by N. D. Wilson
“Cy,” Antigone said. “I don’t think that was good.”
Before Cyrus could answer, the thin man stepped in front of them, clutching a folder, smiling, and scratching his mustache with a long finger. “Children,” he said, nodding. “Lovely to meet you both. My name is Cecil T. Rhodes, and no, that wasn’t good. At least not for you.”
Cyrus glared at him. The man had a face like a mustached rabbit. “I don’t like you,” Cyrus said. “And I don’t think I ever will.”
“Ha,” said Cecil. “Amusing.”
The big, bearded man thumped on his lectern. “Rhodes, step back. Initiates!” His voice filled the crowded hall. “Approach the Book and place your hands upon the table.”
Looking over his shoulder at the crowd, Cyrus moved cautiously forward. Most of the faces were smiling. But they weren’t all happy, supportive smiles. Smirks. Giggles. Whispers. He knew the tone. He felt like he was being called forward in class after he’d fallen asleep and drooled on his desk.
Antigone’s hands were already palms-down on the table, and she was studying the huge book. Cyrus made fists and pressed his knuckles against the smooth, waxy wood.
Rupert Greeves moved away from his lectern and stood behind the table, looming tall across from them.
“Kneel.”
Antigone dropped quickly. Cyrus eased his knees down carefully onto the cool stone.
Greeves cleared his throat. “Do you renounce evil and all the powers of wickedness in this world and others?”
Cyrus glanced at his sister. “Yes?” they both said quietly.
Greeves leaned over the table. “I do renounce them,” he whispered.
“I do renounce them,” they said, almost in unison.
“Do you renounce all dark knowledge and sorceries which corrupt the body and destroy the soul?”
“I do renounce them,” Antigone said.
“Yes,” said Cyrus. “I mean, I do renounce them.”
“Do you renounce all vile incantations, demonic snares, and dark communications with the dead?”
“I do renounce them.” Cyrus twitched a smile at his sister. He’d nailed it that time. But what exactly were they worried he might do? Dark communications with the dead? How did you even try something like that? Suddenly, he could feel the weight of the key ring between and beneath his collarbones and his smile was gone. The room seemed colder. He tried to breathe slowly. With one quick pulse, nervousness had tightened his chest.
“Will you tread the world and tend the wilds? When the world whispers her secrets, will you keep them? Will you protect the weak and face your own end without fear?”
Cyrus swallowed. “Yes,” he said.
“I will,” said Antigone.
“Do you now honor and bind unto yourself the strength of heaven, the light of sun, the radiance of moon, the splendor of fire, the speed of lightning, the swiftness of wind, the firmness of earth, the will of stone?” Greeves leaned forward again. “I do honor and bind,” he whispered.
“I do honor and bind,” they said.
Rupert Greeves looked up at the crowd. “Do the assembled receive these among them, a brother and a sister to Brendan?”
A few laughed. Many muttered. But a cluster of loud voices announced their agreement.
“We do receive them.”
Rupert Greeves nodded at Cyrus and Antigone, and they both quickly stood. Leaning across the table, Greeves gripped their shoulders. He spoke, and as he did, his dark eyes met Cyrus’s. His accented voice softened. “May you be shielded from poison, from burning, from drowning, from wounding, from betrayal, from the rage of seas, the anger of mountains, and the plottings of men. May you be a strength to the Order, and the Order a strength to you.” He turned to Antigone. “Miss Antigone Smith, Acolyte in the Order of Brendan, congratulations. Would you please sign the book?”
Greeves picked up a battered quill, dipped it in ink, and handed it to Antigone. Then, heaving pounds of dusty pages to one side, he found the appropriate place and set his finger above it.
Cyrus watched his sister sign her name in blobby ink, and then Rupert Greeves took back the quill and blotted her signature. The big man’s pointed beard swung up, and his eyes were back on Cyrus. He redipped the quill. “Mr. Cyrus Smith, Acolyte in the Order of Brendan, congratulations. Would you please sign beneath your sister?”
