THE BOOK
THE KEY
&
THE CROWN
Jennifer Eve Cipri
Copyright © 2014 Jennifer Eve Cipri
All rights reserved.
Cipri, Jennifer Eve
The Book, the Key and the Crown/Jennifer Eve Cipri.—1st ed.
ISBN 1502552949
Italian Americans—Fiction. 2. Cosimo Medici—Fiction. 3. Emerald Tablet—Fiction 4. Ancient Babylon—Fiction 5. Hermes Trismegistus—Fiction 6. Child Abduction—Fiction
Summary: A powerful crown is hidden in the city of Redemption. A secret brotherhood is desperately searching for it and a girl from a broken home finds herself tangled in the web of their sinister plans.
All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer:
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
Terms and Conditions:
The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.
This book was typeset in Garamond.
To the great storyteller, Anthony Carpenito & to the one who believed in me from the start, Marian Bauer
Endless gratitude to Anthony Carpenito. You took care of me so I could write this book. I’m forever indebted to you. To Aunt Lucy Carpenito for your love and wisdom. To my sisters, Heidi and Angela, and my brother Tim, for loving and supporting me. To my sister Sara, for lighting my way. To my friends and family who nurtured my dreams. To my Aunt Shirley and Uncle Nunzio; my Uncle Mario, Aunt Lorraine. To my Uncle Mike, my Aunt Rita, Uncle Jerry. I could write a book on each of you that would change the world for better. And to all my aunts and uncles who have passed on—there are many. You are my mothers and fathers. You have taught me who I am. To my nephew and niece, Timothy and Mikayla for showing me magic again. To my coworkers at Weed Library for being my family. For Lorraine Castelluccio who insisted I get my book out there. For Renu Sharma, my cover artist; your success inspired me. To Steve Zampino and Ricci Rondinelli for your gracious guidance. To Hernan Restrepo for helping me claim my space as an artist.
This is what we proclaim to you:
what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes. 1 John 1:1
1: Sweeper
2: Stori
3: Priscilla
4: Stori
5: Priscilla
6: Stori
7: Priscilla
8: Anna
9: Sweeper
10: Stori
11: Priscilla
12: Stori
13: Joe
14: Priscilla
15: Stori
16: Priscilla
17: Stori
18: Bilhah
19: Stori
20: Priscilla
21: Joe
22: Stori
23: Frank
24: Sweeper
25: Soldier Sonny
26: Stori
27: Priscilla
28: Stori
29: Priscilla
30: Stori
31: Bilhah
32: Tony Carp
33: Stori
Lone
1: Sweeper
The boy sits reading by the fireplace. Stone quiet, he stays this way for quite some time. I watch him from the shadows, waiting for him to put the book down and rise. But he is lost inside those pages. Far far away from this world, in another place and time. Ah, the magic a child can bring to the art of reading. If I try my hardest, I might just remember what it’s like. But even if I wanted to remember, I couldn’t. For I’ve sold my soul to the Brotherhood. My life and my memories and my magic belong to them now.
The front door groans open and a tall man is ushered in by a gust of wind. Outside snow is coming down hard and a dusting of snowflakes sweeps into the entryway. The man leans his weight against the door as he shuts out the storm. He stands there for a stiff moment, wary of the intrusiveness of his snow-caked work boots. When he spots the boy on the far side of the room he calls out to him in a hushed voice. “Benjamin.”
At last Benjamin startles. When he sees the man his face breaks open with delight. In an effort to keep his page he lets the book close over his thumb and flies over to the man with open arms.
Ah, the love between father and son. I can remember that one too if I try. I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, but sometimes I do it, even though I’m not supposed to. If the Brotherhood found out they would surely have me killed.
His father lifts him to himself, only to set him back down and stiffen again, his face realigning into harsh utilitarian lines. I note from his grimy clothes and exhausted eyes that he’s a laborer of some sort and although we are in the Italian slums of the Valley, he looks to be some kind of Eastern European.
Mr. Galafortuna shuffles over with a welcoming grin. “Mr. Bak. Don’t be shy. Please come in.” Mr. Galafortuna is a short, plump man in his late seventies with a youthful, lilting voice.
The boy holds out his book and says, “Tato, Tato, look!”
“What is it Benjamin?” the father responds wearily.
Mr. Galafortuna is more curious than the father, for he cranes his neck to take a look. “Benjamin. What is it you’ve found?”
I take this opportunity to dart from behind the shelf of paperback biographies to the turning rack of comics and then over to a tall shelf that is conveniently situated by the front door. Mr. Galafortuna’s book shop is older than he is and the floorboards creak in some places, so I have to take special care of my footing. If Mr. Galafortuna spots me, he will surely question my presence in his establishment. I used to read a lot. But ever since I joined the Brotherhood, I don’t have the time or interest to bother with books anymore.
“Ah yes,” Mr. Galafortuna says. “The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. A magical one indeed.”
I pull a book out of its place to create a peep hole. The business of Snatching is a bothersome waiting game and if I can help it I like to keep myself entertained.
