She hurried down two flights of stairs as fast as she could. Quickly, she darted over to that floor’s access door. Although it opened easily, its hinges made far more noise than she’d counted on. Surely, the two men had heard the loud screech, echoing off the walls.
Running, Misty found herself in a narrow hallway. The flanking walls were drab, with swatches of either peeling or missing paint. Wispy threads of some sort of fabric material lay on the floor, but it looked nothing like the woven mats they kept on the floors at home. The hallway changed direction, now heading off to the right. She quickly continued on before coming to an abrupt stop. Directly in front of her was an immense window that looked outward. All around its edges were the corrosive signs of acid mist intrusion. Why the window hadn’t been shingled over, she had no idea. Perhaps an oversight. Beyond the outer pane of glass was nothing but a bright-gray mist—the inside of the cloudbank—somewhere within the hundred-foot-span between the bottom of the cloudbank and its top layer. Considering the odd sight, she realized she had never stood before a building’s window before. How could I have? My entire life has been spent living beneath the ground.
The door around the corner behind her, the very door she’d just entered through, squeaked open. Misty had heard stories of what Skylanders would do to Grounders if they were caught venturing into any one of the Midtown high-rise buildings. What was I thinking, coming up here?
She heard approaching murmurs of hushed voices. Unable to grasp their words, she quickened her pace and arbitrarily chose to go left.
She passed, one after another, what must have been individual living quarters. Surprised, she noticed that most of the homes were in squalor—not all that different from any number of Grounder grottos below ground. She saw a makeshift bed that was little more than a few spindly planks lying upon wooden crates. Pieces of a ChemBurn stove sat upon a burned and blackened floor. She passed the remnants of a tethered clothesline, hanging lifeless like a dead septent. She wondered how many had lived here? Dozens and dozens, she guessed. Was this how all Skylanders lived? Why had they abandoned this space?
Another door lay just ahead. As she reached for the knob, the door flew open. The voices behind her were growing even louder. “Check that way. I’ll look down here,” a deep male voice said.
Misty stared down at a small boy she figured must be about nine or ten. He had a mop of unkempt black hair, small pleasant features, and a scattering of freckles across his upper cheeks and nose. He wore dark green trousers, with red suspenders holding them up, and a tan-colored shirt that was stained in places. All of his clothes showed signs of much wear and tear, and small holes were visible along the neckline of his shirt.
Frozen in place, Misty continued to stare down at the boy. He must have seen the desperation in her eyes, because he put a finger to his lips. Opening the door wider, he signaled for her to hurry inside.
Misty gathered up the hem of her dress and scurried past the boy, who closed the door gently behind her. She watched him twist the lock on the knob. Again he gestured, a finger to his lips, whispering, “This way! Hurry!”
Together, they fled down another hallway. Much larger sectioned off rooms were off to the right—more modest living quarters. The same view of the gloomy cloudbank was visible beyond another large window that should have been covered by rubber shingles centuries ago. She felt a cool breeze on her cheeks and only then noticed the jagged gap off to the side that was open to the outside world. This old building was disintegrating.
The boy made a left through a gray metal door. The flame on the lone lantern flickered that hung from the wall flickered brightly for a moment then settled down. Gone were any scraps of carpet as they crossed a cement floor. Misty saw a series of electrical breaker panels on the walls. Farther on, large metal pipes traversed horizontally across the ceiling; some of them angled downward and ran vertically along the walls.
Misty could no longer hear her pursuers’ voices, or their footfalls, and was starting to wonder just how far into the bowels of this building the kid was taking her. Making one last turn to the left, they entered into another small, albeit well-lit room, where two lanterns burned brightly. On the floor was a carefully made bed, comprised mostly of ragged blankets and filthy pillows. The walls were adorned with framed pictures, photographs, paintings, and other images, plus so many other various items that little of the wall could be seen. She noticed a broken wooden stick of some sort, and a round disk. She knew from her own explorations at street level that the latter was a car’s hubcap. A window sign said Coors, and an antique flat-panel television—which of course hadn’t seen use in centuries—was nestled up on the wall between a scattering of other items she didn’t immediately recognize. The boy, it seemed, was a collector of anything and everything.
