Gods of Manhattan

by Scott Mebus

  Albert went quiet as they both stared off toward the river. Finally he patted Rory’s shoulder.

  “I need to go back to the rest of the watch and explain the delay. Good luck with your sister. I’m sure Flavio will come through for her. I’ll see you soon.”

  Rory nodded farewell as Albert turned and disappeared into the crowd. Squaring his shoulders, Rory pushed thoughts of his father away. He didn’t have time to dwell on what he thought he saw. He had his real family to worry about. Stepping back into Flavio’s tent, he slipped by the roaches, who were talking quietly with Nicholas, and pushed through the door into Flavio’s workroom.

  The forge glowed with dancing flame, the walls shimmering with sputtering shadows like a cave lit by the kind of campfire usually surrounded by Boy Scouts swapping ghost stories late into the night. In the middle stood a dark shadow bent over his work. Flavio’s skin was covered in the soot and grime of the fires, but his eyes shone white. Rory couldn’t make out what part of the new Bridget he held in his hand. He thanked the stars for that when Flavio reared back and brought down his hammer with all his strength. Sparks flew in the air, lighting up Flavio’s face like fireworks. The heavy clang rattled Rory’s aching head, making him wince. Flavio spoke without turning.

  “She’s not quite done, Trouble Boy. And I don’t like people watching me work. It’s a delicate business, forging paper, and it don’t take much to break it all down.”

  Rory backed up to the doorway.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

  He turned to leave when Flavio stopped him.

  “Hold your horses. Go sit in the corner. I’ll be done in a minute. Then you can check ’er to make sure she’s right.”

  “Okay.”

  Rory retreated to the farthest corner of the forge, sliding down to the floor among the discarded paper. He tried to think about what Nicholas had said, but the clang of the forge made it difficult to keep any thoughts in his head. The crash of the hammer drove them back like animals frightened by the thunder. Eventually, he settled on watching Flavio at work, brushing his fingertips over the warm bullet in his pocket. After a moment, confusion hit him.

  “Where’s the paste?” he asked. “I used to do a ton of papier-mâché and we never did it without paste.”

  “The paste is there, believe me!” Flavio said. “I’ve been doing this far longer than you can imagine, so don’t go questioning my methods! It’s not my fault you mortals do it all wrong. Now stop bothering me!”

  He returned to his work. It wasn’t long before he called Rory over.

  “All right. Time for inspection.”

  Rory stood up slowly, shaking his legs to wake them up. A dark form stood behind Flavio, hiding in his shadow. Suddenly, a bolt of fear shot up Rory’s spine. What kind of creature had Flavio created? What kind of Frankenstein waited to spring out of the shadows?

  Flavio gestured impatiently. “We don’t have time for your timidity, Trouble Boy! If she cools too much, the soul won’t take. So come here!”

  Rory crept forward toward the shape. As he got closer, he could see that it was human-size, about Bridget’s height. Then Flavio stepped aside, letting the light of the fire fall on the dark creature. Rory gasped.

  “Bridget…”

  And it was Bridget. From the little nose to the unkempt hair to the slight slouch, this paper creature was his sister. He could see the paper everywhere, its shiny, rough surface covering everything from her cheeks to her ankles. The clothes were real, but she was not. The likeness however…

  “It’s perfect.”

  Flavio allowed himself a small smile as he stood next to Rory, gazing at his creation.

  “It’s better than Tom’s boy. Stronger. I’ve learned a lot in the past fifty years. When you forge paper, you need to make it strong. And I used a special kind of paper. Paper I’ve only just figured out how to shape. Made from the trees underground. The forest under Washington Heights. Trees made part of wood and part of stone. And look at her.”

  Rory couldn’t speak. Flavio reached over and felt Paper Bridget’s forehead. He quickly turned to Rory.

  “She’s starting to cool. Do you have the bullet? Quickly now!”

  Rory groped in his pocket, almost dropping the bullet as he pulled it out. He held it out to Flavio, who quickly snatched it from his hand.

