The Ravens of Solemano or The Order of the Mysterious Men in Black

by Eden Unger Bowditch

  “No but yes,” said the man, who then turned to go.

  Miss Brett caught his arm. “Excuse me, but that doesn’t put me at ease,” she said. “Are we . . . will we be safe? Are we going to be safe?”

  The man just stared back at her through his dark glasses,

  But Miss Brett began to understand that the question she had asked was absurd. Safe? They were hiding in a giant ship beneath the sea from some unknown terror. Safe? “Are we out of immediate danger?” she asked, realizing that this was the best she could hope for.

  The man seemed to consider her question. “Perhaps so,” he said.

  Miss Brett tried to search his near-hidden face for some other crumb of wisdom, some greater answer she knew was not there. She let go of his arm and straightened her skirt. She could feel a familiar lump in her throat. She swallowed hard to get it down.

  “Can we have our breakfast up in the glass room?” she asked, smiling at his unsmiling face.

  “Glass room?”

  “Yes, the room up those stairs, where we can see the sea.”

  “Food,” he said.

  “Yes,” Miss Brett said. “Breakfast. Can we have it served upstairs instead of in the dining room?”

  “Crumpet,” said the man.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Crumpet,” he repeated.

  “You mean for breakfast?”

  “Potato,” the man said.

  “Hot chocolate?” Miss Brett said.

  “Banana,” the man said.

  “And perhaps some orange juice.” Miss Brett, her eyebrows rising of their own accord.

  “Jelly,” he added.

  “And toast would be lovely.”

  Well, that went well, Miss Brett thought as the man left.

  She then went on her second errand. When she found the closet of books, the door was unlocked. She opened it a crack, but then found she would need to keep it wide open to bring enough light into the room, because she had no lantern, lamp, or torch.

  As she squinted in the darkness, she realized that she could only peruse the books on the shelves closest to the door. Even so, there were many she could see. There were thick books and thin books, tall books and squat books. There were books in English and French and Arabic, and books that were in a very strange language, neither Spanish nor French nor Arabic, that Miss Brett did not recognize. The books in that language, for the most part, seemed the oldest.

  Curious, she pulled one off the shelf. Then another. She began to look at them, one after another, hoping to find a clue to the language. They had titles like Istorja bikrija tal-Kavallieri mill-għira ta ’Rodi lejn Malta għall-grazzja Suleiman.

  “Istorja.”

  This could have been a woman’s name. In fact, it was very close to her own name, Astraea, but with a very different spelling. She wondered if it could be the story of a woman,

  There was a book titled Tales tal-patrijiet sigriet ta ’l-isptar, and one that seemed to be more of a journal that was called Il-kavallieri fl-iswed. There was one in handwriting so tiny she could hardly make out the words. It was called Noti dwar il-battalja ta ’Transilvanja meħuda mill-ambaxxatur Ruman Qaddis, 1521—and, if “1521” was a year, it was a very old document indeed. “Ruman,” perhaps, meant “Roman,” she thought, but the language was not Latin. There was another book called Noi, i fratelli in nero, and another, Il-fratellanza ta ’niket. It had a badly tattered cover, but one she thought once held an image in red and white.

  Miss Brett looked at these old books (most of which seemed to be historical documents or journals from battles) and found, tucked between two larger ones, a beautifully illustrated book called Il-poeżiji ta ’Muhabi. “Poeżiji,” she said aloud, feeling the word on her tongue. “Sounds like poetry. Perhaps it’s a book of poems.”

  As she began to examine it, she felt that she was peering into something very ancient and treasured. This book was incredible. Each illustration was hand-painted—she could see the lines and feel the texture of the brush strokes. Though she had no idea what language it was written in or what meaning could be given to the poems—and they were indeed poems—the drawings were so delicate, so elegant, so beautiful, that she felt someone with great heart and understanding must have drawn them. The artist clearly loved birds, for they were depicted with large, wise eyes and strangely beautiful colors. There were other creatures, too, also painted lovingly.