Mr. Galafortuna smiles down on the young boy. “Would you like to take it home with you?”
Benjamin nods eagerly. “Yes, please.”
“No,” the father interjects. “He leaves it here.”
“But he’s nearly finished!” Mr. Galafortuna insists.
“He’ll come back tomorrow.”
“The story can’t wait.”
Mr. Bak wavers and then at last, the confession comes. “I don’t have the money to pay.”
Mr. Galafortuna makes a face. He puts a hand on Benjamin’s head and gazes regretfully at the book. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Bak., but I’d like the boy to have it. It’s on me.”
“Oh, please, Tato,” Benjamin pleads. “Please.”
Mr. Bak finally rests his eyes on his son and the harsh lines are gone.
If I’m going to feel bad for what I’m about to do, I guess I should start now. But nothing comes. It’s been a while since I’ve felt guilty about anything. Ever since I signed my life over to the Brotherhood I don’t have to worry about regret anymore.
“Very good,” Mr. Galafortuna says, beaming. “Please come to the register and I’ll get you a bag for the way home. They said a storm was coming. Said it will last all night.”
After they complete their moneyless transaction with Mr. Galafortuna and wave goodbye as they make their way out into the blustery night, I wait for the old man to turn his back to me. When oppo
rtunity arises, I dart from behind the shelf and steal out the door after my precious Ben.
*****************************
The next afternoon at Sunny Days Elementary, I, Samuel Sampel, aka the Sweeper, am equipped with a face to forget and a janitor’s broom. I whistle a pleasant melody as I make my way along the busy corridor. Children are screaming and throwing things and slamming locker doors shut as they gather their belongings in a rush and head out for the buses.
But the boy Benjamin is not among them. I find him in the darkness of the small theatre working on a contemporary piece with his dance instructor. I gaze down on him from the back row. Upon the stage, he moves with Lady Gaga’s “Applause.” His body is lithe and his movements are effortless. He has everything that makes a great dancer: control, power and the ability to completely let go. But the music overwhelms him or maybe he senses an extra set of eyes on him. Whatever the reason he leaps too far and falls.
The teacher steps to the stereo and turns the music off. “You’re not concentrating,” she tells him sternly. “You have to start focusing, Benjamin.”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Dax.”
“Tell me. What are you thinking?”
“Edward.”
“Edward who?”
“Tulane. He fell overboard and Abilene, the one who really loves him with all her heart, needs to get him back.”
After a few false starts it finally dawns on her that he’s not talking about an actual person. “Your books can wait,” she says tersely. “The All State Competition is in two weeks. Don’t you want to win and make me and Principal Victor proud?”
“Yes,” he answers dutifully and full of apology.
“Maybe it will help if you repeated our city’s Declaration. I myself have found it quite freeing when I’ve been encumbered by unwanted worries. Go ahead. Say it.”
Ben gets up and stares out into the empty seats. He squares his shoulders and positions his head with a slight tilt to the right. “Future Forward. Free From the Past.” He looks at her hopefully. “I am ready. To try again.”
Mrs. Dax is pleased. She puts the music back on and taps her foot to the rhythm as Benjamin works his magic.
Watching him move in all his brilliance I know he is the one. Not only have I found an avid reader, (which is what the Brotherhood is greatly lacking) but I have happened upon one gifted at dance as well. Ah, my masters will be proud. I’ve found a diamond in the rough for sure.
When he’s done the teacher congratulates him and reminds him of his overnight assignments. I can tell she has great hopes for him and has invested much time into his progress.
Little does she know she will never see him again.
The halls are empty now, devoid of the screaming children running wild. The emptiness they left behind is a stark contrast to the echoing madness that ushered it in. Their madness still rings in my ears as I trail behind Ben. I have made little mounds of debris along the edges of the corridor. Paper and dust and dirt, mostly. You cannot believe how much paper and dust and dirt exists in this world. By this hour tomorrow there will be the same amount for me to sweep into neat little mounds.
He halts to take a book out of his backpack. He opens it, flipping through the pages to find his place. When he finds it he starts walking again. I follow him toward the science labs where he stops at his locker, I presume. He doesn’t open it right away. Once again, the story has him entranced.
I drop the broom and it claps hard against the linoleum. He looks up, startled. “Oh,” he says, closing the book. “You scared me.”
“Damn broom,” I complain. I reach down for it. But then I jerk my torso upright and seize my lower back. “Ouch! My back!” I am quite the performance artist myself.
“Are you alright?” the boy asks.
“Don’t ever get old,” I warn him, maintaining my stiffness.
“Here. I’ll help you.” He hurries over, takes the broom in his one free hand and holds it out to me.
When his heavily lashed eyes meet mine I no longer have a face to forget, but have bared the other side of me. The side that no longer sees the boy as human.
He goes white with terror. He’s still holding out the broom, but the book falls. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane.
There is nothing left to do but snatch him. A hand over his mouth, an arm enclosing his body, I drag him from the hall and stuff us both away in the passage from which I came—the broom closet.
Oh the sweet rush of triumph that comes from taking a child without asking. What does it feel like, you wonder? It feels like all the memories I wish to blot out are finally no more. A slate has been wiped clean.
