The Ravens of Solemano or The Order of the Mysterious Men in Black
Page 1
Eden Unger Bowditch
Also by Eden Unger Bowditch: The Atomic Weight of Secrets
Copyright 2013 by Eden Unger Bowditch
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-61088-104-3 (cloth) / $22.95
ISBN 978-1-61088-121-0 (school edition) $19.95
Published by Bancroft Press (“Books that enlighten”)
P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209
410-358-0658
410-764-1967 (fax)
www.bancroftpress.com
Cover design and author photo: Steve Parke
Interior design: Tracy Copes
Chapter illustrations and diagrams: Mary Grace Corpus
TO NATEJULIUSLYRICYRUS AND OLIVE, THE DOG
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY FATHER, DANIEL PHILIP UNGER. DAD—YOUR SPIRIT ROAMS THROUGH THESE PAGES AND HAUNTS THE HEART OF THE STORY. I MISS YOU SO.
CHAPTER 1: BEFORE THE BIG BANG
or Empty Space
CHAPTER 2: ALL UP IN SMOKE
or Out Goes the Light
CHAPTER 3: A BURNING CONFUSION
or The Young Inventors Miss the Train
CHAPTER 4: THE REDISCOVERED AND THE GONE AGAIN
or What Lucy Found Missing
CHAPTER 5: WHAT LUCY UNDERSTANDS
or When One Will Have Flern
CHAPTER 6: DISAPPEARING PROMISES
or Miss Brett Misses Her Pages
CHAPTER 7: A DANGER CANNOT BE UNINVENTED
or Wallace Meets His Towering Neighbor
CHAPTER 8: FROM LAND TO SEA
or Mysterious Men in Black on the Decks
CHAPTER 9: CLOTHES FOR THE OCCASION
or What Lucy Found in the Closet
CHAPTER 10: MISS BRETT’S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE
or Wallace’s Magnets Go Astray
CHAPTER 11: HALLOWEEN SCARES
or What Lucy Sees in the Cooking Pot
CHAPTER 12: A SIGN ON THE HORIZON
or All Hand Going Down
CHAPTER 13: CREATURE COMFORTS OF THE GREAT BLUE SEA
or The Salute of the Mysterious Men in Black
CHAPTER 14: A COZY RIDE TO SOMEWHERE
or The Allegory of the Cave
CHAPTER 15: A CREATURE BUT NO COMFORT
or Faye Skips to the Loo
CHAPTER 16: THE VILLAGE OF SOLEMANO
or Fields of Black
CHAPTER 17: A LINE ON THE PAST
or The Young Inventors Guild Mind Their Manor
CHAPTER 18: THE GARDEN OF THE BEASTS
or The Baker Tells Her Tales
CHAPTER 19: SPIES IN THE DORMITORY
or Where the Children Went at Harvest
CHAPTER 20: ADVENTURES IN A WINTER WONDERLAND
or A Very Cold War Indeed
CHAPTER 21: THE MAGICIAN’S SECRET
or What the Beasts Were Hiding
CHAPTER 22: THE TONGUES OF SOLEMANO
or Language of the Past
CHAPTER 23: WHAT DID NOT COME
or Signora Fornaio Misses Her Package
CHAPTER 24: FAYE’S ALMOND ADVENTURES
or A Grim Discovery Before the Fete
CHAPTER 25: THE FOREST THROUGH THE TREES
or Trimming the Fir
CHAPTER 26: A CHRISTMAS OF SURPRISES
or What They Found in the Chamber Below
CHAPTER 27: AN UNEASY FEAST
or The Promise
CHAPTER 28: A BLACK GATHERING
or The Mysterious Men in Black in Black
CHAPTER 29: A PRICKLING FEELING THIS WAY COMES
or What Wallace Finds Shocking
CHAPTER 30: THE MISSING MISSIVES
or Noah’s Post Comes Alone
CHAPTER 31: THE BAKER’S SON
or What Lucy Knows Now
CHAPTER 32: A BOX OF SADNESS
or The Arm of the Shepherd
CHAPTER 33: A BLACK DISCOVERY
or What They Find Inside
CHAPTER 34: WHO DID WHAT
or Confessions and Discoveries
CHAPTER 35: TROUBLE IN DOUBLE
or How Two Makes One
CHAPTER 36: A BREACH OF MANOR
or Lucy Finds the Rabbit Hole
CHAPTER 37: FEAR OF SMALL PLACES
or What Becomes Lost in Tunners
CHAPTER 38: FOLLOW THE SHIVERING ORB
or The Unlocking of Clues
CHAPTER 39: THE ROOM OF A THOUSAND LANGUAGES
or A Bird in the Hand
CHAPTER 40: FINDING THEIR WORDS
or The Young Inventors Guild
CHAPTER 41: TRAVAILS IN THE TUNNELS
or A Stairway Home
CHAPTER 42: TWISTS AND TURNS
or What They Found in the Dark
CHAPTER 43: THE ARCHER’S FOLLY
or The Fall of Friend or Foe
CHAPTER 44: THE PATH AHEAD
or Calling Cards from Ariana
The following article appeared in The New York Times, fall 1903 (actual date withheld).
