into his own. He will make the choice. You cannot make it for him. If he chooses well, then truth will be revealed. This I foretell.”

  Then she had lapsed into silence, and nothing he nor Alexa could say would force her to speak again.

  As he and Alexa filled the Watch in, Nicholas hoped this Light came through. He hated trusting the welfare of Mannahatta to some unknown mortal boy. You better come through for us, Rory Hennessy, he thought. Our lives are in your hands.

  Rory was thankful to come home to an empty apartment. The worst thing that could happen would be to walk in on his family and have to explain where he had been. Bridget would pounce on any lie and the minute he thought of his mom as clueless was always the minute she would notice something was wrong.

  He’d barely sat down in the living room before the front door opened. Bridget bounced in, jumping into the other chair, while Mrs. Hennessy brought dinner—Chinese—into the kitchen.

  “What did you do, Rory? I got some great new shoes. Wanna see? Wanna see?”

  “Sure.”

  Bridget rummaged through her bag and pulled out the steel-tipped boots. Rory was taken aback.

  “What are those?”

  Bridget smiled wide.

  “Butt-kickers.”

  Rory’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Whose butt do you plan on kicking, exactly?”

  Bridget’s face was the picture of innocence.

  “No one. Just good boots to have. In case a burglar breaks in or the Con Ed guy tries to read the meter.”

  She stood up, opened her door, and tossed the boots inside her room. They landed with a loud crash. Rory could see right through her. She couldn’t wait to walk into the fire with him. Steel-tipped boots…what use are they against shadows?

  As Bridget rushed into her room to see what she’d crushed, Rory realized what he had to do. Another Stranger would find him, or something worse, and this time Bridget wouldn’t freeze up. He could picture her rushing the creature, ready to kick its head in with her new boots, but she would be the one hurt—or worse. He couldn’t risk her or his mother. He had to end this before his family suffered.

  Mrs. Hennessy caught her son staring off into space. “You okay, honey?” she asked.

  “I am,” he answered her. And he was. Or would be soon.

  “Look after Bridget tomorrow,” she said. “I have to go to work extra early, on a Saturday and everything—and I’ll be back late. My reward for taking the day off, I guess. I won’t have time to look in on you, so take care of food and stuff. Think you can handle that?”

  “Sure,” he answered. This was even better than he’d hoped. If he had to do something tomorrow, his mom would never know. Satisfied, Mrs. Hennessy tousled his hair before turning her attention to dinner.

  He made sure his mom was busy in the kitchen before grabbing the phone from the wall and disappearing into his own room. He pulled out the card from his pocket and dialed the number. Hex answered on the second ring.

  “If I help you, are you sure they’ll leave us alone?” Rory asked him. “This Kieft guy or whoever will stop sending creatures after me and my family?”

  “There will be no more reason for him or anyone else to want you,” Hex answered.

  “Then I’m in,” Rory said, an odd mixture of worry and relief washing over him as he said the words.

  “Thank you, Rory,” Hex said. “You’re doing a great thing.”

  “What happens next?”

  “We meet tonight outside the bank and do the job.”

  “What! Tonight! That’s crazy!”

  “We caught a break. There has been an incident at the bank involving a giant pig. Don’t ask. So the bank security will be in disarray for the next day or so trying to clean up the mess. Which means we should be able to slip in unnoticed. But we’ll have to do it tonight.”

  Rory’s head was spinning.

  “But that’s no time at all. I’m not ready.”

  “There’s not much to be ready for. We sneak in, you turn the key, we get out. It’s not going to get any easier if we wait. This is the moment, Rory. I know it’s sudden and so much to decide so quickly. But that’s the way it has to be.”

  In the end it wasn’t much of a decision. His family was more important than anything.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “What’s the plan?”

  Rory was pretending to get ready for bed when Bridget’s whispered voice cut in. He turned to see her stepping into his room and quietly pulling the door closed. He purposefully turned his back and flopped into bed.

  “There is no plan. Go to sleep.”

  Bridget knelt next to the bed.

  “Come on. When do we hit the bank? Are we seeing Hex tomorrow? By the way, I almost forgot, there’s something I need to tell you—”

  Rory cut her off, determined to nip this in the bud. He had to be harsh, to protect her.

  “You’re not coming with me, Bridge.”

  “What are you talking about—”

  “You’ll slow me down and get in the way.”
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  Bridget’s eyes welled up.

  “I would not!”

  “I won’t let you tag along! You’re a little girl. You should be playing with your dolls. So stay out of it. This is for the big boys, not the little babies.”

  Bridget bit her lower lip to keep from crying.

  “Fine! See if I care what happens to you.”

  She ran out of the room as Mrs. Hennessy’s voice drifted in.

  “Quiet down, you two! Go to sleep!”

  Rory lay back in bed, knowing that sleep was not in the cards for him. Not tonight.

  Bridget woke up suddenly. She looked around her dark room, wondering what could have startled her out of sleep. Her clock radio showed the time: quarter after eleven. She’d been asleep for less than two hours. She relaxed back into her bed. She was still mad at Rory, she guessed. Maybe she should learn meditation or something. Take up Buddhism. She could hike out to some obscure mountain somewhere, seek out an ancient monk. It would take three years before he would even look at her, and two years after that before he’d say good morning. Eventually, he’d break down, agreeing to teach this young Westerner all his secrets. After months and months of training, Bridget would finally be able to reach inner peace and fight in midair like in those kung fu movies. For, with self-awareness and inner peace, comes the ability to kick some serious heiney.

  She turned to check her clock again. And almost screamed. She whispered angrily, “I may know you’re really a little man, but a roach by your clock is still pretty scary!”

  Fritz put up his little legs, gesturing for her to stay silent. He got down off his rat.

  “Simmer down, Bridget. You don’t want to wake up your mother.”

  Bridget shifted uneasily.

  “Could you take that helmet off? I hate seeing my reflection in your little eyes.”

  Fritz reached up and lifted off the helmet, revealing his white face grinning sheepishly.