I have forever known life as a series of aimless wanderings burdened by the weight of unfulfilled dreams and unanswered prayers.
But not with the child under arm.
When I steal the child I am no longer forsaken.
Inside the broom closet, I switch on the light and kick an empty paint can aside. I move to the back where a life size poster of Tony the Tiger giving a thumbs up to a bowl of Frosted Flakes covers most of the wall. I pull the tape up from the bottom corners. The boy kicks wildly. But he is no match for the strength of a Hound. I only need one arm to restrain him.
Behind Tony and his cereal is a door. It is not a magic door. It was installed by the underground construction workers, the ones most citizens of Redemption know nothing about. I fumble in my pocket for the key. I slip it into the keyhole. The door unlocks. I jam the key back into my pocket and open the door.
“Say goodbye,” I tell him. “Say goodbye to the light.”
2: Stori
“Give him back, Richie!”
Richie’s lapdogs have me by both arms as I fight to break free. Richie flails the papers in my face and says, “Watcha got there, Sullen?”
“You’re gonna be sorry,” I threaten.
Richie strokes his imaginary beard and reads, “Missing. Frank Putzarella. Five hundred dollar reward.” He laughs, his breath fogging the air. “Man. Your dad’s dead. He’s a wackadoo.”
Everybody’s saying he’s dead. Even my own mother. But I’ve got this gut feeling that he’s alive and he’s out there somewhere. That he’s suffering something awful and he wants to come home.
“And you’re a coward,” I fire back. “Say it again, with my hands free.”
“I ain’t scared of you.”
“Prove it.”
His face loses some of its resolve. He grits his teeth in resentment. “I saw him smack you once in front of the whole neighborhood. Don’t deny it. Like you got a daddy better than the rest of us?”
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t the best dad a girl could have; maybe he ignored me sometimes, maybe he even hated me. But none of that matters. He’s the head of my family and a family will fall to ruins without its head. “You mark my words, Richie Ramera. I’m going to find my father. I’m going to get him home.”
“Good luck with that.” He tosses my papers in the air and skips off down the street. He blows a sharp whistle and his pathetic dogs release me. I can land a shot on one of them for sure. But revenge will wait for now. I’ve got to get those flyers.
It’s a gloomy night and even though it feels to be about 20 degrees, I swear I just heard thunder. After I snatch my last runaway flyer from the cobblestone street I continue my march down Kindred. The wind howls from inside an alley and my spine shudders. I’m trying to focus on the task at hand, but Richie got me all shook up. It doesn’t help much that every block or so a little helpless face stares out at me from behind the plate glass of a storefront. They’re like sad ghosts. Someone kidnapped them and none of them have been found. I try not to look into their eyes. Those kids are somebody else’s problem. Not mine.
Many of the shops are still and dark. But the lights to Funicelli’s Shoe Shop are still on. Mr. Funicelli’s at his workbench, tapping his slender hammer on the heel of a leather shoe.
Bells chime at my entrance. Mr. Funicelli glances up, but goes right
back to work. “Good evening, Miss Putzarella,” he calls over his tapping.
“Hi Mr. Funicelli. Sorry to bother you. But I thought maybe I could put up my dad’s picture in your window. Next to that kid.”
He pauses his work and grimaces. Removing his glasses he looks at me earnestly. “Why would you even ask?”
“Sorry, Mr. Funicelli.” I take out my masking tape and rip off a piece between my teeth. Up you go, Daddy. Up you go. But don’t worry. It’s not for long.
“Your father was a good man,” Mr. Funicelli reflects nostalgically.
“He still is.”
“He was proud to be a mason, as his father before him. It’s the only way we survive, Stori. Honoring what went before us. Why, do you even know how long I’ve been in business?”
Like every other store or restaurant in the Valley, this place has been in business since the late 1800s. So I tell him.
“That’s after immigration. But before that, my father’s father’s father and so on custom made all the shoes for Pontius Pilate and his wife. Why with this very hammer and lath.”
If Mr. Funicelli ever had aspirations for a more glamorous vocation he’s never once alluded to it. I’m not sure if I should feel sorry for him.
It’s like he can read my mind for he says, “There’s no other job out there that would make me happier. It’s an honor to do it.” He waves his ancient hammer at me. “Change is for the rest of Redemption, Miss Putzarella. But not here. ”
I work my way down a good portion of side streets, taping him to any piece of dry wood, glass or stone I can find, and return to the cobblestone where I began. This is the main artery of the Valley and the street I grew up on—Kindred Street. Most of the apartments sit atop Mom and Pop shops below. The buildings are huddled close to one another and fire escapes serve as front porches.
There was a heavy snow storm last week and some of the cars are still snowed in, their owners too lazy to clean them. The sky rumbles. Halting in the middle of the street I gaze a charcoal cloud closing over the rooftops. A thunderstorm would be odd this time of year but lately the weather has been quite unpredictable.
The Book, the Key and the Crown (Secrets of the Emerald Tablet Book 1) Page 1
