Dactyl Hill Squad

by Daniel José Older

  Dactyls, Magdalys realized. They didn’t see many pteros except the little messenger ones in Manhattan — maybe because they were all over here. Seemed like the air was full of them. She could make out tiny little microdactyls, medium-sized minidactyls, and then the fully grown pterodactyls, all sailing back and forth, snapping at each other or whatever prey they could find, dancing across the darkness.

  It was strangely comforting.

  “Welcome to Dactyl Hill,” Cymbeline had said, watching Magdalys’s look of wonder at the soaring pteros.

  A massive fortress-like building glared down at them from the top of the hill; torches lit either side of its huge front gate. “That’s the Penitentiary,” Cymbeline told them. “Keep your distance.” And then she’d led them down a winding series of side streets and up to the Bochinche. She knocked once, paused, then twice more. The door swung open and a grinning face poked out. “Who — Cymbie? Oh my stars, girl! I was wondering where you’ve been! My goodness, girl, come in, come in!”

  And in they went.

  “That’s not how it works, Louis!” a man in a top hat yelled as they shuffled in. He sounded like he was trying to act mean but couldn’t help laughing instead.

  Candles flickered on wooden tables in the dimly lit bar. A group of folks were gathered in the middle, playing cards and carrying on the way Magdalys and the kids at the orphanage did when none of the matrons were around.

  “I didn’t say it works like that,” another man, Louis, said. He was short, a little older than the first man, and impeccably dressed. “I said that’s how we gotta play it. Not the same.”

  Everyone laughed. Someone dropped another card and a collective groan went up.

  A soft, tinkling melody rose from the far end of the room, where a figure in white clothes sat hunched over an old wooden piano. A few smudged windows let in the hazy glow of the gas lanterns out on the street. Magdalys noticed newspapers scattered around on the tabletops and a bookshelf along one wall, overflowing with hardcover novels.

  “Come on, draw,” someone said. “We don’t have all night, D.”

  “Do I tell you how to play?” the man in the top hat retorted. “Clearly not, because then maybe you wouldn’t be losing so bad.”

  Everyone shook their heads and rolled their eyes.

  “Mr. Barrett,” the woman who brought them in yelled. “Mr. Barrett! Go in the kitchen and fish up some milk, please. We have visitors and they’re just babies, it seems.”

  Magdalys had to hold back from bristling. After all she’d been through in the past few hours, a baby was the last thing she felt like. But the smiles around her were friendly, and the place smelled like the living: a musty mix of sweat and smoke and whiskey — so much better than the grim, antiseptic emptiness of the orphanage.

  Plus, she’d never seen so many people who looked like her acting so fearless and free. Sure, black and brown folks gathered at the Zanzibar for shows and had a good ol’ time at it too, but the shadow of what was outside always loomed. Even before it blew up into the nightmare tonight had become, Manhattan hadn’t felt safe. Everywhere Magdalys turned, there was a reminder that she wasn’t welcome, she was an outsider. But Manhattan was all she knew, so if she didn’t belong there, where did she belong?

  “Louis, if you don’t stop dropping those aces, I swear, we fightin’.”

  “I wish you would come over here and make me stop.”

  “Boy …”

  Maybe here, Magdalys thought, gazing at the laughing card players and the scattered smaller groups chatting at the bar behind them. Maybe here in Dactyl Hill.

  “Hey!” the woman who brought them in yelled, even louder this time. “Did y’all hear me? I said we got babies in the house.” Everyone got quiet and looked up. Magdalys felt the blood run to her ears. “So behave yourselves and pretend you’re the good, proper citizens you masquerade as when you out and about on the boulevard, okay?”

  “But, Bernice, we don’t even —” the man in the top hat started, his face a mask of angelic innocence.

  “Shut it, David.”

  The whole bar yelled, “Ohhh!”

  Bernice led them through the crowd, which parted to either side of her like the Red Sea for Moses, and then she cleared some folks away from the bar so they could climb up on the stools. Glasses of warm milk awaited each of them, which Mr. Barrett had placed carefully down after making sure he had an accurate head count. Bernice nodded approvingly. “There you go, youngens, now drink up and rest yourselves while I have a chat with Ms. Crunk here.”