The New York City police came to the conclusion that the young man was Italian. This was because Italian coins were found in his jacket pocket, and because his rather worn clothes had tailoring marks in Italian. The trousers, it was noted, were made in Italia.
But in truth, these were not revelations of vast importance. These were not such terribly mysterious or, in the end, even important clues. The fact that he was Italian would matter little to the police of New York City He could have been Greek or Armenian, or even from the United States. The police would never know what had happened in that tunnel or why In the end, they would close the case. They would call it “murder by person or persons unknown,” and only a handful of people far, far away would be faced with the darkest of facts.
The article did, however, fail to mention three terribly mysterious and infinitely more important clues. First, in the right hand of the victim was a corner of a map. It was a very tiny piece of a map that, when completely unfolded, would show, to someone who knew the region very well, a sliver of the Appennini, or Apennine, mountain range. Second, in the left hand, the victim held a fistful of black feathers. Third—and the utter and total absence of this clue from the written newspaper article was in no way the fault of the journalist, his editors, the coroner, or the police investigators at the scene, because this terribly mysterious and most important clue was gone by the time any of them even knew there was a body in that tunnel—hidden by a rock, much farther down the tunnel, in the shadows, there was an envelope, crumpled beyond recognition, with a broken wax seal and a torn note inside that, when it was intact, and the ink had not run from the wetness, and the note was legible, read simply, “They will be on the train.”
Before the enormous explosion, there was calm. For the passengers on the train, this was a lovely calm.
This was not the kind of train one takes from town to country and back. It was not the kind of train one rides to work or to the fair It was not the kind of train one takes across the continents or for holiday abroad. This train, unlike others, was, well, very much unlike others.
This train had a grand salon with a fine fireplace that warmed the whole car. On this train there was a spectacular laboratory filled with tools of invention. There
was a grand observatory with a high glass-domed ceiling and telescopes with gears that allowed levers a great range of movement. There were beautiful sleeping compartments for each of the traveling families. And for several days, since the travelers first climbed on board, the train had made no stops. In fact, besides the few who were traveling together there were no other passengers aboard at all.
But there was a dining car. Without a doubt, that car was a delicious experience of taste and smell. Before the explosion, five children and most of their parents sat around the long dining table.
“Well, this looks familiar,” said thirteen-year-old Faye Vigyanveta with a groan, looking out the window. The rain had stopped and the land was wet—brown and wet for miles and miles. A smallish man, dressed in black with a frilly apron and a chefs hat, stood beside her. He picked up a cinnamon stick with a pair of pincers and placed it beside her cup. Faye did not thank him or look up to acknowledge this presentation. She simply picked up the cinnamon stick and began to stir her tea. She looked at the boy across the table and rolled her eyes.
Ten-year-old Wallace Banneker, descendant of the great Benjamin Banneker and Louis Latimer, adjusted his glasses but said nothing. He looked down at the eggs on his plate. He knew what his father was going to say about a boy and his appetite, but Wallace was already full from the toast and jam.