Turning her gaze back on the boy, she said, “Thank you. You probably saved my life. My name is—”
“I ken who you are.”
Misty shook her head, thinking, that’s impossible. Before she could speak, he said, “I was there. You and that other girl . . . and a dead naked bloke, splattered there on the sidewalk.” Offering up a crooked smile, he said, “My name is Brig. Aye, and I already ken your name is Misty.”
That threw her. She tried to recall if she’d seen anyone else that night. No, she was sure she hadn’t. “Okay . . . Brig,” she said slowly. “Why did you help me just now? Not that I’m ungrateful, but—”
He shrugged and ignored her question. “Tell me, why you up here anyway?” Shooting a glance over to the door, he added, “It’s not safe for a Grounder girl to be wandering around up here. What were you thinking, doing such a stupid thing?”
Misty contemplated on that for a moment. Can I trust this kid? “You live here? Like, all alone, you live in this room? Where are your parents?”
“I don’t have any,” said Brig casually. “Not that I know of, anyway. I’m what’s called an orphan.”
“I know what an orphan is.”
Brig shrugged. “Sorry. Cannae be too sure. Everyone kens Grounders are pretty stupid.”
Misty pursed her lips, but ignored the slight. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you help me?”
“I’m not sure I will help you. Why should I? What’s in it for me?”
“I’m looking for that young man,” Misty said, taking a page out of Brig’s book and ignoring his question in favor of another. “The tall Cloudwalker I was speaking with on the street. Conn. Do you know where I can find him?”
Brig narrowed his eyes. “He wouldn’t be interested in speaking with you. He’s important. The son of a CloudMaster, he is . . . ”
“I don’t care about that. He made me a promise, and if you were there, lurking around in the dark, you would have heard him make that promise.” Misty raised her brows. “Then again, he may be a scoundrel. A liar who does not keep his word.”
“Take that back! Conn is the most honorable person in all the world!”
“Oh, all the world, huh? That’s quite a statement.”
“Aye, but he won’t have anything to do with the likes of you. A Grounder girl who has no business being above the cloudbank.”
“I can give you three pennies if you bring me to him.”
“I already told you, he wouldn’t be interested in a simple Grounder girl.”
“I don’t need him to be interested in me, I need him to fulfill his promise.”
“What do you want from him?”
“That’s my business. Will you help me or not? I’m sure there are others willing to take my coin for such a simple task.”
“Make it four pennies and I might consider it.”
Misty, expecting him to negotiate up to five, pursed her lips as if weighing the increase. “Fine. But you’ll keep me safe up there. Don’t abandon me. Is that the deal?”
“Aye, that’s the deal. But I want to see the coins first.”
Misty, nodding, separated the coins in her pocket and withdrew four pennies, the minted
words and images worn smooth with time, then showed them to him on her open palm. Truth was, it was a hefty portion of Misty’s life savings, and she felt sick at the thought of spending so much at once. “I keep my promises,” she said warningly to Brig. “You’d best do the same.”
“Or what? Maybe you should be careful making threats,” Brig said, with a smirk. He looked her over. “Ken, you can’t just go walking around up there looking like that. Not without a passage medallion.” Turning, he knelt down to an ancient looking two-drawer cabinet. He held up several long chain necklaces, inspecting the wooden medallions on each. “This one will do.” He stood and held it out to her. “I’ll be wanting it back; you’re only borrowing it, ye ken?”
“Sure. Just borrowing it.” Suddenly she found herself out of breath, feeling the excitement of the moment brewing within. Is this really happening?
“Well, don’t just stand there, put it on.”
Misty couldn’t help but smile at the kid’s cheekiness. She pulled the chain over her head and then straightened the medallion. “Like this?”