  And there were some illustrations of designs she could not discern. These were more geometric, almost as if they were technical drawings. She wondered if the artist and the poet were the same person.

  As she came to the latter pages, she found that some were missing. This upset her—that anyone would harm such a thing of beauty as this book. Closing the book, she decided she would never know what had happened. How could she? She hesitated before placing the book back, carefully, on the shelf. She would return and borrow it later. The illustrations were something she wanted to show the children.

  She now turned to the shelves with books in familiar languages. There were books in English with translations. Some of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes were translated into French—next to copies of The Strand Magazine was a bound copy of Le Chien des Baskerville and Le Rituel des Musgrave. Sitting next to the Verne original, Vingt mille lieues sous les mers, was the translation she was looking for—Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea,

  This was the perfect book, and she remembered seeing it on the shelf when she had previously selected another book by Jules Verne, Le Tour du Monde en Quatre-Vingts Jours, though she had only found the English translation, Around the World in Eighty Days, Her French was not as good as it had been when she was in school, so she preferred to read the English anyway. Miss Brett was sure that the children would love any book by Jules Verne, but Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea seemed a perfect choice, considering how they were traveling. (Of course, Around the World in Eighty Days was a fine choice as well. But they had already become so absorbed in the story that they had read it cover to cover, with Lucy begging for bits to be read again.)

  Miss Brett took Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea from the shelf. Yes, this was exactly the right selection,

  During the two days they had spent so far under the water, eerie light created strange daytimes, and the nights were filled with shimmering shapes passing before the portholes. On the third day they felt the pressure in their ears and the shift beneath their feet. First it was the great rush of water, and then the sensation that gravity had just increased tremendously. Between the descent and the ascent, the difference was remarkable.

  They had just finished breakfast, and were heading with Miss Brett to the “window deck,” as Lucy had begun to call it, where, on arriving, they all buckled to their knees or, like Lucy, fell over flat onto the floor. Since they were on the window deck, they could see the rush of sea as the ship ascended, moving upwards at a fairly fast clip. Their rise brought all sorts of creatures sliding past the glass.

  “A mermaid!” said Lucy, now lying on her back, pointing at a clump of seaweed.

  Faye was going to disabuse Lucy of the notion that there was a mermaid anywhere in the ocean, but the look from Miss Brett urged her to refrain from anything that might stop Lucy from believing in fairies, elves, and mermaids. (Miss Brett often sent these looks in Faye’s direction.)

  With an ear-popping whoosh, the ship hit the surface, and bright sunlight poured down upon them. Shielding their eyes, the children got to their feet. Miss Brett helped Lucy, who clapped her hands together in excitement.

  Then, with a loud groan, clank, and whir, the heavy glass shell began to open, slowly receding into the sides of the ship.

  “It’s so loud!” said Lucy. The noise was in direct contrast to the last day of utter silence, during which the ship’s engines seemed to have ceased working, even as the vessel continued to move through the water as if pushed by an invisible hand.

  Fresh salt air stung their faces. It was colder than it had been
the last time they felt the air outside.

  “Where are we?” Faye asked. She could see land ahead. There were two lumps of land on either side of what looked like an opening to a harbor.

  “I know where we are,” Noah said, excitedly “and why it’s been so quiet since yesterday. We’re at the Strait of Gibraltar, and we’ve been riding the waves!”

  “Riding the waves?” Faye was incredulous. “We’ve been below the sea, you twit.”

  “Riding the waves below the sea—the underwater current,” Noah said, unphased. “The Strait has powerful currents beneath the water, flowing into the Mediterranean. We haven’t needed our engines. This is awfully exciting.”

  But their conversation was cut short by something that, at first, sounded like the beating of sails against a mast, but the rhythm was almost musical and clearly deliberate.

  “Is it down or up?” Lucy asked. Then, without warning, she hurried down the stairs.

