Secret Breakers Power of Three

by H. L. Dennis

  she who is wrongly considered to fly lower than the rightful dragon.

  Search 1st on the dawning of the 25th.

  Such a task requires 14 from the one the world rejected.

  Professor Arthur Van der Essen.

  ‘And there’s a number fourteen too,’ said Brodie looking at her notebook where she’d copied the digits into capitals. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘No idea at all,’ Smithies said apologetically. ‘Really no idea at all. We’re in this together now. Your idea’s as valid as mine. Your idea’s as needed as mine. We need you to think sideways, upside down, inside out,’ he urged. Brodie thought back to the contorted positions Tusia managed to make while she exercised. ‘Nothing about this will be easy. We have to be prepared to work. To stretch our brains and see things from any angle we can to try and make sense of what we see. But if we do make sense of this puzzle then …’ he widened his hands and what looked like a tear glistened in his eye. ‘Then we could discover great and wonderful secrets.’

  Brodie looked down again at the letter in Van der Essen’s handwriting rested now on the top of the poem book. Was it likely she was really a worthy alchemist of words? And were there unworthy code-breakers out there puzzling over codes like this?

  ‘Mr Smithies,’ she said, at last breaking the heavy silence that’d fallen. ‘What do you think the phoenix is?’

  ‘It’s the thing we search for, Miss Bray,’ Smithies said. ‘The ultimate solution to the code. The ending of our quest. If we find Van der Essen’s phoenix then perhaps we stand a chance of finding the code-book that’ll enable us to read MS 408.’ He hesitated. ‘And the thing we know about the phoenix is it’s a thing of great beauty and immense power. And it’s reborn in fire. A bird of flame. A firebird. We search something of power that was the single survivor of the burning of Louvain. We need to solve Professor Van der Essen’s Firebird Code and find it.’ He patted his stomach and smiled but the smile was strained and flickered only fleetingly across his eyes. ‘And like all things worthy of a quest, we will not rest until we do.’

  Kerrith couldn’t rest. She tapped her blood-red nails against the table, drilling away the seconds.

  Now she needed proof. Tangible proof Smithies was playing with fire. If she could be the one to bring him in then there’d be no reward out of reach. No honour out of the question. An office on level five would be hers for the taking. Now all she had to do was reel him in. Catch Smithies red-handed and the prize would be hers.

  Smithies stood in front of the candle. The flame stretched and grew, casting more shadows on the wall.

  ‘You didn’t tell them.’

  Smithies turned to face Miss Tandari. ‘How could I?’

  ‘But I thought after the testing. I thought we agreed.’

  ‘There’s three of them, Tandi. After everything there’s just three. And they’re bright and they’re keen and they want to do this.’

  ‘But they don’t know everything.’

  ‘I will tell them.’

  ‘When?’

  Smithies looked at the flame. Wax ran like a tear and pooled at the base. ‘It’s safer this way.’

  ‘Safer, maybe. But is it right?’

  Smithies turned to look again into the flame.

  It was Brodie who’d insisted they take out every single book in the library that contained any reference to Arthur. A quick search on the library computer listed books that contained mention of ‘Arthur’s Famous Cheese Pizzas’ and a cartoon character for children who was apparently the world’s most famous aardvark. When they’d narrowed the search to books making reference to King Arthur they were still left with a pile of over twenty volumes.

  ‘Do you realise this little lot contains over thirteen thousand pages?’ Hunter said from beneath the pile balanced precariously across his arms.

  ‘Then the answer must be in here somewhere,’ snapped Brodie, who didn’t want to start feeling negative about the search before they’d even begun it.

  ‘I don’t know why you think it isn’t Tennyson,’ said Tusia.

  ‘Because they’ve checked him out already,’ Brodie explained, ‘and it’s too easy. Surely if this Professor is going to go to such great lengths to encode his message then he’d have been cleverer than that.’

  Hunter snorted. ‘I think hiding a message in five hundred pages of poetry about an ancient king is clever enough.’

  ‘Yes, well. Maybe. But I just think we should look at all the possibilities we can. If the words needed for the code were in a poem by Tennyson, Smithies would’ve found it by now and they wouldn’t have sent for us. We’re supposed to look at things with new eyes, remember?’

