by Scott Mebus
“One thing at a time, Bridget,” Rory said. “We have to deal with the Trap before we worry about strange princesses and old secrets.”
“Come on, Rory,” Bridget said, clearly not convinced. “Don’t you know that in every story, princesses always end up being pretty important?”
An hour had passed, and Rory lay on his bed, waiting for his mother to fall asleep in the next room. His eyes fluttered, heavy after the long day. Before he knew it, they drifted shut and he fell into a fitful slumber.
He knew it was a dream because he was flying. The city below was dark. The blackout covered all of Manhattan, as if someone had put the island in a closet and shut the door. Rory sailed forward over the shadowed city toward Inwood Hill Park, heading for the ancient trees. The bridge to the mainland was a dark shape against the sky, with small lights like fireflies running along the top; headlights, Rory realized, from the cars crossing the river. He dipped down toward the hill, which was covered in thick forest. The trees were old, far older than anything else on the island. Rory felt like an intruder as he soared up to them, dipping down to slip under the branches and into the forest.
Rory darted between the twisted branches deeper into the woods. Bursting into a clearing, he sailed over Wampage’s camp with its round pit of white wampum glowing softly, and he thought for a moment that this was his destination, but he did not slow. Instead he continued on until he reached a small stream. Dogs, many dogs, gathered upon the bank of the water and they barked as he flew into view. Floating in the middle of the stream was a canoe, heavily laden with supplies as if for a long journey, and standing knee-deep in the water beside the boat, holding it steady, waited Wampage. He glanced up and smiled at Rory floating above.
“I am glad you could come,” he said. “I wished to say good-bye before I left and this was the only way I could accomplish that.”
“Where are you going?” Rory asked, worried.
Wampage pointed down the stream, which disappeared around the bend.
“This stream empties into the river, which empties into the ocean that leads into the mist. Long ago, when my people alone walked Mannahatta, we were ruled by Kishelamakank, the first Sachem. When the newcomers arrived from over the sea, there was a struggle over Mannahatta. For the longest time, we were winning and the newcomers were fading. But they somehow found a way to get the land to accept them as it had long ago accepted my people. Once this happened, everything changed as the balance of power shifted. The mortal Munsees were driven out by your ancestors, until none remained. Soon, many of the Munsee gods passed on without a mortal people to strengthen them, until only the oldest and newest endured. The newest swore to stay, even after our people had left. But the oldest had no stomach for it. One after another, they left us, until only Kishelamakank, the greatest of us, remained. One day, he called us all together, and declared that he could no longer fight. He was old and weary of the struggle. He passed on his mantle to Penhawitz, who had only recently gained his godhood. Then our oldest, greatest leader took to his canoe and paddled out into the mist, never to be seen again.
“Not too long after, my people fell for the great Trap, which only I escaped, and now here we are. This quaking of the earth today, it will not be the last of the terrors to strike our island if we do not bring down the Trap. Something else comes, something that will blow us all apart. But we cannot tear down the Trap, not yet. Not while our two peoples are still so far apart. We must bring them together, you and I, or you will be faced with a choice that will hurt us all either way.”
“But how do we do that?” Rory asked.
“I must find Kishelamakank. I am lost and he will help me find my way. You . . . you have already started down your path, though you might not realize it. But you are not alone. Trust in your sister, and in your friends. And I see glimpses from your memories that you learned how useful a spirit dog can be; he senses the danger surrounding you and grows accordingly. He is your spirit guide, and that is partly how he protects you.”
“Don’t go, Wampage,” Rory begged, one last time. Wampage gave him a look of infinite compassion before climbing into the canoe.
“The dogs will remain here, until I come back,” he said. “They will protect the Sachem’s belt until you need it. I will return soon. Good-bye, Rory.”
Wampage waved once and pushed off down the stream. His paddle dipped into one side, then the other, as his boat gathered speed. The dogs let out a cacophony of howling as their master paddled away from them and Rory wanted to join in. The canoe disappeared around the bend into the darkness and Wampage was gone.