  “I’ll get her,” Jasper said as he raced after his sister. “Lucy, where are you going?!” he called as Lucy ran down the hall. “Don’t just run off like that when we don’t know what’s—”

  But then he stopped, almost knocking Lucy down. She was standing in the doorway of the costume closet.

  “Someone has stolen the big things!” she said, pointing to the empty shelf where the large cloths had been folded. She reached into the pocket of her apron. “But it wasn’t me.”

  “I’m sure no one’s stolen them,” Jasper said, taking her hand. Lucy’s oddly guilty expression distracted him for a moment, but then the sound again brought him back. He listened, and now could only faintly hear the drumming. “Come on, let’s go up on deck and see what the sound is, shall we?”

  Brother and sister walked together back toward the stairs. As they came closer, they heard music. It was some string instrument, as well as a drum.

  On deck, they found Miss Brett and the others staring toward the bow—the very front of the ship. When Jasper and Lucy reached the top of the stairs, they, too, stared at what they saw.

  Standing in four rows, with seven in each row, stood the mysterious men in black. Each had, at his side, a strange and ancient sword. All stood staring out at the sea, as if entering the Strait of Gibraltar held some grand significance. Among them stood two drummers, one the man in the captain’s dress. The man with the frilly apron was playing something that looked like a mandolin,

  Then the drumming and the mandolin stopped, and they all began to sing. They sang in the most beautiful tone, like angels. It was a very ancient-sounding song, almost a hymn or a chant. The sound echoed as they passed through the Strait of Gibraltar, and the mysterious men in black seemed to sing back to the echo. The sun was bright in the sky, and the children did not look up, their eyes still sensitive to the light. A shadow seemed to wave over the men as they sang:

  Ferħ huwa għal dawk li jaħdmu għal paċi!

  Ferħ huwa għal dawk li huma puri fil-qalb.

  Ferħ huwa għal dawk li huma veri li Suleiman.

  Xogħol għal dawk li huma għandhom jipproteġu d-dinja minn

  el Magnau el Magna mid-dinja.

  U dan se jġib paċi.

  Il-poeta ser ikollok paċi.

  “What does ‘paċi’ mean?” Lucy asked Miss Brett. “They say that an awful lot.”

  Miss Brett smiled an “I don’t know” and turned back to listen to the song.

  “I will know,” said Lucy with a significant nod.

  “Look!” Wallace whispered loudly, pointing up.

  And for the first time, they all looked up and saw that the waving shadow came from a giant flag—in fact, two giant flags, raised high on the ship.

  “The special cloths,” Lucy whispered.

  “They’re flags,” Noah said, just a bit louder.

  And it was true. One was white with four black shapes, like swords or arrows, angled toward the center. The other flag was half red and half white. These flags, unfolded, were enormous. Two men stood on either side of each flag, holding them up by long poles. It took two men to hold up one pole, and they struggled against the wind.

  “What do they stand for?” asked Wallace. “The flags. Are they from a country?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Brett, but the question got her thinking. Were the flags from the country of the mysterious men in black? Or were they symbols of some order, some fraternity, some brotherhood?

  “Do they come from somewhere far away?” asked Lucy. “Are they special?”

  Again, Miss Brett did not know. But it was mesmerizing, listening to the song, watching these men all together, part of some mysterious ritual, singing in some mysterious language.

  The song ended. All the men pulled out their swords and said something, which also ended in the word “paċi,” and then they sheathed their weapons. They all bowed their heads, except for the men holding the poles on which the flags continued to wave. In a rather impressive, almost dance-like movement, the men seemed to weave in and out of each other’s flag, until both flags were not only off their poles, but folded perfectly

  “Well done,” Jasper said breathlessly.

  “That was amazing,” Faye said.

  The odd performance of the mysterious men in black gave the children and their teacher much to consider. Was this a secret ritual? Were they a secret society?

  “They’re not masons,” said Noah to Wallace’s suggestion. “Masons have secret handshakes and rings. They don’t wear bonnets and bunny ears.”

