The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  “And then what happened?” the wizard asked.

  Hugo Algernon shrugged. “Nothing. The rest of the letter was about a pig he’d bought and how plump it was and blah, blah, blah.”

  “And where did this encounter take place?”

  “In Malpesa.”

  “Ah.”

  “What’s Malpesa?” Michael asked.

  “Malpesa,” the wizard replied, “is a city at the southern tip of South America, on the coast of Tierra del Fuego, the Land of Fire. It was first an Indian village, then became a colonial trading post, a stopover for ships going from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Then, when the magic world pulled away, Malpesa went with it.” The old man turned back to Hugo Algernon. “So when you read this letter and realized what it meant, why did you contact Richard and not me?”

  “Because, you great ninny, you’re impossible to get ahold of! I thought Richard could find you! And”—he glanced at Michael and Emma and some of the energy and fury seemed to go out of him—“I knew about the children. Richard had told me who they were. That they were the children of the prophecy, the three who would finally bring the Books together and fulfill their destiny.”

  Michael felt his spine tighten. In Cambridge Falls, the Countess had mentioned the prophecy to Kate. Only the witch hadn’t said what the Books’ destiny actually was, or what it meant for the three of them.

  Hugo Algernon went on. “When I got back to the States, I called him. A week or so later, Richard showed up at my house in New Haven. Clare was with him. Must’ve been close to midnight. I knew something was wrong. But he insisted I tell him what I’d discovered. And I did.”

  “When was this?”

  “Christmas. Ten years ago. A day after his family had supposedly disappeared.” Hugo Algernon looked at Michael and Emma. “I imagine I was the last person to see your parents.”

  The door behind the children had blown open, but no one moved to close it. Michael felt a cool wind against his neck. Emma was clenching his hand.

  Michael reflected that he and Emma knew more about their parents’ fate than ever before. But there were still so many questions. Had their parents reached this city, Malpesa? Had they found the map? Who had this sick man and his comrades been? And then there was the mystery of the book itself. Dr. Pym had taken the Atlas out of Egypt—Michael remembered his story of keeping it safe for a thousand years before entrusting it to the dwarves—so of the two remaining books, which one was this? What were its powers? For the thousandth time, Michael wished that Kate were with them.

  The wizard rose and shut the door, then returned to the table. He said, “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Hugo Algernon rubbed his dirty fingers through his beard and nodded.

  “I didn’t find out that Richard and Clare’s family had gone missing till a few days later. I tried to get in touch with you. Obviously, that was pointless.”

  “Tell us about it,” Emma muttered.

  “I talked to some of the others. Jean-Paul, for one. I didn’t tell them anything. Just that I needed to talk to you about Richard and Clare. Maybe someone was listening. Maybe there was a traitor. I don’t know.” As the man spoke, he dug his fingernails into the wood of the table. “Must’ve been a week later. I get a knock at the door. I open it, not thinking anything; and there he is. Smiling.” Hugo Algernon raised his head and looked at the children. “You two ever see a man coming—huge, bald, not a hair on him—run. Run, and don’t ever stop running.”

  “It was Rourke,” the wizard said.

  “Yeah. It was Rourke.” The man went back to digging his nails into the table.

  “What happened then?”

  “What happened then? You want to know how much I fought before I betrayed my friends? Oh, I fought all right. But he was too strong. And I could feel him in my head. He was laughing the whole time. I heard myself telling him that Richard and Clare had gone to Malpesa. I woke up the next morning and realized that not only had I betrayed my friends, but Rourke had broken something in me. I’d never been a great magician, we both know that, but whatever I’d had was gone. I walked out of my house. Never called anyone. Just … disappeared.”

  And Michael suddenly understood why this man had spent ten years in a lonely cottage on a mountain in Italy. He wasn’t hiding from the Dire Magnus. He was hiding from what he’d done, from himself. Michael felt a strange, powerful sympathy for him.

  “Then why hasn’t Rourke found the book?” Dr. Pym asked. “He must have the information you gave Richard and Clare.”

  Hugo Algernon shook his head. “I gave them a charm that would wipe all knowledge of the book from their memories. They must’ve used it before they were caught. I should’ve taken better precautions with myself. As it was, all Rourke got from me was the name Malpesa.”

  “You didn’t tell him about the sick man? Or the map?”

  “No. I betrayed my friends, but the secret of the book, I buried deep. Even he couldn’t find it.”

  “You shouldn’t have told him anything!” Emma cried, pounding the table with her small fist. “You should’ve said nothing!”

  The man nodded and said, “You’re right, child. That’s what I’ve been thinking about for the past ten years.”

  Dr. Algernon got up and walked to the fireplace. He pulled out a loose stone, then reached in and removed a folded moleskin packet.