Rory floated back up into the air, rising out of the trees of Inwood Hill Park. He began to float back toward his body, but he felt a tugging at his chest, pulling him downtown. Following the feeling south, he soared over the darkened city, darting around the tall black buildings with airy ease. He approached Central Park, which shone blue as he neared it. With a gasp he hit the barrier, and pressure bore down on him as he passed through. Sighing with relief he burst out the other side and quickly flew into the center of the park, where a familiar form sat cross-legged around a fire.
“Soka!” he cried. The young girl looked up at him, her eyes heavy and tired.
“I do not have much time and it takes all of my will to call you like this,” Soka said quckly. “So listen carefully. I have looked into this Olathe from the necklace, and it is very interesting what I found! My mother was not the only one who remembered the poor girl; many knew her story, though not how it ended. But the truly fascinating thing I learned was who she used to be before she married Buckongahelas . . .”
Suddenly Soka began to choke. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her hand clutching frantically at her throat. She bent over, as if she were trying to throw up, and then looked up in a panic. Rory was shocked to see something forcing its way out of her mouth, something covered in scales. It was a snake, forked tongue flicking lazily about. With a slither the snake burst free, flying through the air toward Rory’s neck, its venom-drenched fangs bared. He screamed, willing himself away from this horrible nightmare before it could suck him dry . . .
Rory woke up with a whimper, sitting straight up. The apartment was quiet and dark. He collapsed back into his bed, sweat covering him, overwhelmed by his dream that wasn’t a dream. Not only was Wampage gone, but Soka had been silenced by that reptile before she could tell him Olathe’s identity. He hoped she was all right. Fritz would send in a rat to check up on her, he reassured himself. He would never forgive himself if Soka was harmed because of him. He shuddered. The image of that snake straining to sink its fangs into his neck would not fade. He wanted to crawl into bed with his mother and let her chase away the nightmare like she used to do when he was small. But people depended on him now, and he couldn’t hide from that. His heart continued to pound in his ears as he forced himself upright and readied himself to face the night.
6
THE DYCKMAN HOUSE
With Tucket in tow, Rory and Bridget hurried down a deserted Broadway toward Dyckman Street, past the dark storefronts that lined the usually busy main drag. The occasional police car passed by, slowly traveling down the shadowed street, but the sidewalks were empty. In the distance, Rory could hear the sounds of some of the younger inhabitants of Inwood throwing a blackout party. But the revelers were far from Broadway and Dyckman.
Rory was still shaken by his dream of the snake, but it soothed his fears to think that soon he’d be among friends. Up ahead he spied their destination: the Dyckman farmhouse. One of the oldest buildings in New York, the farmhouse had been a fixture of the Hennessys’ childhoods. Set up on a hill overlooking Broadway, the old wooden-frame house seemed almost like a mirage, frozen in time amid the rising apartment buildings of modern New York. As they were growing up, their mother used to tell Rory and Bridget ghost stories about the place, about how the spirits of old man Dyckman and his wife still haunted the rooms and grounds of the house, stomping about in anger at how
the rest of their once-sprawling farm had been overtaken by buildings and pavement and cars and people. Rory had always dismissed these tales as superstition. He snorted; he was the one eating his words now.
Tonight, the old house was ablaze with light, in direct contrast to the dark neighborhood around it. Lanterns hung outside the front door and flickering yellow hues shimmering in the window spoke of a blazing fire within. The house called to Rory, so warm and cozy, like a tiny cottage in the middle of the forest. He and Bridget had met the Rattle Watch here twice during the past month to discuss their progess in discovering a way to topple Kieft and free the Munsees; he had been sorry to leave both times.
They climbed the stairs up the hill to the house, whose front door was already opening. Mr. Dyckman stood there, nodding at him grimly.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “The rest of them are around the fire.”
“Thanks,” Rory said as they followed Dyckman inside, nodding politely to Mrs. Dyckman, who stood tensely nearby. Old friends of Nicholas Stuyvesant and his father, the owners of the house were normally quite welcoming and talkative, but tonight they looked pensive. The couple stayed by the door to keep watch for unwanted company as Rory and Bridget stepped into the living room, where around the crackling fire sat the only people Rory ever considered calling friends: the Rattle Watch.