While the crowd began to disperse behind him, Cyrus bent over the book, and the smell of dusty leather and ancient pages rose up to meet him. The paper was beyond yellow, aged to brown. He was signing in a long column of names, and all of their owners had better handwriting than he did. Biting his lip, he scratched his name as neatly as he could, but the lines thickened and bulged as he went. When he finished Lawrence, he began to breathe. And then he left out the “i” in Smith. Smth.
Greeves reached for the pen.
“Darn it,” Cyrus said. “Hold on a sec.” It was too tight to squeeze the letter in, but he added a large dot — more like a raindrop of ink. Straightening, he stared at what he’d done.
Smiling, Rupert took the pen and blotted the ink. “Come on, then. I’ll show you each to your Acolyte quarters.” Closing the book, he glanced up. The thin lawyer slid up beside Cyrus.
“The Polygon,” said Cecil Rhodes. He giggled and then grew suddenly serious. “Show them to the Polygon, Mr. Greeves. The standards of 1914 have been applied. Don’t go and disqualify them so soon.”
Laughing, he hurried away.
Antigone sputtered her lips. “I really don’t like him.”
“Who cares about him?” Cyrus looked up at Rupert Greeves. “Hey, you know, we’re actually in a lot of trouble. Horace said you would help us once we were members. And, well, a guy named Maxi killed Skelton and burned down our motel. Then he took our brother, Dan. He chased us here — probably shot Horace, too, him or one of his sidekicks.”
“Maxi?” Rupert’s jaw clenched beneath his beard. His eyes narrowed. “Why would a creature like Maximilien be after the two of you?”
“Ask him,” Cyrus said.
Rupert shook his head and sighed. “You have brought trouble, haven’t you? Maximilien wouldn’t attack a member of the Order without reason. We are too large a threat to his appetites.” He looked at Antigone and back at Skelton’s coffin, and then he turned sharp eyes onto Cyrus. “You may have something his master wants.”
“His master?” Antigone asked. “What kind of master are we talking about?”
“The kind of master capable of controlling a man like Maxi.” Rupert inhaled slowly, inflating his broad chest. “He calls himself Dr. Phoenix,” he said quietly. “And at times, Mr. Ashes. He is the stuff of nightmares, I will not say more. If Maxi took your brother, then he took him to Phoenix. I am very sorry.”
Cyrus looked at his sister. Antigone tucked back her hair and crossed nervous arms. “Can’t you … do anything?”
Rupert stepped between them. A few people were still loitering by the big doors. One of them was an old woman in a safari jacket. Rupert whistled sharply.
“Eleanor Eldridge!” he yelled. “Can I beg some assistance?”
Cyrus watched the old woman approach, avoiding his eyes. When she got close enough, she began to chatter.
“Rupert Greeves,” she said. “I don’t care how big you think you are, and I don’t care what you call yourself or what you think you can make me do. I knew you when you were as timid as a possum and as awkward as a young giraffe. I swore off these two ungratefuls. I washed my hands and shook the mud off my boots. I wouldn’t tie their shoes if they lost their arms. I’ll not be helping them.”
Rupert almost smiled. “Something has come up. I’ll need you to show them to the Polygon for me, Mrs. E.” He turned back to Cyrus and Antigone, and for a moment, he simply stared, unblinking, breathing slowly. Cyrus squirmed, fighting to keep his hands from drifting up to his neck. The big man’s face was worried, his eyes searching. When he spoke, his voice was low.
“Today, you two have beco
me a brother and sister to me. Your brother by blood is now like my own, and I will do all that I can for him. I wish I could make you promises, but I cannot. Not when it comes to Maxi and Phoenix. For now, I will see what can be seen and hear what can be heard. When I know more, we will speak again. Soon.” He smiled with tight lips. “I must hear more from the Order’s outlaw Acolytes.”
Turning, he strode toward the tall doors, the sound of his boots doubling and tripling in echo.
“Listen to Mrs. E!” he shouted, and he was through the doors and gone.
eight. LOST AND FOUND
CYRUS, FINDING HIMSELF wandering the halls outside the Galleria, progressed at a caterpillar pace. His own little shelves at the Archer loaded with ditch discoveries and thrift-store treasures were less than nothing compared to what surrounded him now. The walls were dotted with strange artifacts — tapestries, swords, axes, arrows, muskets, a pair of tarnished green cannons, certificates and charters, bones and teeth and skulls, paintings, maps, and fading photos of men and women in knee-high boots beside cloth-winged planes and sailboats and archaic trucks. Not one display was corralled with a velvet rope. Not one was guarded by a plastic sign commanding those with fingers to keep them to themselves.