  “These are my original notes. I keep them hidden so the goats don’t eat them. I always knew you’d find me sooner or later.” He handed the packet to the wizard. “There may be a war coming, Stanislaus. But I’m no good to you. The magic’s left me.” Then he turned to face Michael and Emma. “If you find your father, tell him I’m sorry. Tell him that Hugo Algernon’s just an old fool.”

  Dr. Pym stepped to the door and fit his ornate gold key into the lock. He turned it four times to the right, seven to the left; there was a click, and he pushed the door open. Sunlight flooded the cottage. Michael and Emma found themselves looking out over a vast expanse of blue water, with the sun poised in the distance. But only the doorway was illuminated; the cottage’s windows remained dark.

  “This way, children.”

  Michael took one last look at the Devil of Castel del Monte. He sat at the table, petting a small goat that had come up to nuzzle his leg. “Dr. Algernon—” The wild-haired man lifted his head, and sunlight intended for some other place in the world revealed his eyes for the first time. They were dark brown and very sad. Michael said, “We’re going to find them.” And he was about to step across the threshold when the man said, quietly, “Hold a second.”

  Hugo Algernon went to the framed photo Michael had seen earlier and removed the backing. “Here.” He pushed the photo into Michael’s hands.

  Michael looked down at his father, young, smiling, filled with hope. He pulled out his Dwarf Omnibus and slipped the photo between the pages. “Thank you.”

  The man nodded and turned away; Michael stepped through the door.

  They were on top of a cliff. Dr. Algernon’s door, now closed behind them, had become the door of a whitewashed house with red shutters. Flowers spilled from window boxes, filling the salty air with a sweet aroma. Michael looked out over the water, to where the sun hung upon the horizon. Was it sunrise or sunset?

  “Dr. Pym—”

  “We are in Galicia, in northwest Spain.” The wizard slid the golden key into the pocket of his jacket. “This house belongs to a friend of mine. He’s away, but we’ll spend the night here and tomorrow head to Malpesa.”

  “Will Kate be there?” Emma asked. Michael could tell she was trying not to sound too hopeful, but hoping desperately all the same.

  “We’ll see, my dear.”

  And Dr. Pym placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and led her into the house.

  The children sat at the kitchen table while Dr. Pym prepared glasses of warm milk and distracted them with stories of the strange things he had seen in his travels, stories that at any other time Michael would’ve
been furiously copying into his journal. At one point, Dr. Pym switched on the light above the table, and Michael glanced out the window and saw that night had fallen; and the exhaustion of a day that had begun in Baltimore with him and Kate running before a storm settled upon him. He felt as if his head were made of stone; his arms and legs weighed thousands of pounds. However, once they’d drunk their milk and the glasses stood drying in the rack, and Emma had hugged Dr. Pym and headed up to bed, Michael found himself lingering in the kitchen.

  “Yes, my boy?” Dr. Pym was packing his pipe. “What’s troubling you?”

  “Who was that man who hurt Dr. Algernon? Does he work for the Dire Magnus?”

  “His name is Declan Rourke, and, yes, he is one of the Dire Magnus’s lieutenants; indeed, his chief lieutenant, and a very dangerous and, in my opinion, unbalanced individual.”

  “And you think he’s the one who … took our parents?”

  Dr. Pym had his pipe going, and the sweet, almondy smell filled the kitchen.

  “I’m afraid so. I think they followed Dr. Algernon’s clues, and somewhere in their search, Rourke caught them.” He shook his head sadly. “Richard and Clare believed that finding the Books was the only way to keep you and your sisters safe, and everything else, including their own lives, was secondary.”

  Michael nodded. He still made no move to go upstairs. He found he had been winding the strap of his bag around his finger and had somehow gotten it into a knot so that the tip of his finger was turning blue. He yanked it free, and the color slowly returned.

  “Anything else, my boy?”

  “What did that letter say? The one Kate sent you? That made you come to Baltimore?”

  “She’d been having a dream. She saw an orphanage attacked by the Dire Magnus’s forces. She’d recognized it as somewhere the three of you had lived. She knew it was only a matter of time before he found you. Why do you ask?”

  “I just … She made me promise to take care of Emma. It was like she knew she wasn’t going to be here. I just wondered if she’d said something.”

  “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  “What?!”

  “Several months ago, she wrote to me about another dream she’d had. In it, you were holding a book she didn’t recognize. Emma was with you, and the two of you were surrounded by fire.”

  “And Kate wasn’t there?”

  The wizard shook his head. Michael still made no move to leave. He began fidgeting again with his strap.

  “I know the real question you want to ask.”

  Michael looked up.

  “You want to ask about the prophecy Dr. Algernon mentioned, how it was foretold that three children will bring the Books together and fulfill their destiny. The truth is, I do not know what that destiny is.”