  The three of them made their way towards the lake and the ornamental fountain. Brodie selected a dry patch of grass on the highest part of the bank and slumped herself down, spreading her books out in an organised row in front of her. The other two sat beside her, Hunter balancing for a moment on his stack of books as if it were a chair, before a quick glare from Brodie made him mutter an apology and drop on the grass beside her.

  Brodie drew a large notebook out of her bag. Keeping a logbook of their work had been Miss Tandari’s idea. She’d explained that just like Voynich had been a collector they should all be one too. Collectors of ideas! They’d been told to note down anything – any thoughts, any connections, any links – and Brodie loved the suggestion. Writing notes helped her think. Helped her shuffle things into order. ‘So,’ she said purposefully, ‘any clue about how we should begin to try and solve this problem?’

  Hunter took a yo-yo out of his pocket and flicked it backwards and forwards, catching it with his open hand.

  ‘Start with the message and try and focus on the unusual words,’ said Tusia.

  ‘You’d be perfect for looking at the unusual,’ Hunter laughed, emphasising the final word and then ducking as Tusia hit out her arm at him. ‘You’d certainly know about all things strange.’ He winced a little and then added apologetically, seeing Brodie’s frown, that he was only joking.

  ‘OK,’ said Brodie, trying to regain control. ‘What struck you as unusual in the letter?’ She made quick notes on the paper.

  ‘Well, the numbers for a start,’ said Hunter, back on familiar territory. ‘I know Smithies says they’re dates, but I’m really not so sure.’

  ‘What else could they be?’

  The yo-yo flicked high into the air. ‘Numbers for an address. Page numbers maybe. Even the number of letters important to the code.’

  Brodie jotted down the suggestion.

  ‘And the phoenix in a cloak,’ said Tusia, pulling her Pembroke blazer tight around her shoulders. ‘When do you ever see a bird wearing a cloak? That’s odd, don’t you think?’

  Brodie added the idea to the list.

  ‘And what about “the one the world rejected”? Who could that mean?’ Tusia asked.

  ‘Madmen. Criminals. The insane,’ Hunter said, grimacing and rocking backwards and forwards.

  ‘So maybe we want a piece of writing about Arthur written by a madman,’ Brodie said, looking sheepishly at the pile of stories. ‘Was Tennyson mad?’

  ‘I’ve heard there’s an eighty-two per cent chance all poets are mad.’

  ‘Fair enough. But,’ Brodie flicked open the first book on the pile, ‘they’re not all criminals. Look,’ she said, snapping the book shut and lifting it in the air. ‘This book was written by Thomas Malory. I think I’ve read somewhere Tennyson based his poems about Arthur on Malory’s story.’

  ‘So he copied them?’ Hunter said indignantly.

  ‘No. Not copied. Just borrowed. The best bits anyway. And,’ she said, trying to hide her excitement, ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve read somewhere else that Malory wrote a lot of his stories while he was in prison. That’s “rejected by the world ” surely.’

  ‘So we should look at Malory’s version?’ Hunter said, scooping the pile of other versions to his side with a rather eager grin.

  ‘Maybe let’s s
tart there. Find all the references to Arthur’s sword in Morte d’Arthur by Malory.’

  ‘Why the sword bits?’ said Tusia looking confused.

  ‘Because of the elfin Urim. That bit in Van der Essen’s letter must’ve been talking about the otherworldy lights on the sword. So it makes sense to start with the stuff about the sword.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Hunter said, kicking off his shoes and tying the end of the yo-yo string around a button on Tusia’s blazer. ‘It’s as good a place as any. So,’ he passed the book over, ‘why don’t you do the looking and I do the writing down when you’ve found them,’ he added with a flourish and then lay down on the grass, his head resting on his arms. ‘Let me know when you need me and I’ll be right there.’

  ‘And what exactly will you do while Tusia and I look?’

  ‘I’ve got this to read,’ he said, pulling a rather squat flat book from his trouser pocket. ‘It’s on substitution codes. When code-writers use other things for letters. Like numbers. Sicknote lent it to me. Look,’ he added defensively, ‘stories are your thing and I’m more into numbers.’ Brodie couldn’t stop herself rolling her eyes. ‘So I’ll do some research about codes and when we’ve found the right bit of poem then we’ll be set to go.’