  They did as they were told, all a little too exhausted and in shock to do much else.

  “And you!” Bernice hollered. “Halsey! What are you doing skulking in the corner? Who’s that with you, Mr. Crunk? A white lady? Bring her over. Mr. Barrett will sort you out with some drinks. You look a mess, Halsey. You’ll rest yourselves here or I’m not fit to run the Bochinche.”

  Halsey and Marietta waded through the crowd and found seats at the bar. Clearly, everybody’s business was everybody’s business at the Bochinche, Magdalys realized. The card game swung back into full-tilt rambunctiousness as Cymbeline and Bernice conferred in a corner by the piano.

  “Of course,” Bernice kept saying. “Think nothing of it …” and then, “As long as you like, Cymbie, you know that.”

  Magdalys couldn’t make out what Cymbeline was saying, but it sounded like she felt bad about whatever she was asking and Bernice would have none of it.

  “It’s been empty for months,” Bernice said. “Ever since, you know … Of course, Cymbie, of course. Oh, stop! And anyway …”

  Then Cymbeline spent a few minutes explaining something in a hushed voice — probably the events of the night. Partway through, Bernice cut her off and called for David and Louis to come listen. They crossed the room with long strides, both their faces creased with concern.

  “Mr. Ballantine, Mr. Napoleon, this is Cymbeline Crunk, Shakespearean act —”

  “Miss Crunk!” Louis bowed low before Bernice could finish talking. “It is an honor. Your performance of Lady Anne was breathtaking. The name’s Louis Napoleon. No relation to the diminutive temperamental French emperor, I’m afraid.”

  Cymbeline stood there gaping for a few moments, then offered her hand for the short, dapper man to kiss.

  “Mr. Ballantine and Mr. Napoleon are coordinators with the Vigilance Committee,” Miss Bernice explained, “which helps fugitive slaves make it farther up north and works to stop the Kidnapping Club from sending our folks south to bondage.”

  “Of course.” Cymbeline looked a little awestruck. “It’s an honor to meet you both. I’ve been following all your work in the papers, and … Well, it’s truly an honor.”

  The papers? Magdalys thought. Whoa.

  “I’ll have to catch a show one day,” David said, kissing her hand when Louis was done.

  “You’ll have to wait till we rebuild our theater, I’m afraid. It burned down in the riots tonight.”

  “Riots?” David said, suddenly all business.

  Louis looked stricken. “Tonight?”

  Cymbeline nodded. “They torched the Colored Orphan Asylum as well. These kids are only here because they were at our show when it happened.”

  “My god!” Bernice gasped. The rest of the bar had gone quiet now; everyone stood and began gathering slowly around.

  “And there’s more. Riker is out on raptorback with the Kidnapping Club.”

  “Riker!” David snarled.

  “They tried to snatch these guys from me, but we got away on a fire brigade brachy. I don’t know what happened to the other orphans though.”

  David sprang into action. “Louis,” he commanded. “The courthouse, quickly. The night court should still be open downtown, unless the riots shut it down.” Louis was already pulling on his jacket. “Get a writ of habeas corpus for each orphan,” David went on, more thinking out loud than instructing Louis, who clearly already knew exactly what to do. “That’ll help us get
legal custody to keep ’em safe. But we’ll need the names of each of them … There must be at least a hundred?”

  “One hundred and eighty-one,” Marietta said, stepping out of the shadows. She looked even more bedraggled and busted up than Magdalys had realized, but her fists were clenched.

  David looked up. “Oh? And who are you?”

  “Marietta Gilbert Smack, sir. I am — was — a matron at the orphanage. One hundred and eighty-six minus these five. And I know their names. At least, eighty-nine percent of them. I made myself commit them to memory, you see. During the overnight shift. But I wasn’t quite finished memorizing when … tonight happened.”

  Everyone just stared at her for a moment.

  “I’ll go with you, Mr. Napoleon,” Marietta said.

  “Good,” David said. “Louis, go on dactylback, it’ll be faster.”

  Marietta’s eyes went wide. “D-dactyl … back?”

  Magdalys perked up. She had heard rumors about people riding pteros, but she didn’t really believe them, and Dr. Sloan’s Dinoguide definitely advised against it in bright red letters. She’d always wanted to try …

  Louis looked amused. “That a problem, ma’am?”