Nicholas Stuyvesant, leader of the watch, stood up to greet them with a smile. The lanky boy appeared to be no more than eighteen, but Rory knew he was, in fact, over four hundred years old. Seated beside Nicholas was Alexa van der Donck, who gave them a tired grin. A hard worker, she didn’t have Nicholas’s flash, but she was smart, brave, and steady as a rock. Across from her, Lincoln Douglass bounded up from his seat to say hello, shaking Rory’s hand vigorously. The son of Frederick Douglass, God of Freedom, Lincoln always seemed to be in motion, hopping up and down through the world like a pogo stick. A languid wave fom the seated final member of the Rattle Watch, Simon Astor, was all the Hennessy children could hope for from the lazy boy. The hapless son of the exiled God of Excess, John Jacob Astor, was wearing an inhumanly loud pink-and-yellow shirt; he probably didn’t want to mess up the effect by moving.
There were happy greetings all around as the Rattle Watch welcomed Rory and Bridget. The Hennessy kids had been made members of the watch following their last adventure. But aside from those two times they had all met in this farmhouse, the watch had disappeared from the Hennessys’ lives. At first Rory resented their absence, but soon he came to realize they were protecting him. Kieft still didn’t know who he was, but the First Adviser knew Nicholas, Alexa, Lincoln, and Simon. Even this little excursion was a risk, but some things were worth the danger.
As the welcomes wound down, Fritz rode into the room on the back of Clarence, his rat, followed by Hans and Sergeant Kiffer.
“Was anyone followed?” he asked brusquely.
“I was!” Simon replied, raising his hand with a smirk. “I swear this one bee would not leave me alone the whole way up here. So annoying.”
“It probably thought you were some strange new flower and couldn’t wait to pollinate,” Alexa said, nodding slyly at his crazy shirt. Simon stuck his tongue out at her as Nicholas and Lincoln snorted. Fritz gave all of them a stern look.
“This isn’t a joke,” he said. “Kieft is right on our tail. He’s practically knocking at the door.”
“He’s all over these days,” Nicholas said. “I mean, I don’t think all this talk about the Munsees breaking free and killing everyone came from nowhere.”
“We heard that, too!” Lincoln cried. “They even think the assassin was a Munsee!”
“Then who stabbed me in the hand—my mother?” Simon asked wryly, lifting the recently healed appendage that had been so brutally run through by the traitor Albert Fish.
“It doesn’t matter,” Fritz replied. “It’s a better story, and frightening enough to be taken seriously whether everyone believes it or not.”
“So what do we do?” Hans asked.
“Well, one name did come up today,” Nicholas said, glancing at Alexa. “Harry Meester. Mean anything to anyone?”
“It tugs at me, but I just can’t place it,” Alexa admitted. Rory frowned. Where had he heard that name? Thankfully, his sister had a better memory than he did; Bridget was hopping up and down with excitement, waving her hand in the air. “I know! I know! He’s the guy who shot Bucky!”
Rory whistled. Of course . . . The Rattle Watch, however, gave Bridget an assortment of confused looks. “What are you talking about?” Fritz asked.
Rory jumped in, explaining about the necklace and the story it contained. He pulled it out and everyone took a good look at the wampum.
“We should all take turns putting this on before we leave tonight,” Nicholas said to the rest of the Rattle Watch.
“I wonder what Olathe’s name used to be,” Alexa said, her eyes distant. “I wonder if I knew her.”
“Soka almost told me,” Rory said. He told them about his dream. Fritz pursed his lips.
“I’ll send someone in to make sure your friend Soka is all right,” he said. “Maybe she can tell him Olathe’s original identity.”
“Finding this broad is not going to make everyone suddenly like the Munsees again, will it?” Sergeant Kiffer opined. “Sounds more like a wild-goose chase to me.”
“Hey, watch it peahead . . .” Bridget began, indignant.
“Let’s focus here,” Nicholas put in, cutting off the argument before it could begin. “We can’t go around making everyone love the Munsees overnight. And the mortals may be able to enter the park, but the rest of us can’t, so searching for Olathe is just too dangerous. But if the name Harry Meester keeps popping up, maybe there really is something he can tell us that might change things. We need to find out what it is. Which means finding Harry Meester. Agreed?”