And so Cyrus touched. And waited for Mrs. Eldridge to grumble before moving on.
While Cyrus browsed the walls, Antigone’s eyes lurched between the ceiling and the floor.
The map frescoes on the ceilings glittered with gold foil, and made no attempt at scale. These were maps where ships and sea creatures were larger than islands, and brightly painted birds and beasts floated in the air above forests.
The floor was a swirling mosaic of painted tiles, segmented into a different kind of map. When Antigone stared at her feet, she was looking down at tiny city streets, winding and twisting beneath her. Minuscule buildings, rivers and bridges, city squares and palaces were spread out in detail. A few steps later, they were gone, replaced by a crisp floor plan of some enormous structure, labeled in tiny Latin.
She scuffed at it with her foot. “Won’t this stuff wear off with everyone walking on it?” She wasn’t asking anyone in particular. Mrs. Eldridge had already refused to answer any of their questions.
Cyrus glanced over his shoulder, and then turned back to his examination of an oddly tusked skull. “It’s probably lacquered or something. Tigs, what do you think this is? A mini-elephant? Maybe a warthog?” He reached out and brushed his hand over smooth, yellowed bone.
“No clue,” said Antigone. “Ask one of them.”
Four men wearing bulging canvas packs and wide belts heavy with hatchets, sheaths, and holsters hurried down the hall, followed by a boy with his arms full of rope. They split up to move around Antigone.
“Excuse me,” Cyrus said. “Do any of you know what this is?”
The men managed to walk by without so much as seeing Cyrus or his sister. Four pairs of eyes twitched away, avoiding the soot-and bloodstained clothes and the questioning faces.
Only the boy turned around, smirking at Cyrus as he walked away. “Outlaw trash,” he said. He grinned at Antigone. “Your mother was a savage.” Shaking his head, the boy turned his back and hurried to catch up to the men.
“Wow,” said Antigone.
Cyrus cupped his hands around his mouth. “Keep walking, you little snot! The outlaws are here!”
“Cyrus Smith!” Mrs. Eldridge came storming back down the hall, her thin white hair straggling in a tattered halo. “It’s bad enough that you two can’t keep up, and now you’re shouting insults?” She crossed her arms and glared.
Cyrus shrugged. No smug kid got to say things about his mom.
“Did you hear what the brat said?” Antigone asked.
“I did,” said Mrs. Eldridge. “And I can’t say that I disagree. Look at you two, all filth and rudeness, goggling over the floors and touching everything. Do you belong here? No. No, you don’t. And that’s no insult. Here isn’t always the nicest place to belong.”
She spun on her heel and began to walk away. “Now stay with me this time, or I’ll leave you to find your own way. And,” she added, “you will never find your own way.”
Cyrus sighed, and then yawned, trying to keep up the brisk pace. As much as he wanted to look at everything, as much as he wanted to be mad at the insulting boy and the rabbit-faced man, he was too hungry and too exhausted, and his head was still too full of smoke and thoughts of Dan. The mosaic floor looked like it would be cool against his skin, and he could easily stretch out beneath one of the long display tables against a wall.
Antigone tugged on his arm, forcing him to keep pace.
“You two should never have come,” Mrs. Eldridge said, clicking quickly down the center of the hall. A group of six young girls wearing white snake shirts tucked into pocketed trousers tucked into boots, all carrying short rifles, moved by quickly in the opposite direction, eyes bouncing between Antigone and Cyrus. Three of them flashed friendly smiles. Around the next corner, four middle-aged men in full fencing gear, swords and wire masks tucked under their arms, leaned against the wall, laughing. Their laughter faded when they saw Cyrus and Antigone. Two faces hardened, but a short bald man and a tower with a beard both met Cyrus’s eyes. Cyrus gave them his best diner nod, and then smiled when they nodded back.
“Good luck to you both,” the beard said as they passed. “Your father was a good man.”