  “We’re almost out of time,” the smith said. “This thing’s about to let go. No time to call the others in. We’ll just have to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  Flavio stood over the body like a mad scientist, holding up the bullet as if it was a wonder pill. He reached over to Paper Bridget’s head and opened her mouth. Placing the bullet on her back teeth, he closed the mouth up again. He moved her jaw with his strong hands, causing a crunching sound. Rory took a step forward, but Flavio stopped him with a look.

  “Her teeth are stronger than any bullet. There we go.”

  Satisfied, Flavio stopped the chewing and gently tipped the body back, shaking it a little while listening to her throat. After a minute of this, he nodded to himself and stood her up straight again. He looked at Rory’s worried face.

  “Now we see if it’ll take.”

  He stepped over to Rory and turned to watch with him. For a moment, nothing happened. But then…something moved. The eye twitched. Rory’s fingernails dug into his hands. Another eye twitched. Small movements popped up all over her body. Fingers shook. Shoulders flinched. Rory watched in amazement as his sister gradually, spastically came to life. Finally, all at once, Paper Bridget leaped back in a huge burst of energy, screaming at the top of her voice. Her eyes lit up as if a switch had been pulled. Suddenly, she was totally and completely alive. She looked down at herself and then back up at her brother.

  “Rory? How did I get here? And why do I feel like this?”

  Flavio leaned in.

  “Like what?”

  Bridget stepped back from this strange soot-covered man, but she answered him.

  “Like someone scooped me out and just left the skin. It’s weird.”

  Rory stepped up to her in a daze and looked into her eyes. They shone with life. They were Bridget’s eyes.

  “You were hurt. But the worst is over. The worst is over, I promise.”

  Bridget looked up at her big brother.

  “Is it like a cold? I hate it when you feel like a cold is coming and you try not to worry about it, but you keep thinking about that itch in the back of your throat and your nose starts to sniffle and it just gets worse. But one day you can just tell that the worst is over and even though you feel the same as when you were getting sick, it’s not so bad, because you remember the worst and you’re happy because you know every day takes you farther away from that feeling.”

  Her eyes flinched as she finished. Rory put a hesitant hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you remember the worst?”

  Bridget looked away, staring at her fingernails. Her voice dipped down to a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  Rory broke. He hugged his sister so hard, she almost crumpled. His voice came out thick and heavy.

  “I promise. The worst is over.”

  24

  A HOUSE ON HIGH

  Bridget couldn’t get used to her new body. She ran her fingers over her rough paper skin as she followed Rory and Nicholas down the street, marveling at the feel. She heard a brittle crackle when she opened her eyes wide, so of course she did it again and again until she must have looked crazy to the people passing by who only saw a normal girl with a twitch. Her insides felt even weirder. What was inside her? She couldn’t feel her heart beat, though she held her hand tightly to her chest. Feelings and sounds she’d never paid attention to had disappeared, and the quiet startled her. Rory kept watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, checking to see if she was okay. Was she okay? She thought so. She hoped so. But something inside her felt strange.

  She remembered Flavio’s warning before they had left. He’d pulled her
and Rory aside and gave them a stern look.

  “Don’t dawdle, children,” he had said, his sooty face so serious it made her want to giggle. “This paper body isn’t meant for long-term use. You get your real body back and destroy this one as soon as you can. Throw it in the river; I don’t care. It’s good for now, but it ain’t good forever.”

  “What about Toy?” she’d asked. “He’s been in that body for fifty years.”

  “I don’t know how he did it,” Flavio had said. “He shouldn’t have been able to. Maybe his wizard daddy helped him. But it affected his mind; I bet a thousand dollars it did. So heed me! Go get your flesh-and-blood body back and leave this paper mess behind. And be careful!”

  They left him then. Fritz and his wife rode off to look for signs of Hex while Nicholas agreed to take them to his father’s house. He was telling them a funny story as they walked, about his Rattle Watch playing a trick on the Mayor using an illusionary manhole cover and some thumbtacks. Bridget wanted to pay attention, but something was pushing inside of her, making her feel like she was a balloon getting blown up. She felt a jab of fright. What if her skin broke apart and she burst open like an overcooked bag of popcorn? Her whole body felt ready to pop. She opened her mouth to say something when Nicholas stopped them. He nodded to the street sign.