  Marietta firmed up her face and shook her head. “Not at all. I’m ready when you are.”

  Louis nodded once, then took off out the door. Marietta waved goodbye to the kids, thanked Cymbeline, and then followed him out.

  Everyone looked back at David, who took off his top hat and round spectacles and shook his head. “Gonna be a long night,” he said. “I can’t believe we didn’t hear until now.”

  Gonna be? Magdalys thought. She couldn’t imagine how the night could possibly get any longer.

  “I know, dear,” Bernice said. “I know.”

  David stood. “Miss Bernice, send a dactyl if you hear anything else.” He nodded at Magdalys, who realized she had been staring intently at him, then headed for the door. “The rest of y’all, arm up and meet me back here in twenty. If you have dinos, ride ’em. Let’s move.”

  “Can I help?” Cymbeline asked.

  David turned slowly, shook his head. “You’ve done enough tonight, my dear. You’ve done so much. Rest now. There’ll be plenty more to do tomorrow, that I promise.” And then he was gone.

  Cymbeline looked somehow crestfallen and relieved at the same time.

  Magdalys had no idea what they were up to, but even through her exhaustion, she desperately wanted to know. They were doing something. Probably were about to head right into the mess that she and the others had just escaped. Who were these strange, amazing people? Between them and Cymbeline, Magdalys felt like she’d discovered a whole new kind of saint over the course of the night, these brilliant, fearless heroes who looked like her and were ready to do anything to make the world what it should be instead of what it was.

  Before she could ask about David and Louis, Bernice and Cymbeline picked up the beer bottles that Mr. Barrett had left on the bar for them and clinked them together. “It’s settled then,” Bernice said, a sad smile on her face.

  Cymbeline was smiling too, though the wear and tear of the night could be seen all over her tired face. They took long swigs, and then Bernice turned to the bar. “Kids, let me show you to your rooms.”

  Two doors faced each other at the end of a dim hallway on the second floor of the Bochinche. The boys and Halsey filed into the one on the right; Bernice showed Magdalys, Amaya, Little Sabeen, and Cymbeline into the one on the left.

  “It’s a little cramped, I’m afraid,” Bernice cooed. “But you know, we can spruce it up for you tomorrow and make it nice. Not to worry. For now, rest, little dearies. And you too, Cymbie. You’ve had a long night. Washroom’s down the corridor to the right. Holler if you need anything. There’s extra bedding in the dresser.”

  It was a little cramped, and none of them cared.

  “We’ll figure out your new lives in the morning,” Bernice said, closing the door as she slipped out. “Not to worry.”

  New lives? Magdalys thought. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but somehow she liked the sound of it.

  For a moment, they all just stood there in the sudden silence. “You’re not going home, Miss Cymbeline?” Sabeen asked.

  Cymbeline shook her head. “My brother and I lived upstairs from the theater.” Her voice cracked. She stared at the floor. “I have no home.”

  Sabeen wrapped her arms around her waist, and Cymbeline stroked the girl’s hair idly.

  “Thanks for saving us,” Magdalys said.

  Amaya nodded. “We would all be dead or kidnapped if it wasn’t for you.”

  Cymbeline laughed but her eyes were watery. “You guys saved me as much as I saved you, trust. Anyway, it’s been a long night.” She placed her shotgun on the dresser with a loud clunk. “Enough cutesy stuff, let’s go to bed.”

  Amaya blew out the lantern. Then, the three girls and Cymbeline stripped down to their underclothes and crawled into the single bed, each making room for the next as they huddled close.

  Cozying up between Amaya and Cymbeline, Magdalys felt some of the heaviness that had been perched on her tired heart just drift away. Shelter. Somewhere to rest. Somewhere safe. She began fading to sleep with a slight smile on her face.

  Then, one by one, the faces of the other kids from the Colored Orphan Asylum cycled by: Ray Sampson, who told Sabeen stories at bedtime; Bernadette and Syl, who everyone thought were sisters even though they hadn’t even known each other before coming to the orphanage; Sweety Mae, who made fun of everyone else, in spite of her name.

  Magdalys wasn’t that close with most of them, but she’d come to rely on their faces, their smiles and pouts and quirks and annoyances, as part of her daily life.