“Aye, how else would you wear it?” He moved to the door. “Look, stay behind me, but don’t be treading too close on my heels. And if I signal you to stay back or hide, do so quickly.”
Misty nodded rapidly, too excited and nervous to speak.
Brig opened the door and peered out. Without looking back, he motioned for her to follow. “Close the door behind you. I have a lot of important things I don’t want pinched.”
He dashed away, and within minutes they were back within the stairwell. Brig waited for her to catch up to him on the landing. “Look, Grounders are not supposed to be anywhere without an accompanying Cloudwalker.”
“You’re not one of those?” Misty asked. “I thought all Skylanders could walk on the cloudbank.”
“Me? I’m just a sept. You really dinnae ken anything, do ye?”
She shook her head. She thought she’d learned all she needed to know from the journal in her parents’ room, but she was quickly realizing how many gaps there were in her knowledge, and didn’t mind letting Brig know it.
“We’ll need a story, a reason why you are up here alone. Let’s just say you got separated from your flock.”
Misty had no idea what a flock meant, but she nodded anyway.
“Just let me do the talking. The less you say the better.”
“Got it.”
“We’re just about at the top of the building. Hang back here and let me see if anyone’s out there.”
“You know where he is? Where we’ll find this Conn boy?”
“I usually can find him without too much problem. Predictable, he is. Stay here.”
Misty watched the boy hurry up the last flight of stairs and disappear around the bend. When a door opened, an incredibly bright swath of light was cast onto the wall of an adjacent stairwell. Instinctively, she raised a hand to shield her eyes.
Brig, impatient, called down to her, “Get on up here, quick!”
Misty nervously gulped in one last steadying breath. Up the flight of stairs she went, her mind reeling, not knowing what to expect. Stepping onto the last floor landing, she made a right-hand turn and faced the open doorway. There was so much light there, she could barely make out Brig’s waiting silhouette.
“Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there like a blithering bowbag?”
“I’m coming!” Misty hurried over to the open doorway then stopped and looked out. As a gasp came from her parted lips, she unconsciously brought both hands to her mouth. “Oh my God . . .” Tears filled her eyes.
Once, Misty had seen an open patch of quickfall from below. A thin beam of sunlight had streamed through it, a beacon that dropped a thin tunnel of light down to some far away part of the city. A small group of Grounders had gathered to see it, pushing at one another in their vain efforts to get just a little bit closer. The group had remained for almost an hour, watching and waiting until the cloudbank repaired itself and the light faded. It was the brightest and most beautiful light Misty had ever seen, but it didn’t hold a candle to the sight she looked upon now. Feeling weak in the knees, she reached out to Brig for balance. When she spoke, her words were little more than a whisper. “So this is what heaven looks like? This is what the sun looks like?”
Looking all around her, her cheeks wet with tears, Misty admired the cloudbank, so pristine and white. It was like something out of a fairytale, like in the ancient books she’d hidden in her room. She marveled at the buildings, at how they shimmered in the sunlight, so different from the black rubber-tiled structures beneath the cloudbank. Even at street level in the city, her view was always blocked by the hulking, dark forms of buildings, but here above the clouds, she could see for miles. “Oh Brig,” she breathed, “look at that sky. It’s so blue. Everything is so bright.”
People in vivid-colored outfits moved all about the cloudbank. Women in long, elegant dresses, and men dressed in well-fitting trousers. Some of the men and women were wearing knee-length kilts, in varying bright tartan plaids. Their long-sleeved white shirts blazed bright in the sunshine. She noticed their long staffs. These were Cloudwalkers. All in all, it was a dazzling spectacle, far beyond anything she could ever imagine.