A tinkling crash came from the direction of the door. If sounded as if someone had dropped something. They all froze at the sound, nerves on edge.
“Mr. Dyckman? Mrs. Dyckman?” Nicholas called. “Are you all right?”
No one answered. Tucket began to growl as the watch warily rose to their feet. Fritz turned to Rory.
“If anything happens, you run. Both of you,” he quietly ordered the Hennessys. “No being a hero. Got it?”
Rory reluctantly nodded as he stepped in front of Bridget, giving her a look to let her know that if she didn’t follow orders he’d throw her out the window himself. She gave him her best annoyed “all right!” face and stayed behind him. Tucket stepped forward, teeth bared. The dog was noticeably larger now, the sight of which made Rory’s stomach drop. Something was coming . . .
“Okay, everyone, be ready for anything,” Nicholas whispered. “The important thing is to stay together—”
His order was cut off suddenly by a whistle through the air, followed by a thud. Nicholas stared down in shock at the rusty cleaver sticking out of his stomach. Unable to speak, his eyes widened in pain as he fell to the ground.
For a moment they all stood frozen at the sight of their wounded leader. Then Bridget screamed, breaking the silence.
“Scatter!” Fritz shouted, and the Rattle Watch ran for cover just as the windows exploded and blue-jacketed men burst into the room.
“Hessians!” Alexa cried, and Rory’s stomach rolled with fear. The Hessians were German soldiers hired by the British to fight in the Revolution. A band of them still lived in Inwood, in a camp down by the Harlem River, where they’d been stationed during the war. Rory had always made certain to avoid them, but there was nowhere to hide now.
“Run!” Fritz shouted up at Rory before urging Clarence into the fray. Rory backed into a corner, frozen, as the Hessians struggled with his friends. Lincoln, fearless, wasted no time fighting back, wrestling with a determined soldier trying to spear him with a bayonet. The long knife was affixed to the barrel of a musket. Rory wondered why the Hessians weren’t shooting. But then one of them took aim directl
y at him and fired. Rory closed his eyes, certain that his number was up.
But no flash of pain hit him and he opened his eyes. Feathers floated through the air and he realized that the musket ball had hit a pillow on the seat beside him. Of course! Now he remembered his history teacher teaching the class about how unreliable a musket’s aim could be. No wonder they stuck knives on the end.
Rory glanced around to check on Bridget. To his surprise she was already pulling herself through the window. She quickly dropped out of sight. He didn’t know what to make of his sister’s quick exit; she never ran from a fight. Oh well, at least she was safely on her way home. He heard a growl and turned back to the action to see what was happening.
Tucket had launched himself at a group of Hessians, snapping at them with his great jaws. He’d grown to three times his size so far, and the Hessians seemed shaken by the sight of this huge beast. They tried to stab at the dog, but Tucket simply grabbed the guns out of their hands with his mouth and bit them in two. Rory was impressed; that was one badass puppy.
The falling feathers were making it hard to see; Rory could barely make out the flashes of Hessian blue through the downy white as the intruders struggled with his friends. One of them trapped Alexa in the corner, raising his bayonet to stab her. Rory could stand by no longer; with a yell he launched through the feather-filled air and landed on the Hessian’s back. The force of the impact threw off the Hessian’s aim, sending the bayonet deep into the wall to Alexa’s right. The soldier struggled to free his weapon, giving Alexa just enough time to grab a fireplace iron and whack him into oblivion. She turned to Rory, who waited for the inevitable grateful thanks.
“What are you still doing here?” she scolded him instead. “Run!”
Rory glanced around, frozen with indecision. Tucket was keeping a group of terrified attackers at bay across the room. Lincoln’s leg was bleeding profusely, but he fought on with a stolen bayonet, slashing at a pair of Hessians. Fritz was riding to and fro, tossing firecrackers at the Hessians’ feet to disable them. Hans and Kiffer were at his side. Simon had ripped off part of his gaudy shirt and wrapped it around Nicholas’s stomach, in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. Rory had to stifle a cry as blotches of red seeped into the yellow and pink. Alexa grabbed Rory by the arm and led him to the ruined window.
