by Scott Mebus
They reached the tree line; Seneca lay just ahead. Hans decided to stay out of sight; no reason for attracting undue attention. Once he was well situated in Bridget’s pocket, they stepped out of the trees and Bridget caught her first glimpse of Seneca Village.
The small town was nestled under a tall mound of stone Soka referred to as Summit Rock. Well-kept clapboard houses lined a few dirt streets, one of which contained a group of children playing some kind of stickball. She could see small plots of land behind the houses where crops were laid out in neat rows, while small pens held pigs, goats, and chickens. The town was bustling as it awoke, with people out and about bidding good morning to their neighbors as they went about their errands. Bridget spied people of many different nationalities and races, and everyone seemed on friendly terms. A bell rang from the steeple of a church in the center of the small town. All in all, it seemed like a nice place to live.
A small commotion on the porch of a house nearby alerted them that they had been noticed. A tall black man in a smart, old-fashioned suit and wide-brimmed hat waved at them, smiling widely.
“Soka! Mighty good to see you! It’s been a long time!”
“Yes, it has, Mayor Williams,” Soka replied, a little of the sparkle returning to her eyes at the warmth of her welcome as she led them to meet the mayor. “Bridget, this is Mayor Williams.”
“You can call me Andy,” Mayor Williams replied, shaking Bridget’s hand briskly. He laughed as Tucket tried to jump up on him, and gave the great dog a brisk pat on the head. “This brute is a high-spirited pup, ain’t he. Is this your dog, Bridget?”
“I guess,” Bridget replied. “His name is Tucket.”
“Strong name for a strong dog,” Mayor Williams said. “Are you here to trade, Soka? We’ve gotten some goods from the soldiers at Fort Clinton just last week, if you want to take a gander.”
“Actually, we’re looking for information,” Soka said as Mayor Williams walked them toward the center of town. People watched as they passed, but they didn’t seem overly interested. They obviously had visitors here all the time. “I’m looking for a woman who passed through here about a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“My word!” Mayor Williams cocked his head. “You don’t mess around. That’s quite some time ago.”
“Her name was Abigail!” Bridget jumped in. “Or Olathe. Do you remember her?”
Mayor Williams’s eyes suddenly went blank and he looked away. “Why, no. Sorry, I never heard of her.”
Soka and Bridget exchanged glances. Something strange was going on here.
“Really?” Bridget said. “Because you sure do look like you remember something.”
“Sorry,” Mayor Williams said, still not looking at them. “It was quite some time ago.”
“Mayor Williams, you are acting odd,” Soka said. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Mayor Williams replied, making a big show of shaking his head. “Just sorry I couldn’t help you.”
“Andy,” Bridget said, her voice dripping with camaraderie as she lightly punched him in the arm. “Andy, Andy, Andy. Come on, it’s us. Your old friend Soka and your new, bestest friend, Bridget. You can tell us anything.”
“I’m telling you everthing I know,” Mayor Williams said. He turned to an old woman sewing on the porch nearby. “Georgia? Ever heard of a lady called Abigail? Or Olathe, for that matter?”
“No, sir,” Georgia replied promptly, then went back to her yarn. Mayor Williams turned to others passing by and asked them the same question; they all quickly answered no, as if they’d been rehearsed.
“I’m sorry,” Mayor Williams said finally. “We just don’t remember her.”
“I certainly can see that,” Soka replied sarcastically.
“Well, good luck to you, Soka,” Mayor Williams said, turning away. “It’s time for church, so I will have to take my leave. Enjoy the rest of this fine morning!”
He hurried off, joining the group of villagers making their way down the street. Most of them poured into a large church in the center of town, the source of the tolling bell, but some made their way into another, simpler church next door, while the rest crossed the street to yet a third church.
“That’s a lot of churches,” Bridget observed. “You’d think they’d be too Goody Two-shoes to lie.”
“What was with him, anyway?” Hans asked, popping out of Bridget’s pocket.