  It was not the sort of help Brodie had banked on, but it made sense. The sessions with Ingham had left her more than a little shaky about swapping letters for numbers.

  However, after a while, when the sun was beginning to slip behind the mansion and the air was growing cooler, she and Tusia had to admit defeat.

  ‘We don’t have to give up though,’ said Hunter, staggering once again under the weight of the books. ‘You know I think much more clearly after my dinner. Something may come to me when we’ve eaten.’

  Brodie didn’t hold out much hope today’s dinner would provide Hunter with inspiration and on the way to get food she couldn’t help look at the candle in Hut 11. The wick had burnt down, leaving fifteen days. It was taunting them, she was sure.

  ‘It took everyone else who worked on the problem years to get to where we are now,’ said Hunter later on through a mouthful of reheated cabbage. ‘We mustn’t be despondent, BB.’

  Brodie couldn’t help it. Suppose they had only the time the candle burnt to solve this thing? Supposing, when the flame had died, it was all over?

  ‘I just don’t think I’m very good at waiting,’ she said, passing Hunter the tomato ketchup and watching as he spurted a particularly large splodge of it on to his plate. ‘I just like to know the answers.’

  Tusia smiled. ‘Isn’t that what code-cracking’s like? Waiting and waiting for a breakthrough.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Brodie answered thoughtfully. But if it was, she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  Breakthrough, when it eventually arrived, came from a very unusual source.

  Miss Tandari stood at the front of the room, her eyes narrowing and her smooth skin wrinkled around the brow. For a moment she looked unwilling to meet the gaze of those who waited for her to speak. But Miss Tandari wasn’t embarrassed. She was angry.

  Brodie put down her pen.

  At the front of the room, next to Miss Tandari, and looking as if she were willing the ground to open up beneath her, stood Tusia.

  ‘It’s just not good enough,’ Miss Tandari said so quietly it was almost impossible to hear.

  Tusia stared defiantly forward. ‘But it’s normal lessons, miss. And surely you understand our priority …’ she paused a little, ‘my priority, is to focus all my attention on what really matters here. Code-cracking. We’ve only got two days left according to that candle!’

  Miss Tandari seemed to visibly bristle, her lips narrowing into thin dark lines. ‘But it’s my job, Tusia,’ she said and Brodie couldn’t help but notice she seemed to spit the name from her mouth, ‘to make sure that while you’re in the glorious position of being here at Station X, you do not miss out on normal learning.’

  Tusia made an odd face and folded her arms across her chest. ‘But what good honestly, miss, is all this stuff on percentages and ratios? Why don’t we leave all that sort of thing to Hunter? I mean, he actually understands what you’re talking about.’ She paused for a moment to draw breath. ‘I mean, really. For me it’s a waste of time. A waste of energy. I could be working on the code. Two days, miss. Don’t you understand?’

  Miss Tandari pulled her shoulders up. She was tall anyway but now she seemed suddenly to fill an awful amount of space. She placed her hands on her hips and breathed in deeply. ‘Tusia,’ she said, and this time there could be absolutely no doubt about the spitting, ‘your work in sessions the last few days has been abysmal. You’ve lacked focus and care and to be perfectly frank with you, your efforts are sloppy and substandard.’ She shook the exercise book she was holding in her hand and Brodie saw clearly a sprawl of marking in bright red ink across Tusia’s work.

  Tusia was embarrassed. Brodie could tell that from the way she was wailing and throwing her arms about, something Brodie found more than a little distracting! Hunter, though, was obviously enjoying the telling-off just a little too much.

  ‘I’m afraid, young lady, you’ve got to realise you can’t ignore the importance of everyday learning for the sake of the glamour of the code,’ she added sternly. ‘Who are we to count out what may be the very thing we need to learn? Whatever the time limits, we have to pay attention to details. Now,’ she pressed her fingers together almost as if in prayer, ‘take a seat, Miss Petulova, and take note. Don’t ignore the seemingly ordinary or you may pay a heavy price for your neglect.’