  “Stuyvesant Street. Named for my dad, Peter Stuyvesant. And here’s the house.”

  They’d stopped in front of an ordinary brownstone.

  “Very nice.” Rory sounded disappointed.

  Nicholas gave him an amused look.

  “Save your fake enthusiasm for when you actually see the house. Come on.”

  He led them to a small alley next to the brownstone, where to Bridget’s surprise a long wooden staircase led up the side of the building. They climbed the stairs, which seemed to go on and on, until finally they reached the top and stepped out onto the roof. Rory gasped and Bridget’s mouth dropped open as they saw the last thing they expected to find on a Manhattan rooftop.

  A large green lawn spread out before them, covering every inch of the roof. Flowers poked up from the grass, and small bushes and trees sprouted up around the perimeter. The lawn came right to the edge of the roof, and at the other end sat a large, pleasant house, a slice of the countryside sitting on top of the town house like it had been dropped from the sky. A tall, pointed roof topped it off, with small roofed windows jutting out from the second floor, while a large chimney rose from the center, smoke drifting lazily from the tip. A long-roofed porch—filled with inviting porch swings and chairs—ran the length of the house. The front door was split in two, the top half swung open to let in the breeze while the bottom half remained shut. Standing in the doorway, a happy smile on her lips, stood a plump, pleasant woman in a large white apron holding a tray of cooling bread. As Nicholas led them across the lawn up to the house on the roof, she called out to him.

  “Nicholas! I can’t believe it! You’ve come home! With new friends!”

  “This is Rory and Bridget Hennessy, Mother. Guys, this is Mother Stuyvesant, the nicest woman in the whole wide world, including Queens.”

  They reached the porch as Mother Stuyvesant flung her arms around her son. He smiled in embarrassment as his mother hugged the life out of him. She finally let him go, and he struggled to regain his breath. She smiled to the Hennessy children and welcomed them warmly. Nicholas peered through the open half of the door.

  “Is he home?”

  “He’s in his study,” she said. “He doesn’t walk the neighborhood streets like he used to.”

  “I’m sure the mortals don’t mind that. I always wondered why he wanted to depress everyone.”

  “That’s his function, dear,” she said, mildly reproving. “He needs to be out there doing his job. It worries me that he’s abandoned it.”

  “I don’t know why it surprised you; he abandons everything else,” Nicholas murmured. Bridget wondered what happened between the boy and his father to make him so angry. Mother Stuyvesant took her son’s hand.

  “Please. Don’t antagonize him. These times are difficult enough for him.”

  “He won’t even know we’re here. I just need a safe place where Rory can stay until we figure out what to do next.”

  Mother Stuyvesant opened the bottom half of the front door to let them inside. She smiled sweetly at her young visitors.

  “Well, come in. Welcome to the Stuyvesant Farm, children. Despite what I’m sure Nicholas has told you, this was quite a nice place to grow up.”

  The inside of the impossible house reminded Bridget of those Christmas ads where the family sits around the kitchen and makes perfect cookies, the kind of home that never exists in real life. Nicholas quietly tiptoed past a large wooden door, but a loud voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Nicholas! Get in here! And bring the mortals!”

  Nicholas cursed under his breath. He shot a pleading look at his mother, but she gave him no comfort. She walked over and opened the door, forcing him to enter. The two Hennessy children followed meekly behind. They stepped into a large study lined with bookcases. Pastoral paintings and Indian artifacts hung on the wall. But larger than all of these pieces was the huge painting of a doughy man posing like a great adventurer, which hung in the center of the room. Directly beneath it sat that same man, dressed in the exact same way, but slouched in his chair, his expression more irritated than the impressive man in the painting above. Bridget knew it must be Nicholas’s father, Peter Stuyvesant.