“He’s trying to protect a friend,” someone said behind them. They spun around and came face-to-face with the most handsome teenager Bridget had ever seen. If this guy were on the Disney Channel, he’d be up on my wall, she thought. He had dusky skin, curly hair, and blue, almond-shaped eyes. He was the very definition of the word hunk, and the way he stood there, so cocky and sure of himself, Bridget could tell he knew it. Beside her, Soka shifted nervously, suddenly unsure of herself.
“How do you know?” Bridget asked the boy, since Soka didn’t seem capable of talking.
“Because I was there when he and the whole town promised to your uncle Penhawitz not to tell anyone about Olathe or that he was searching for her,” he said.
“Penhawitz is behind this?” Soka asked. “I didn’t know he was looking for Olathe.”
“Well, he and Mayor Andy are old friends,” the boy said, smiling at Soka. “He used to come around here all the time. Once, a few decades back, he beat off a crazed mastodon who was terrorizing the town and they’ve been grateful ever since.”
“What’s a mastodon?” Bridget asked, her imagination running wild.
“Giant elephant with huge tusks,” the boy told her. “They mostly stay up on the Great Hill, where they live, but sometimes an avalanche or the like will send them stampeding into more civilized lands.”
“Awesome!” Bridget said, hoping she’d get to see a mastodon someday.
“Anyway, when Penhawitz showed up a little over a year ago,” the boy continued, “Seneca Village was more than happy to cover his tracks. I guess he was afraid of who might come looking for him.”
“But I’m his niece!” Soka protested.
“No one was to know,” the boy said, shrugging. “Sorry.”
“So why are you telling us this?” Soka asked. “Aren’t you breaking your promise, Mr. . . . ?”
“Finn Lee,” the boy said, inclining his head. “Blame my grandfather. He saw the commotion from his window, and once he heard your name and who you were looking for, he sent me to invite you to meet him. Come on, he’ll explain everything.”
Finn led them to his house, a small shack the size of Bridget’s apartment. Inside, the shack was darkened by the closed shutters, with only small slices of light cutting up the shadows. The place reminded Bridget of an old antiques store, and not the upscale kind. Furs hung on the walls, lanterns lay in a heap on the floor, and old muskets were piled up in the corner. Beside a rickety old table, an old man sat in an overstuffed chair. He wheezed as he watched the two girls with the dog step into his house. His grandson rushed to his side, but the old man waved him off.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he muttered in a thick French accent. “Leave me be, boy. So you’re Soka. I’ve heard a lot about you from your uncle. And who is your companion?”
“Hello, sir,” Bridget said, bowing extravagantly. “My name is Bridget and that is my dog, Tucket. Don’t worry, he’s house-trained. Or at least, he was in my house. And this . . .”
“What’s that in your pocket?” the old man cried suddenly, his voice cracking. “A foul insect!”
“Wait, wait, don’t panic!” Hans said, pulling off his helmet as he climbed out of Bridget’s pocket. “I’m just a battle roach.”
The old man shuddered. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a thing about insects. No offense, little one.”
“It’s understandable,” Hans replied. “I wig myself out sometimes.”
“Is that everyone?” the man asked, looking around. “Don’t lie to me. I may look broken down, but my eyes are keen. I am merely inj
ured, sorely injured, and I may never recover.”
“That’s not true, Granddad,” Finn assured him, but the old man waved him off.
“I don’t lie to myself, either. The wound I took would have killed most men, so I count myself lucky to have surived at all. Let it not be said that Pierre Duchamp is easily felled!”
“What hurt you?” Bridget asked, fascinated.
“One of the most dangerous of creatures to be found in the high reaches of the Great Hill,” Pierre declared. “The giant squirrel!”
Bridget fought back a giggle. Pierre’s eyes narrowed.
“You think I am lying? You think something as puny as a coyote or bear did this to me? It was a giant squirrel, I swear it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think there were such things as giant squirrels,” Bridget said, fighting down the laughter.
“There is a wealth of such creatures atop the Great Hill! Giant bears and cougars and wolves and spiders and mastodons and snow beetles and, of course, squirrels. It is no laughing matter. It takes great bravery to climb the Great Hill without a dozen warriors at your side.”