This was not the case for the boy next to him. “I’ll have another crumpet,” said twelve-year-old Noah Canto-Sagas before swallowing the three he had in his mouth. “And the apricot jam, too . . . please?” He reached across Wallace’s plate, barely skimming the jiggling eggs as he tried to grab the jam pot, which was just beyond his fingers. Wallace moved the pot closer so Noah could take it.
“Honestly, Noah.” Faye shook her head as Noah poured the jam onto his crumpets. Noah smiled a food-filled smile at Faye. Faye again shook her head, long, dark chestnut hair falling freely down her back and over her shoulders.
“Can you pass the other pot of jam, Lady Faye?” Noah asked. Faye showed a look of disgust, but did, indeed, pass the jam.
Before they’d all gathered for breakfast, Faye had been working on her wing design, and Noah had been working with twelve-year-old Jasper Modest on a mechanical chess set. Jasper had been caught between fits of laughter with Noah and quick glances at Faye.
As he worked, Jasper tried not to stare, but Faye always looked so beautiful when she was concentrating. Her green eyes seemed to get even greener. He liked to watch her when her passion was pleasure. When she was, instead, angry, those green eyes could burn a hole right through you. Ever since the children had recovered their missing parents, Jasper had noticed that Faye had her mother’s eyes—or rather, she shared the color. But Faye’s eyes were like no others. No one had eyes so intense, so beautiful. While her mother was American, blond and tall, Faye’s father was from India and gave Faye her beautiful bronze skin. Jasper noticed that, too.
As they sat around the table now, Jasper stole a glance over at Faye. She looked back, and her wrinkled nose at Noah turned into a disarming smile at Jasper. Blushing from his belly to his ears, Jasper quickly stabbed himself in the cheek with his fork, then knocked over his glass and dropped his napkin into his cocoa.
“It’s because of the little bunny hole he makes in the softness of the sand. See?” came the voice of Lucy Modest. Lucy had followed Faye’s gaze as she looked out the window. “Yesterday it wasn’t as big, but we certainly did pass by his house.”
“Quelle mémoire!” said her mother, Dr. Isobel Modest. “My girl does remember everything.” And this was true. Lucy could remember everything. It’s just that sometimes, things could be lost in the translation from Lucy’s brain to a language anyone else in the world could understand.
“What house, Lucy?” asked Wallace, who saw no house.
“Is it an imaginary house?” asked Noah. “Or is it just invisible? Maybe you need to go back to sleep.”
Earlier, Lucy had been like a sleeping kitten in her mother’s lap. But Lucy had not been asleep. Not really. She had decided to pretend to sleep. This way, she could feel what it was like simply to sleep within her mother’s grasp. Getting her mother all to herself was a rare and special thing for Lucy, and because this was so rare and special, she didn’t want to miss it by sleeping. So there she had lain, experiencing the joy of her mother’s slender legs against her almost seven-year-old cheek—at least until the train had lurched as it came to a curve around some rising hills on the plains.
“I hope nothing’s tumbled over,” Faye’s mother Gwendolyn had noted as she straightened her skirt and adjusted strands of her blond hair that had come undone from the large bun at the nape of her neck.
Suddenly, Lucy had jumped up from her mother’s lap. She looked around, her special bracelet in her mouth, and ran out of the room.
Lucy had then run through the doors and into her family’s sleeping quarters. She opened the door to the room she shared with her parents and Jasper and quickly climbed onto her bed. She reached under her pillow and sighed with relief. The journal, she found, was safely tucked away. She leaned over and kissed it and straightened the ribbon that kept it closed.
This journal was precious to Lucy. In fact, it was precious to them all. But Lucy felt responsible, for it was her role to hold it and keep it safe. The lurching of the train might have sent her pillow flying, and then the journal could have flipped out of the bed and been torn—or even slipped out the window! She was glad it was safe and, checking once again that it was still beneath the pillow and hadn’t disappeared (since things and people often did in Lucy’s life), she then hurried back to the others.