As her eyes adjusted to more light than she’d ever seen, Misty continued to stare out at the realm in front of her, face uplifted to receive the sunbeams that warmed her cheeks. Beside her, Brig tugged on her sleeve. “You ken, Misty, in the light, you dinnae really look much like a Grounder. At least, not like any Grounder I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter 20
Conn left the racksmith’s workspace frustrated with himself. The old coot hadn’t allowed him to negotiate the price down so much as a dime. Subsequently, Conn’s purse was substantially lighter than it was when he’d entered. He was quite sure few others had ever paid anywhere near so much for a rackstaff. He was sorely tempted to turn right around and get the coins back. He could find another staff from one of the other racksmiths in Manhattan, but he knew deep down he’d never find a rackstaff more suited to him than this one.
As he strode down the corridor, the fully collapsed rackstaff hanging from its tether gently bumped against his hip. The wound on his back ached, as did the bump on his head from his fall in Gould’s quarters. He tried to make sense of that incredibly real vision he’d experienced. Was that only my wild imagination at work, or did it really happen? Had there really been a Cloudwalker warrior named Darryl, who once possessed this very same rackstaff? Conn was tempted to make a detour over to the library’s Hall of Records. Lineage of a rackstaff was fairly straightforward and well documented. Inscribed into the Ragoon wood, along the side of each paw, was a distinctive signature. With every new owner, often a direct descendant of the previous owner, records would be updated. The racksmith had suggested the library be his next stop, saying, “Get to know exactly who wielded this staff before you, son. I assure you, it will change your perspective.”
But that would have to wait for another time. Right now, Conn was already running late. He wanted to catch the Folais clan contingent before they headed back across the cloudbank to Jersey City. He needed to speak with Lili, to try and ease her anger. Secretly, he wanted to find out if their marriage-to-be was still on, and after the events of their previous meeting, more than a small part of him hoped that perhaps the wedding could be canceled. As far as his father was concerned, their betrothal continued, but he needed to speak to her one on one. He’d seen hatred flare in those dark eyes of hers this morning; she clearly didn’t want this any more than he did. Yes, he’d talk to her, and get the lay of the land, so to speak.
Two doors down from the old racksmith’s enterprise, Conn approached another door. He read the polished brass nameplate:
Professor Claremont Dob
Apparently, no one had yet had the heart to clean out his rooms. Conn wondered if anyone had dared enter the professor’s sanctum since his accident? Conn pictured his old friend and mento
r now standing next to him, but the image he conjured was ethereal and faint, nothing like the powerful and purposeful presence that Dob had exuded in real life.
Conn had been in these rooms hundreds of times; he was the closest thing Dob had to an apprentice, and had always been welcome here. The door was unlocked, but of course Dob had every intention of returning that day.
Conn swung the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him as he took in the large, familiar space that was both cluttered yet strangely organized. Dob’s sanctuary reflected the mental state of its chief occupant: compartmentalized and complex. The space was physically organized by classification of the science being conducted there. Three twenty-foot-long, waist-high benches segmented the room, while multiple end-to-end benches ran along the periphery. Cabinets were mounted onto the walls above the benches. To the left of the door was Dob’s chemistry section; where he had performed experiments and taken notes on the properties of matter, and how substances interacted with energy. Of course, much of Dob’s interest had to do with the elements of Strongzine, Stradamine, and Starlox, and their influences within the atmosphere and on existing matter. Lying atop the benches were heating plates, scale balances, various glassware, and various pieces of distillation and evaporation equipment. As a young boy, Conn remembered sitting at these benches, sometimes alone sometimes with other students, listening to Dob explain the often highly-complex experiments. He encouraged interaction and debate.
Conn remembered one particular morning, years past, when he must have been around nine years old. He was helping the professor work with compounds that were lighter than air; ones that had Starlox anti-gravitational properties. Suddenly, one of the lidded glass flasks began to rise off the workbench, and then another, and another. Soon, no fewer than twenty different colored flasks were rising and floating all around them. And then Dob, himself, was also elevating up-up-up off his stool. Within moments, he was six feet off the floor. Conn dropped the flask he had been holding, staring in awe, and it too floated up, leaking colorful liquids that stained the ceiling.
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