by Scott Mebus
“I know you,” the boy said, backing away from the man’s deep black eyes.
“Do you?” the man asked. He did not budge from his spot on the corner. “I am glad to finally meet you, in person, so to speak. It is strange to realize I have been guiding your steps without ever seeing your face. But Askook showed me the way to your dreams. I’ve made a few changes, of course. A taste of the city that I dream about.”
“Where are the people?” the boy asked, glancing around, and the black-eyed man shrugged.
“Does it matter? I am here, and I hold all the memory this place will ever need.”
“Did you come to kill me?” the boy asked, his stomach jumping.
“Not today, no,” the black-eyed man said, smiling at him with just a flash of teeth. “Today, I wanted to see your face, to catch a glimpse of that pain in your eyes. I believe my friend Typhoid Mary completed her visit to your mother, did she not?” The boy could barely keep the tears at bay as the man continued mercilessly. “She will die, of course—there is no true cure for Mary’s gift, sad to say. Not for a mortal.”
“I’m gonna kill you!” the boy hissed through gritted teeth. “You’ve already failed, you know. I freed the Munsees and brought down your Trap. It’s all over for you now.”
The man with the black eyes began to laugh, and he appeared truly amused. “Is that what you think? That you could ever hurt me? From the Trap falling to that ridiculous Simon Astor boy donning the locket—every move you’ve made has helped further my plan, my vision of what this city must become. People are more frightened then ever, and with the Munsees back in their lives reminding them of their guilt, they’re more willing to act on that fear. You might say that I could not have done it without you.”
For a moment the boy reeled, overcome by the thought that he might be assisting this madman in any way. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
“You’re lying!” he accused the man. “You’re nothing but a liar! If I’m such a big help to you, then why did you hurt my mother? Why bother with me at all? I’m just a fly to you. A mortal, a little nothing. So why are you here? Why even waste your time on me? Why not just kill me already?”
The man with the black eyes abruptly turned away. “You should see to your mother. After all, she’ll be dead soon.”
He walked away as the boy screamed after him, “Why are you running away? What are you so . . . ”
“. . . scared of?”
Rory woke up with a start, those words on his lips. He was lying on the forest floor in the middle of Inwood Hill Park, not far from his family’s apartment. Above him, the trees swayed softly in the late August breeze as the cool air riffled through the leaves. The ground he lay upon was littered with branches and fallen foliage—a remnant of the violent storm that had recently battered the island of Manhattan. But most of the great trees had survived. It would take more than bad weather to destroy this small forest oasis.
He closed his eyes, struggling to remember his dream, but it was already slipping away. A rustle nearby caught his attention.
“What are you doing here, all by yourself?” a voice asked by his ear. Rory sat up quickly, embarrassed to be caught unawares. A small figure stood on a log near his head, gazing compassionately at him. Fritz M’Garoth, battle roach and rat rider, placed his roach helmet carefully on the log and sat down next to it as he waited for Rory’s answer.
“Nothing,” Rory replied. “I couldn’t stand waiting by her body anymore, so I walked over here to just . . . get away. I think I’m going crazy, Fritz. I can’t take doing nothing.”
“Rory—” Fritz began, but he was interrupted by the sound of dogs barking in the distance. “I think they’re back with Sooleawa,” he said before whistling. His rat steed, Clarence, emerged from the underbrush, waiting patiently as Fritz climbed into the saddle.
“Rory, we’re going to fix this,” Fritz promised. “She’s going to be all right. You haven’t let us down and we’re not going to let you down, either. Okay?”
Rory nodded and Fritz guided Clarence around, riding the rat back into the trees. Rory followed, the hope in his heart barely holding off the guilt that threatened to take him over completely. His mother’s illness was his fault, he knew that. And if his mom didn’t recover, he’d never forgive himself.
Never.
The sounds of dogs barking had quieted by the time Rory and Fritz finally reached Wampage’s cave. They stepped out into the small clearing before the cave, which was dominated by a glowing white mound at its center. This was the last shell pit—a repository of wampum, a source of Munsee magic. Wampage had protected this shell pit ever since the Trap was sprung over a century earlier, living with the Munsee spirit dogs in his cave as they awaited their people’s return. These dogs were gathered around their master’s feet as Wampage nodded his greeting.