  “How do you know?” asked Lucy.

  “Well, they just do. One knows this,” said Noah.

  “Whatever they are, they’re protecting us against Komar Romak, aren’t they, Miss Brett?” said Wallace.

  “Oh, I get all overish when we talk of Komar Romak,” said Lucy with a shiver.

  “Well then, let’s think about other things, shall we?” said Miss Brett.

  But the children could not stop thinking about those two big questions: Who were the mysterious men in black, and were they protecting the children against Komar Romak? Or, perhaps more importantly, could they protect the children against Komar Romak?

  Over the next couple of days on the Mediterranean, things felt different. Perhaps because they were closer to land than they had been in ages, they felt they had emerged in a very different place than where they had embarked. The water was bluer and milder, and the air more fragrant.

  “That’s Sardinia!” Lucy shouted as they passed the island. Lucy had been looking at maps. “And we’re headed into the Tyrrhenian Sea, toward Italy.”

  It was early in the morning, the sun tiptoeing up into the sky The air was cool. Wind in their hair, the children watched as they sailed into Civitavecchia—the Port of Rome, as it is often called, The ancient city was impressive, with its fort and its powerful history. The children scrambled to the deck as the ship pulled into dock. Miss Brett came up to meet them, letting them know it was time to pack up their things. She had been told they would be disembarking, or believed that was what the jester meant when he said, “Off! Get!” and made hand motions before doing a flip in the air and running off,

  Soon, as they descended the gang plank, they heard the sound of a distant train. But carriages were waiting for them, and they climbed aboard one, while their bags were loaded onto another. After a very short ride, they came to the train station. There, they were herded onto a train. Suddenly, they had to run after a sprinting man dressed in a black conductor’s uniform, with a black scarf over his nose and mouth and dark triangular glasses over his eyes. Quickly the man led them from the very back of the train to the front, and then out the other side,

  The children began to groan. “What was that?!” Noah gasped, clutching at a stitch in his side, “Why on earth did he make us run that race?” said Faye, wiping her brow on the corner of her skirt. She pulled back her lovely hair and re-braided the plat that had come loose.

  Miss Brett tried to catch her breath, too. She raised her hand to get t
he attention of a man in a black cap resembling the green one worn by Robin Hood. But she had not gotten enough breath back to demand to know why they were running around like lunatics.

  The man in the black Robin Hood cap urged them into a separate train car that sat next to the train tracks. The train itself then took off from the station, leaving their car behind. Next to their car were two carriages, sleeker and more compact than the ones they had used before, though just as black.

  A door opened at the back of their car. A slender man in a tall chimney pot hat and a waxed cotton cloak stood, looking in. He did not guide them out but, instead, raised a black rose to his barely visible nose. Then, almost as if he were suddenly aware of the waiting children, he cleared his throat and motioned the children into the first of the two carriages.

  “Wait a minute,” said Noah, closest to the door. “I—”

  And with a thwap! the man with the black rose bonked Noah on the head with his flower. Too surprised to say anything, Noah hurried along. Lucy slid out after Miss Brett. She looked up at the man with the black rose.

  “Don’t be sad,” she said, touching his hand.

  The man looked down and gently touched Lucy on the head with the rose, then turned and walked away. Robin Hood left them, too, and climbed into the second carriage. A man with an impossibly huge top hat sat in the driver’s seat of the carriage the children and Miss Brett entered. Inside seemed much roomier than the outside suggested. The seats were covered in velvet, and very soft. There were pillows thrown around the over-large seats. This was going to be a comfortable ride, no matter where they were going,

  “I suppose we’re going to Italy,” Noah said, smiling.

  “Well, aren’t you the clever boy?” Faye said. “And do you think we’ll be going in carriages?”

  “I don’t think we’ll be going by train, if that’s what you’re asking.” Noah smiled, and Faye just shook her head.

  Lucy gave a shiver. The sweat from running had now cooled on her neck. She shivered again. “Brrr. Who took away the warmth?” she said.