“What exactly is going on here, anyway?” Soka asked. “Who are you and where is my uncle?”
“Who am I?” Pierre asked. “In my mortal life, I was a trapper. I came to these shores to hunt for beaver pelts. There wasn’t a beaver who could hear me coming, I promise you this. Nor a human, for that matter! I would come to this city back when it was New Amsterdam, and there were actual animals in the surrounding wilderness to trap. The beavers are all gone now, sadly, but I stayed, and have since called Mannahatta my home. I was visiting McGown’s Tavern up by the pass with some of my fellow trapper spirits when the Great Trap was sprung. I have been stuck here ever since, of course. I came to Seneca, met a beautiful African princess of a woman, and built her this house. She’s where Finn gets his good looks. Well, her and his dad, who was a half-Italian, half-Chinese farmer. Of course he knows it. Don’t shake your head, Finn. You are a good boy, but you are too pretty for your own good. Where was I?”
“You built this house . . .” Finn said, not fazed by his grandfather’s words.
“Yes. And after my wife fell to a sinkhole in the Ravine, I spent most of my days here. A little over a year ago, Penhawitz showed up, searching for poor Olathe’s trail. He didn’t think she was still alive, of course, but he was interested in what secrets Olathe had been seeking. The trail was a hundred and fifty years cold, but that didn’t bother him. He asked around everywhere before I heard what he was looking for and decided to help him. It was the least I could for the memory of that poor girl.”
“You knew Abigail, too?” Bridget asked, leaning in.
“Course I did,” Pierre exclaimed. “Who do you think it was who led her north when she came to Seneca Village looking for a guide in the weeks after the Trap was sprung? I didn’t tell anyone at the time, since why was it their business? She asked for secrecy, just as Penhawitz did a hundred and fifty years later, and I gave it to both of them.”
“Then why are you telling us?” Soka asked.
“Because I know Penhawitz loves you,” the old man said. “He’d want you to know.”
“Where did you take Abigail?” Hans asked.
“North, to the Great Hill. Nasty business, the Great Hill. Steep and wild and covered in snow. Giant animals out for blood behind every rock and up every tree. And the weather! It’d be bright sun one minute and then blizzard the next. A man could get lost forever on that terrible mountain, or eaten alive, or worse. But she wanted to follow someone’s trail—she never did tell me whose—so I led her up the mountain, picked up the trail and followed it to the mouth of a cave. But out of nowhere a fierce blizzard blew up, almost as if someone had left behind some magic to keep people away from that cave and we’d triggered it. I couldn’t see two feet in front of me. Olathe and I became separated in the storm and I couldn’t find her or the cave in the blinding snow. I wandered through the white for hours until the storm passed, and by then I was shocked to discover I was halfway back down the mountain. I tried to retrace my steps to find Olathe, but I could find no trace of her, or that cave. It was as if they both had been erased completely from the mountain. I never saw her again.”
“She survived the storm,” Bridget said, hopping in excitement. “And she saw what was in that cave!”
“How could you possibly know that?” Pierre exclaimed, leaning forward.
Bridget explained about how Abigail had discovered the cave only to be chased by someone across the park, leaving behind her wampum necklace to tell the tale. Pierre’s eyes filled with tears at the story.
“I had hoped, but I never knew . . .” Pierre whispered. “I have to confess, I asked Finn to bring you to me so I could warn you away from following Olathe’s trail. I believed whatever signs remained of her or that cave had been lost long ago. I only agreed to take Penhawitz to the mountain because I felt like I owed the girl one last attempt to find her final resting place. But that ended in this damned injury.”
“Because of the giant squirrel,” Bridget said, still skeptical.