“Sooleawa is doing what she can,” he told them, stepping aside to reveal the silver-haired medicine woman kneeling beside the still form of poor Mrs. Hennessy. With a hand on Rory’s mother’s forehead, the Munsee woman’s eyes were closed as she muttered to herself.
“She’s not tossing and turning anymore!” Rory exclaimed, taking an excited step forward.
“Don’t get too excited,” his sister’s voice advised him, thick with misery. Bridget sat slumped against a tree at the outer edge of the clearing, their spirit dog, Tucket, lying at her feet, licking her wooden hand in sympathy. She looked exhausted with her arms wrapped around the good-natured dog’s thick neck. “I got excited, too, but Soka said she’s not better or anything. Sooleawa showed up and put her hand on Mom’s head to stop her from shaking and moaning, but she still won’t wake up.”
“My mother is doing everything she can,” a light voice said, and Rory turned to see Sooleawa’s daughter, Soka, walking up to him, absently stroking her long, thick braid as she gave him a look filled with sympathy. “You must be patient.”
To Rory’s embarrassment, he felt his heart jump at the sight of the pretty Munsee girl. He told himself sternly that he had no time for thoughts like this, not with his mother lying sick a few feet away. “We’re glad she agreed to come,” he said, trying to sound casual. But he couldn’t help himself from adding: “And I’m . . . glad you came, too.”
“Yes, well . . . ” Soka trailed off, looking away uncomfortably. She noticed something lying next to Mrs. Hennessy. “Is that your mortal body, Bridget?”
Bridget’s flesh-and-blood body did, in fact, lie next to their mother’s, it, too, appearing to be in a deep sleep.
“Nicholas and the others brought the body up with them before you got here,” Rory explained, nodding at Nicholas Stuyvesant and the rest of the Rattle Watch, who were standing by the cave speaking with Fritz. “We’d left her back in Washington Irving’s house when we went to meet you in the park at the fountain.”
“Why aren’t you in that body, then?” Soka asked Bridget. “You know how dangerous this paper body can be.”
“I tried!” Bridget protested. “I leaned over and breathed out and everything! But nothing happened! Alexa thinks I might be too worked up or something. I’ll try again later.”
“You must,” Soka told her sternly. “You can’t live in this paper body forever. It isn’t safe for your soul.” She suddenly swayed on her feet, reaching out to grab a nearby tree trunk to steady herself.
“Are you okay?” Rory asked her, worried. “You look a little green.”
“Ever since the Trap fell I’ve been a little . . . under the weather,” Soka told them, swallowing hard. Now that he wasn’t blinded by his happiness in seeing her, Rory noticed the circles under her eyes and the sickly cast to her skin. Soka noticed his concern and waved him off. “Don’t worry. Mother believes it has something to do with feeling the land for the first time, since I was born in the Trap. Though I seem to be the only one affected . . .”
Rory was about to say something else when Sooleawa climbed to her feet, demanding all their attention with her pres
ence.
“I can do nothing more for her,” she told them.
“What?” Rory asked, running up to the medicine woman. “Why not? You can do anything! Use your magic. Please!”
“I have done what I can, but I can go no further,” Sooleawa told him sadly. “The power to heal such damage as this illness has wreaked is beyond me. Not since my mother, Alsoomse, left us has any of our people wielded such power.”
“Are you saying it’s hopeless?” Rory asked, his heart sick and heavy beyond belief.
“No!” Sooleawa told him firmly. “I was able to put her body into a special trance that keeps her temporarily free from the passage of time. She will not worsen for at least a little while. It is not much, but it gives us time to discover a way to save her.”
“How?” Rory begged her. “How do we save her?”
Nicholas Stuyvesant stepped forward.
“There’s only one place to go when you don’t know what to do,” he said. “The Fortune Teller.”
Wampage shook his head. “You are fooling with magic no one understands,” he said. “I remember someone like this Fortune Teller, though we had a different name for her. She was not to be trusted.”
“She’s the one who told us that Rory was going to help free your people,” Simon Astor offered. “Not bad for a shifty dame, right?”
“I still do not like it,” Wampage continued, glancing at Sooleawa. She stayed silent, even as Fritz cut in.