  Stuyvesant was a well-kept man, his velvet jacket and puffy white shirt perfectly pressed, and his pants nicely done up at the knee with ribbon, while white hose continued the journey down to his boot. At least it did on one leg, since on the other leg the hose stopped abruptly at wood. Peter Stuyvesant had a peg leg, just like a pirate. Silver bands wrapped around the wooden stick to its tip, like the stripes of a candy cane. All in all, he was an impressive man, or would have been if not for the expression on his face, which made him look like he’d just eaten some bad eggs.

  Rory let out a gasp. “Peg Leg Pete!”

  From Nicholas’s shocked expression, Bridget could tell that her brother had said just the wrong thing. The god immediately frowned.

  “I will not be spoken to like this in my own home!”

  Rory immediately stammered an apology and explained about meeting a ghost called the Trumpeter. Stuyvesant relaxed a little, though his eyes still twitched with disapproval.

  “Anthony is still floating around?” he asked. “I sent him up there when we were both mortals, to warn of the British coming, which he never did. It’s not my fault he tried to ford the Spuyten Duyvil. Not a river to be trifled with. That’s why we build bridges! Now look at him! How does he expect me to hear him all the way up there? Foolish creature. And he wants pie. For what? Warnings are only good in advance. Otherwise, they’re called history lessons. People always want to be rewarded for their own foolishness. Which reminds me, Nicholas, where have you been?”

  “Doing something, Father.”

  “Doing something, eh?” The god’s tone mocked him. “Well, look at the great man. He’s doing something. You’re trying to get killed, that’s what you’re doing. I’ve heard about your activities. You do not know Kieft. You’ve only heard stories of what he can do. I knew him, long ago. I know what he’s capable of. You stay out of his way!”

  “I’m not going to hide under my pillow and hope everything turns out all right, Father!”

  “Don’t you take that tone with me!” Stuyvesant pointed sternly at his son, wagging his finger fiercely. “I may not find the time to walk amongst the mortals as often as I used to, but I still do my job. You don’t even have a job.”

  “I have a job!” Nicholas was indignant. “I’m only saving the city, that’s all.”

  “That’s not a job! That’s a hobby! And it’s a waste of time!”

  Bridget glanced over at Rory, who shrugged back. This sounded like the same argument any teenage kid would
have with his dad. It would be funny, if so much weren’t at stake. Nicholas and his father both sputtered into silence, angrily staring at each other. This wasn’t going well at all. It was up to Bridget to save the day. She bowed low and spoke reverently.

  “I, um, greet you, oh Great One. I am in, uh, awe of your magnificent presence. Please treat your humble servant with, eh, mercy. Oh Lord.”

  Rory gave her an incredulous look. Nicholas stared at her in astonishment while his mother covered her mouth gently with her hand. But the effect on Peter Stuyvesant was immediate. He sat up in his chair and beamed.

  “See, Nicholas! This is how a god should be treated! Respect! It’s all about respect! Thank you, young one. You obviously know your manners. And what is your name?”

  “Bridget Hennessy, sir.”

  “Well met, Bridget! No one treats us old gods with the reverence we are owed. It’s nice to see someone who appreciates us. I’m guessing you’re here to put yourself under my protection. It is a dangerous world out there, after all. It wasn’t always like that, of course. It was a great city once.”

  Nicholas muttered under his breath, “Here we go.”

  Stuyvesant gestured grandly as he spoke.

  “Back in my day, when I was Mayor, this city was a wonder! I was once the governor of this colony, when I was mortal and it was called New Amsterdam. Now that’s a name! Says something. New York, what is that? Horrible name! Never should have been changed! What is a york, anyway? And who needs a new one? I was elected Mayor, you know, once I became a god. They knew they needed a keen mind to run Mannahatta. I was in office for over fifty years! But then that young upstart Hamilton forced me out! He fixed the ballot and stole my post from me! Serves him right, to fall in with Kieft. They deserve each other. I was the best Mayor Mannahatta has ever seen! And now look at me, forced into an early retirement on my farm, out of politics, all because of those awful men down at City Hall. And things have gone downhill ever since. Nothing is as good as it was in my day. The water, it tastes horrible! The cheese, inedible. The books, written by imbeciles. We had books in my day, real books, books with words in Latin! How can it be a book if it has no Latin in it? It just makes no sense!”