  And now she’d probably never see them again.

  Worse than that, they might be on their way down south to some horrible fate. Why had Magdalys and the others been saved? Just because they’d been at a play that night? It seemed so random and unfair.

  Then, from somewhere far away, she heard the gentle strains of an old voice humming, the swish of a broom, and the squeak of Mr. Calloway’s well-shined boots echoing across the marble floor.

  Magdalys felt her own tears land on the pillow as she drifted off to sleep.

  “WHOA,” MAGDALYS SAID, looking up from the sweet oats and coffee that Mr. Barrett had put in front of her without a word when she’d come downstairs at daybreak.

  The boys had transformed overnight. Two Step wore a dapper three-piece pinstripe suit, complete with shiny buttons and a bowler hat. He still had his orphanage shoes on, and it looked like the suit might be a couple sizes too small, but he looked terrific. Mapper stood beside him in the stairwell doorway, wiping his glasses on his sleeve and arching an eyebrow; he was decked out in loose overalls and a way-too-big white button shirt. A paperboy cap sat on his hair, which he’d gelled into a tall tower sticking straight up off his head. Someone had even shaved down the sides for him.

  They stood perfectly still for a couple seconds, letting Magdalys stare in wonder, and then Mapper sauntered in one direction while Two Step, of course, broke into a sly two step, shimmying and shaking his way around the table.

  “Uh …” Mr. Barrett said. “You boys want breakfast?”

  “Quite quite, good sir,” Two Step said, sashaying behind Magdalys while Mapper strutted around from the other direction.

  “Indeed indeed,” chortled Mapper.

  “What on earth?” Magdalys demanded. They both slid into chairs on either side of her.

  “Just getting spiffy for our morning constitutional, you know,” Two Step said.

  “Quite quite,” Mapper added.

  Mr. Barrett put two bowls of sweet oats on the table and walked off, shaking his head.

  “Halsey found a trunk of cool clothes in our room,” Two Step confided, finally back in his normal voice. “So he decked us out and did Mapper’s hair.”

  “Wow,” Magdalys said. “You guys had a real-deal slumber
party.”

  “Don’t be mad because we’re more fashionable than you,” Mapper chided around a mouthful of oats.

  “Oh, I’m not,” Magdalys. “Trust me.”

  “But how are you going to dactyljump from roof to roof sweeping chimneys if you’re dressed like proper gentlemen?” Bernice said, walking in from the back room.

  Mapper, Magdalys, and Two Step stood up at the same time. “We’re doing what now?” Magdalys gaped.

  “They’re still clashing at Gettysburg,” Mr. Barrett said, walking back in with a newspaper in hand. “Sounds bad.” He passed it to Bernice, who squinted at the page and shook her head.

  “What happened?” Two Step asked.

  Magdalys was only half there, though. The other half was soaring through the Brooklyn skies on dactylback. The pterodactyls, Dr. Barlow Sloan’s Dinoguide declared, are a feisty and skittish bunch. They can be subdued and ridden, even in the wild, but it’s usually helpful to startle them first. And they often swoop in unpredictable and startling directions, just to have a laugh at their rider’s expense. And sometimes that expense winds up being a shattered skull.

  “Lee’s army pressed further into Pennsylvania,” Mr. Barrett said, pouring coffee into a ceramic mug and passing it to Bernice. “They figure if they can make it all the way to Washington, well, that’d be a wallop and a half for the morale of the Union.”

  “And they’re right,” Bernice added without looking up from the paper.

  “Mhm,” Mr. Barrett grunted. “At least General Grant has shown some grit down at Vicksburg.”

  General Grant. Magdalys snapped back to the world of walking on the earth. Montez’s mounted trike battalion was assigned to Grant’s army. What had happened? Immediately, her mind filled with images of Montez laid out on a cot somewhere, wasting away as gray-clad soldiers stormed over barricades.

  “And if this new General Meade turns out to be anything like the last couple hickjops Lincoln’s put in charge, well …” Mr. Barrett shook his head. “Even if he whups ’em at Gettysburg, he’ll just sit on his hands twiddling about in the Pennsylvania rain until Lee regroups and has another go at it.”