“I don’t like it, either,” he said. “From what you have told me, Nicholas, what you give up is not always worth the information you receive.” At this, Nicholas glanced away, unable to meet the battle roach’s eyes. Rory wondered what the immortal teen had handed to the Fortune Teller in order to find him. What would Rory be forced to give in order to save his mother? It didn’t matter. Rory was tired of standing around, feeling useless. It was time to act.
“I’m going,” he said firmly. “Just show me the way, Nicholas.”
Wampage and Fritz tried to dissuade him, but finally, Sooleawa put an end to the argument.
“If you are willing to sacrifice, we must respect that,” she said. “I, myself, must return to the village. Soka?”
“I . . .” Soka glanced at Rory. “I would like to see this Fortune Teller, if I may. I have a question for her myself.”
Sooleawa shook her head. “You will not always be able to so easily shirk your duties, my daughter. Wampage, we must talk. You can leave the fortune-telling to others, today.”
She turned away, walking toward the cave. Wampage gave Rory an encouraging pat on the shoulder before following his medicine woman into the dark. Rory took a deep breath, daring to feel a little more hopeful. He didn’t care what the Fortune Teller asked for; he’d give anything to have his mother back, healthy and whole. Anything at all.
2
THE HERRING MAN
Walt Whitman glanced around the room, trying to gauge the mood of his fellow council members. Though Tobias had called the meeting of the Council of Twelve, everyone knew that Kieft was behind it. As First Adviser, Kieft technically had no authority over the council, though if anyone really believed that, Whitman had a bridge to sell them. Kieft didn’t need a vote to push the council in whichever direction he wished. Or at least, that had been the case when he stood firmly at Mayor Hamilton’s right hand (though someone less charitable might say that Kieft’s hand was the true power in that relationship). But that was before Hamilton broke with Kieft, refusing to fight the Munsees and even offering his own life as compensation for his role in the Trap. Now no one knew what would happen or where the true power lay.
Hamilton sat at the head of the table, looking tired. Ever since his long-lost daughter, Abigail, had emerged from the park, the Mayor had begun to stand up to Kieft. But Mrs. Dorothy Parker, the Goddess of Wit and Whitman’s best friend on the council, thought he still couldn’t be trusted not to fold when push came to shove. However, Whitman had hope that Hamilton would surprise them. Of course, as God of Optimism, he could hardly think otherwise.
The rest of the council split along its typical lines: Whitman himself, Peter Stuyvesant, Mrs. Parker, Zelda Fitzgerald, and James Bennett on one side; Tobias, Boss Tweed, and Horace Greeley on the other; with the rest drifting somewhere in the middle. The battle lines had never seemed more clear than when Whitman and his friends—and they alone—began to get sick during the final days of the Trap. Whitman knew that Kieft had used Typhoid Mary to poison them. Peter Stuyvesant insisted that Caesar Prince was also somehow in on it. Indeed, Peter was staring a hole into the back of Caesar’s head, muttering under his breath. Whitman hoped Peter was wrong; Caesar had always seemed like someone with his heart in the right place. Of course, as Mrs. Parker put it, Whitman could point out a serial killer’s good qualities, so maybe he wasn’t the best judge.
All conversation in the room died as the doors to the council room opened, admitting a grim-faced Willem Kieft. Before Hamilton could say a word to bring the meeting to order, the First Adviser began to speak.
“Luis Fredo, God of Sanitary Street Vendors,” he said. Whitman’s brow furrowed—what was this? Kieft continued. “Molly O’Sullivan, Goddess of Big Tips. Saul Rabinowitz, God of Garmentos. Samantha Yip, Goddess of Good Parking Spaces. Cornelis van Tienhoven, God of Untrustworthy Friends. Jimmy Walker, God of Leaders Who Look the Other Way.”
“What about them?” Mrs. Parker demanded. “Have they all been deluded by your lies?”
“They were all murdered last night,” Kieft said. A shock ran through the council chamber.
“That’s impossible!” Babe Ruth announced. “We took the knife. Without that, who can kill gods?”
“The Munsees,” Tobias answered in a bored voice, barely looking up from his ledgers.
“That’s ridiculous,” Whitman maintained. “These are more lies and innuendo.”