Now, Lucy looked out the window at a stand of trees she knew they had passed before.
“There’s the house, near the trees,” she insisted, pointing in the direction Faye had been looking.
“There’s no house, Lucy,” Noah said.
“Silly, of course there is!” Lucy pointed more emphatically, her finger wagging.
“It’s not there,” Noah said, buttering another scone.
“Yes, it is quite,” said Lucy. “He’s dug it out himself. Oh, I hope his ears didn’t get wet in the rain.”
Noah threw a look at Jasper. “Rabbit?” Noah mouthed silently. Jasper nodded.
“We’ve passed this way exactly seven times,” said Lucy. “There’s the sand cherry turning red.” Lucy identified a tight clump of bushy plants that had, in fact, turned a deep but mottled red. The last time, just days before, the leaves hadn’t yet turned—or, at least, Faye didn’t remember seeing anything so colorful from the window.
“It feels as if we’ve passed this way a hundred times,” groaned Faye, pouring milk into her tea, “no matter what color the leaves are.”
“As we must,” said Dr. Rajesh Vigyanveta to his daughter. “It is for our own good.”
“And what is that supposed to mean exactly, Father?” Faye asked. “How is any of this for our own good?”
“Faye, dear,” said her mother soothingly, “there are things that just must be because . . .” Looking at her husband, then the other adults, she simply said, “Because they must be. It is for the best.” Gwendolyn Vigyanveta smiled at her daughter. Faye looked at her mother, who sounded more like a small-minded country girl than the world-class scientist she was.
Faye opened her mouth to argue, but caught Jasper’s eye. She knew what he was saying with that look. He was right. There was no point complaining. Had Faye gotten anywhere complaining? At best, she simply failed. At worst, her complaining got them all into trouble.
Faye threw an angry glance at the mysterious man in black bringing a pot of tea to the table. At this point, she had no choice but to agree that the mysterious men in black (in their bunny ears, or frocks and pinafores, or bloomers and frilly bonnets) were likely there to guard them and meant no harm. Still, Faye saw them as her jailers. They made her furious, these horrid men with their lunatic dress and bizarre speech. To Faye, they had been kidnappers, stealing
her from her life on the estate in India, taking her from her own home and her own creatures and her servants and her laboratory
The other children and their parents, too, had all been dragged from their homes—Jasper and Lucy from London, England; Noah from Toronto, Canada; and Wallace from Long Island, New York, here in America.
Faye had to admit that life before—before the farmhouse outside Dayton, Ohio, before the train, before Miss Brett—had been lonely Captive as she was, she was now among friends. Friends are the one thing she had never had before. But she could not believe that this was all “for their own good,” as her parents seemed to believe. At least they tried to convince her of it, whether or not they really believed it themselves.
Noah, with his mop of red hair, pulled a small white chess pawn from his pocket. He attempted to balance it on his nose. Either by intention or misadventure, he flipped it into his not-yet-empty cup. With a shrug, he picked up the cup and slurped, finishing every last drop, except for the pawn. Faye made a grimace, placed her own cup daintily into its saucer, and tapped the cinnamon stick gently on the rim of her cup before putting it, too, on the saucer. Noah, who still had a full plate, reached for yet another crumpet from the basket of hot fresh treats being placed on the table by the man in black bunny ears. His mother, Ariana Canto-Sagas, her beautiful platinum necklace sparkling on her neck, picked up the basket and moved it out of reach of her son’s hunting fingers.
The door to the salon opened, and Dr. Banneker appeared, filling the doorway with his brawny form. Stepping aside, he gestured and Miss Brett entered. All the children were delighted to see her. As always, their teacher looked lovely. She was so pretty and kind, and her smile brightened the room. Like everyone else, she seemed to have relaxed tremendously now that all the families were finally back together again.
Miss Brett had been with the children in confinement and isolation at Sole Manner Farm. She had been there when they first arrived, unsure of why they had come. She had been there, with them, as they feared and fretted, not knowing where their parents were.
And she had been there when he had come—the mysterious and terrifying man who had threatened all their lives.