  Tusia muttered something under her breath as she walked back to her seat.

  Brodie didn’t hear what it was.

  She was busy scribbling a note and passing it across the table to Hunter.

  Hunter looked up as soon as he read it.

  The note said simply: I’ve got it!

  They decided to meet in the music room.

  Hunter stood by the fireplace leaning his weight on the large stone bust of Winston Churchill. In the past Brodie had told him off for being disrespectful, but now she simply didn’t have the time. She was buzzing with excitement.

  Between them they’d carried all the books they’d taken from the library and the logbook now crammed with notes and doodles. The books and notes lay strewn across the patterned carpet as Brodie paced backwards and forwards rubbing her hands together.

  ‘It’s so obvious. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Anyone who was really looking should’ve seen it from miles.’

  Tusia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her arms outstretched across the books. ‘Any time you could just explain and let us in on the secret we’d be grateful,’ she said, gazing up as Brodie continued to pace.

  ‘Yes, BB. If you really don’t mind it’d be wonderful if you could share.’

  ‘OK. OK.’ Brodie cleared her throat. She at last stood still, closed her eyes and tried to focus her thoughts. ‘Let’s recap what we know,’ she said authoritatively, sounding a lot like Smithies.

  ‘Number one: we’re looking for a poem. A story about Arthur that’ll serve as the key to the coded message that Van der Essen left for us. His message about the phoenix. What we call our Firebird Code.’

  ‘We know all that,’ Tusia said impatiently.

  ‘But what part of the stories and poems have we been focusing on?’ asked Brodie, still taking on the mantle of teacher.

  Hunter lunged forward dramatically, his hand thrust sharply in the air. ‘Bits about the sword,’ he said, sweeping his hand behind him before bowing low to the ground. ‘The wonderful Excalibur.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Brodie. ‘And what do we know about the sword, apart from the elfin Urim on it, of course?’

  ‘That it’s rather special,’ said Tusia. ‘Could kill lots of people. Sort of nasty really.’ She wrinkled her face into the one she normally wore when Hunter was tucking into a particularly juicy hamburger or bacon sandwich at lunchtime.

 
‘Absolutely.’ Brodie grimaced. ‘Nasty sword really. Used for awful things.’

  ‘Yeah. But that’s what swords do, B. Kill people,’ said Hunter, shadow-fencing once more before steadying himself with one hand pressed tightly around Churchill’s nose.

  ‘Yes,’ went on Brodie. ‘I know. Everything we’ve read,’ she gestured at the sea of books spread around where Tusia sat, ‘goes on about the “power of the sword” and the “might of the weapon”. But,’ at this point she could barely hide her excitement, ‘the sword wasn’t the most important thing the Lady of the Lake gave Arthur, was it?’

  Tusia looked puzzled and Hunter let go of Churchill’s nose and patted the dome of the plaster head apologetically. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ She giggled and one of her paces looked, just for a second, a little more like a skip. ‘Look, in the Malory version, after Arthur is given the sword and is told how wonderful it is, Merlin asks him what he values most. The scabbard or the sword?’

  ‘Scabbard?’

  ‘Yeah, you know,’ Brodie said, directing her answer down towards Tusia. ‘The cover thing you keep a sword in.’

  ‘Like its case?’

  ‘Exactly. Or,’ and she laughed a bit at this, ‘its cloak.’

  ‘Like the cloak of the phoenix in the Professor’s letter?’

  ‘Exactly. Just like that.’

  ‘And?’ Hunter looked confused.

  ‘Well, that’s the incredible bit. The thing we were missing. And it came to me when Miss Tandari was going off on one to Tusia about making choices and not always going for the most glamorous thing.’

  Tusia’s face coloured at the reminder. ‘So?’

  ‘Well, Arthur chose the sword. He went for the thing inside the case. Said that was the most important thing.’

  ‘Sounds sensible to me,’ Hunter said. ‘A king in battle would find a sword kind of useful, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He would. He would. But,’ Brodie swung round to face him, ‘Merlin said he’d made the wrong choice. The obvious, but wrong one. It was the container that mattered. Merlin said the scabbard was worth ten of the sword.’