“Their bodies lie in the outer chambers,” Kieft said, a slight sneer twitching at the edge of his mouth. “If you’d like to see.”
Whitman glanced at his friends, uncertain. Stuyvesant, however, did not bother to second-guess, standing up and pointing at Kieft.
“You killed them, you murderous dog!” he shouted. Kieft stared back at him steadily as both sides of the table erupted. Hamilton rose.
“Order!” he commanded, and turned to Stuyvesant, whose large nose was bright red with fury. “Peter, you know this cannot be true. We all know the rules. They cannot be broken, as many have proven through their failures.”
“Indeed!” Kieft agreed. “So, someone else must be at fault here, and the Munsees are the only possible suspects.”
“Now, that is a stretch, Willem,” Hamilton began, but Kieft coldly cut him off.
“They have reason to hate us, as we all saw the other day when the Trap fell, and they have the ability. How can the people of Mannahatta feel safe with such murderers running about?”
“Feel safe?” Mrs. Parker was incredulous. “If anyone should be worried about their safety, it’s the Munsees. The last time they took their eyes off us, they ended up stuck between the same trees for a hundred years.”
“And now they are exacting their revenge,” Kieft replied, his eyes glinting. “They must be . . . dealt with.”
“You mean war!” Mrs. Parker exclaimed. “I won’t let you do it! We will vote you down!”
“You misunderstand me,” Kieft said. “The battle is beginning whether you want it to or not.”
“Are you threatening this council?” Hamilton asked, his eyes narrowing. Whitman was glad to hear a hint of steel in his tone.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kieft said, eyebrow raised as he stared down his former protégé. “I’m merely stating that someone has to take a stand against the Munsees and do what needs to be done. In the absence of anyone else coming forward, I will humbly take on those duties. Anyone who wishes may join me. Anyone who doesn’t may step aside. But stand in my way . . . ”
“I don’t like what you’re impl
ying,” Stuyvesant said, rising to his full height atop his good leg and his peg leg. “It sounds to me like you’re forming an army!”
“No army, I assure you,” Kieft said. “Just a collection of concerned citizens, much like the patriots who fought in your sacred Revolution. You are welcome to join me, but be warned, I will not tolerate interference. And now I must leave you, for good. This council has served its purpose, but times have changed, and a new leadership structure is needed. I cannot stand to the side any longer, not with my city under attack. Feel free to come with me if you wish to help; we have much to prepare for.”
With one last contemptuous glance at a shocked Hamilton, Kieft spun about and strode out of the room. As expected, Tweed, Tobias, and Greeley followed him. But then, to Whitman’s utter shock, Caesar Prince pushed himself to his feet, tipped his fedora at the remaining council members, and followed Kieft out the door. Stuyvesant nodded in cold satisfaction.
“I knew it,” Peter said. “It was him that poisoned me. I thought I knew him, but I never did.”
The door shut behind Caesar and then the council room exploded into frenzied conversation. Whitman sat back heavily in his chair, shell-shocked. A war was coming, all right, and it looked to be bigger than any of them had thought. Already, Kieft was building his army. The only question was: Would anyone stand with the Munsees, or would they all step aside?
This is not the way we left it.”
Nicholas stared despondently at the mound of rubble, crouching down to sift halfheartedly through the pieces of broken mortar at his feet while the others helplessly looked on. They’d confidently come south to the Lower East Side, where Nicholas and Alexa had found the Fortune Teller’s door a few months earlier. But there was no door in this dark alley, or even a wall—only rubble. A heavy bluish mist covered the ground, rising up around their ankles as if they were walking on dry ice. Rory felt uneasy standing in it, as if the ground beneath the mist had somehow become incredibly thin and fragile, covered with cracks he couldn’t see. He had the disconcerting impression that if he were to stamp down hard, he’d break right through and fall helplessly forever into the depths of the earth. Glancing around, he noticed that everyone looked a bit green, Soka most of all. Her sickness seemed to be rearing its ugly head again and she had to cover her mouth to hold back her coughs. He took a step toward her in order to escort her back to the sidewalk, but she waved him off. Tucket trotted over to her, his big paws disappearing into the blue mist, and gave her a lick on the hand. She smiled, finally getting her coughing under control enough to give the big dog a pat.