“Cy,” Antigone said when the men were well behind them. “This place is wild.”
“I know,” Cyrus said. He watched another row of animal skulls go by. “I kinda like it.”
Antigone brushed back her hair and looked at Cyrus. “Yeah, but it’s weird that Dad was here and he never said anything about it.”
Cyrus shrugged.
Antigone looked away. “Those girls with the guns were even younger than you. Like that’s safe.”
Cyrus grinned. “Dad gave me a BB gun when I was six.”
“And then took it away when you shot yourself in the forehead.”
“Nope. Wrong. Try again. He took it away when I tried to shoot the neighbor’s cat.”
“And that’s better?”
“And,” Cyrus said, “he gave it back one month later. I didn’t lose it until I fell off the cliff when I was nine.”
Mrs. Eldridge’s hand cold-clamped tight on the back of Cyrus’s neck.
“Unkindest thing I ever did to Katie Smith was vouching for you with big Mr. Greeves. If I’d been smart enough to keep my trap shut, you’d have been bundled up and shuffled back where you belong. But you’re here now, so come on.” Letting go, Mrs. Eldridge snapped back around and clicked on. “Standing for Katie’s kids.” She shook her head, approaching a corner. “And as pups to Billy Bones, no less. You should never have let that old liar into the motel, Cyrus Smith.”
They rounded the corner, and Cyrus stopped in his tracks.
“Oh my …,” said Antigone.
A two-story wall of windows overlooked green lawns running down to the unending blue of the Great Lake, perfect mirror to the sky, striped gold by the sun. A flock of brightly colored boats huddled safely inside a long stone jetty, while others, sails clinging to the wind, carved through distant water. Small buildings dotted the lawns, and on a long, flat stretch of grass, a pale-blue plane touched down.
“It’s beautiful,” said Antigone. “Let’s go down to the water.”
Cyrus watched the plane stop and its pilot jump out of his craft. Two men were walking quickly toward it. The pilot pulled off his helmet and shook out his — her — thick strawberry hair. And she couldn’t be that old.
“Come on!” Mrs. Eldridge stamped her foot. “Now!”
Cyrus and Antigone followed Mrs. Eldridge through glistening clean halls and down crowded stairs. Door after door, room after room, they saw fewer and fewer people as they went, and the floors grew dustier all the time. Downstairs and downstairs and the rooms lost their windows. The doors they passed were rough and oily and sealed with he
avy padlocks. The halls were cluttered with odd shapes, covered with filthy canvas sheets, and the few paintings still hanging on the dingy walls were muted with years of airborne accumulation.
Mrs. Eldridge brushed against a canvas tarp and sent up a small weather system of dust as she moved through an open arch.
Following her, Antigone began to sneeze.
Cyrus stopped. “Remind me why we have to stay all the way down here?” He sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Get in here, Cy,” Antigone said.
Cyrus moved through the arch into a broad room with an extremely low, blue glass ceiling propped up by intermittent stout pillars. Iron spiral stairs squatted in a corner.
Mrs. Eldridge was still moving.
Antigone looked back at her brother. “It’s a pool, Cy. That’s the smell. We’re under a pool.”
“Are you sure?” Cyrus asked. The water wasn’t pale and bright like the pools he’d seen. And there were walls in the water, paths that twisted and turned and doubled back on themselves. It was an underwater maze.
While Cyrus watched, a blindfolded woman, barely bubbling, slid by in the dark water three feet above him, her hands tracing the walls at her sides.
“Wow,” Cyrus said. “Tigs, how cool is that?”
Antigone shivered and grabbed Cyrus’s arm. “It’s freaky, Cy. Now c’mon. Mrs. E didn’t stop this time.”
Through another arch, and at the end of a long, curving corridor lit with naked bulbs, they found Mrs. Eldridge waiting beside a dark, empty mouth gaping in the wall. A thin metal pipe ran down the wall beside the doorway, ending in a small box with a rusty button. She pushed it, and a light turned on.
“Down these stairs, you will find the Polygon. Now maybe you’ll go home. This is no place for you.”
They were standing at the top of a stairwell, twisting down. The light Mrs. Eldridge had turned on was out of sight, but its glow rose up around the bend.