“Don’t mock! I led Penhawitz up that mountain just as I did Olathe so many years before. The trail was long cold, of course, but I remembered certain features, like the dragon rock and the craggly tree. Finn knows, I’ve told him all about it. But I couldn’t find the ruby icefall. It was the last thing I remembered before the blizzard swallowed me up: a wall of red-colored rock covered in a sheet of ice, under which flowed an eternal waterfall. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But I couldn’t find it again. So we were stopped at a fork in the trail, sitting in the snow trying to figure out what to do next, when we were attacked by a vicious giant squirrel. Penhawitz saved me, fighting the animal off before it could eat me whole, but I was sorely injured. He helped me back down the mountain, leaving me at McGown’s Tavern. Then he set off again. And that’s the last time I saw him. I came home to recuperate, though it’s been slow going this past year. And now you’re here.”
“Can you show us the trail on a map?” Soka asked excitedly.
“I could, but I won’t,” Pierre replied firmly. “Even if Olathe truly did survive the blizzard, who says you will? And how will you find her trail when I, one of the best trackers in the park, could not uncover it? No, I will not send two girls out to die.”
“We’re going whether you help us or not,” Bridget said firmly. “She’s too important for us to turn back now.”
“I won’t be a party to putting you in such danger.” He sounded so certain that Bridget’s spirits sank.
“I’ll take them.” Finn stepped forward. “I’ve heard your story enough to know the way up the Great Hill. I’ve been north with you up to its base, many times.”
“You think you can find a trail I couldn’t, boy?” Pierre asked, his eyes flashing.
“Probably not.” Finn smiled at Soka. “But these ladies seem determined. I’d rather be there to help if I could. Such pretty faces need to be protected from harm.”
Soka blushed and Bridget realized that the boy was flirting with her. With Soka! Rory’s almost girlfriend! That just wasn’t right!
“I’m stronger than I look,” she said, stepping between Soka and Finn. “Just give me the directions and we’ll be out of your hair.”
“No, if you must go, then I will send Finn with you,” Pierre decided. “But when you find what I found—nothing—he’ll escort you right off that mountain again. It’s too dangerous up there to linger in a vain hope to find what I know is gone forever.”
“Thank you for this, Finn,” Soka said, her eyes smiling for the first time since Askook had stepped out of the trees by the fountain. Finn grinned right back and Bridget gritted her teeth. Rory was off saving the world and there was no one to look after his almost girlfriend. Bridget would have to make sure this pretty boy didn’t steal Soka’s heart. Sensing Bridget’s mood, Tucket growled at Finn, who took a step back from the bristling animal.
Bridget gave the dog a pat.
“Good boy. Hold that thought.”
19
INTO THE MIST
Sly Jimmy had come up in the world. He adjusted his top hat and spun his shiny new knife in his hand. Ever since he’d hooked up with Boss Tweed, life had been gravy. Tweed had first come to Jimmy about sending his gang, the B’wry Boys, out on little missions of mayhem. Dressed as Indians, they laid waste to all kinds of places across the island: taverns and houses and shops and the like. They were a regular Munsee crime wave. Jimmy didn’t know why Tweed wanted people to think Indians were busting up stuff, but so long as Jimmy and his boys were paid, they were glad to slather on the war paint and whoop it up all over town.
The other talent Jimmy possessed besides a knack for mischief was a sense for who was in charge. Boss Tweed was the most powerful god on the streets, sending his boys out on crime sprees while putting on a veneer of respectability with his place on the Council of Twelve. God of Rabble Politics, he called himself. More like the God of Two Faces. Jimmy had been a smart cookie to hitch his wagon to the ambitious god, and so far it had paid dividends, and how. Just a month earlier he’d been hanging out on street corners looking to mug passing strangers. Now he was summoned to the boss’s office for a very special meeting all by himself, without his boys. This could only mean big things. He smiled to himself. Really big things.
Sly Jimmy easily navigated the back alleys of Five Points, heading toward Tweed’s office. The most crime-ridden slum of the nineteenth century, Five Points had long ago been paved over and made respectable. But hidden in the alleys and side streets of the new neighborhood lay the dives and dens of old gang-infested New York. If a fellow wasn’t careful, he’d have his throat slit before he could say Jack Robinson. Jimmy spun the knife in his hand, not too worried; he was a careful sort of fellow.