  “You could guess, though, couldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps. But I will not. This is what you must understand: the magic in the Books is without equal. It is the power to alter the very nature of existence, to reshape the world. Imagine that power in the hands of a being whose heart is filled only with hate and anger. With such power, the Dire Magnus would have dominion over every living creature. That is why our quest is so important. And why so much depends on you.”

  Michael said nothing; he felt as if his chest was being squeezed by iron bands.

  “But Katherine believed in you, and so do I. Now, I foresee a demanding day ahead of us, and you need your sleep.”

  By the time Michael got upstairs, Emma was already in her bed and the light was off. Michael maneuvered by moonlight, doing his best to be quiet.

  Emma spoke to him from the darkness.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you really think Kate’s waiting for us in the future?”

  Michael took a deep breath and wondered what Kate would want him to say.

  “Yes,” he lied, “I do.”

  “Me too.”

  Michael kicked off his shoes and got into bed. He set his bag on the floor. The window was open, and he could hear the far-off sound of the sea hitting the rocks.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t leave me, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  Soon afterward, Michael knew that his sister was asleep. But exhausted as he was, he lay there, long into the night, watching the moon move across the water, thinking about their parents and how they had disappeared, thinking about Kate lost somewhere in time, thinking, again and again, how it was now all up to him.

  Kate, he thought, where are you?

  “Nah, look, she moved; she ain’t dead.”

  “Poke her again.”

  Kate felt something jab her in the ribs. She stirred and tried to push it away.

  “See? Told you she ain’t dead!”

  “Too bad. We’d a’ gotten five dollars for her if she was dead.”

  “How five dollars?”

  “Rafe says you can sell dead bodies to the doctor college. They give you five dollars each one.”

  “What they want dead bodies for?”

  “So’s they can cut ’em open and look at their guts and all.”

  “Five dollars, huh?”

  “Yeah. Poke her again.”

  The voices belonged to children, boys. Kate thought it best to speak up before they got any ideas.

  “I’m … not dead.”

  She forced her eyes open and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her head, indeed her whole body, was throbbing. She felt as if she’d run a marathon, gotten in a fight, and then been systematically pounded on for several hours. Even her teeth ached. She took in her surroundings. She was lying on a wooden floor, and the room about her was cold and small and the only light was what filtered through a pair of filthy windows. Two boys were leaning over her. She guessed they were about ten. Their faces and hands were streaked with dirt. Their clothes had been patched, torn, and then patched again. They both wore cloth caps. One of them held a stick.

  “I’m not dead,” Kate repeated.

  “Nah,” said the one, not bothering to hide his disappointment, “I guess you ain’t.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re on the floor.”

  “No, I mean, where is this?”

  “What’re you talking about? You’re in the Bowery.”

  The whites of the boy’s eyes stood out against the dirtiness of his face.

  “The Bowery.” The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Where is that?”

  “She means what city,” said the boy with the stick.

  “Come off it,” the other said, finally smiling, forgetting the five dollars he’d have gotten for Kate’s corpse. “You don’t know what city? You’re in New York.”

  “New York? But how—” And then she remembered.

  She remembered being with Michael and Emma in Miss Crumley’s office, and the storm outside, and the Screecher breaking through the tower window and seizing her arm, and she remembered how she had called upon the Atlas for the first time in months, and her terror as the magic had swept through her.

  She remembered opening her eyes and finding herself on a beach under a blazing sun as three wooden ships with tall white sails approached across a sea of brilliant, shimmering blue. She remembered the pain in her arm telling her that the Screecher had not let go. And Kate remembered how, without thinking, she had called upon the magic a second time, and a second time it had flowed through her, and a moment later, she and the creature were struggling atop a stone wall. It had been night; there’d been fire and smoke and shouting, a city in flames, and still the creature had gripped her arm. And Kate remembered how frantic she’d been, knowing that her plan wasn’t working, knowing that she was getting weaker. And she’d called on the magic a third time, thinking, Please, help me, and suddenly she’d been standing in a muddy field under a sky of gray. There had been more screaming, and another sound, like insects whizzing past her face, and still the creature held on. A
nd Kate remembered the explosion and the feeling of being lifted into the air.…

  And then she remembered nothing.

  And then she remembered waking up in the mud, and men with guns running past, their mouths open and screaming, though all she could hear was the ringing in her ears, and she remembered seeing the Screecher sprawled ten yards away and the Atlas between them, and how the creature had begun crawling toward the book, and she remembered knowing that her life depended on getting there first, and knowing also that the creature was closer. And she remembered the second explosion, the one that had knocked the monster away, and how, with one final effort, she had reached out and laid her hand upon the book.

  Kate lurched to her feet.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “My book! I had a book! A green book!”

  The floor was covered with piles of dusty rags, dented cans, yellowed scraps of newspaper, rotted-out burlap sacks; Kate tore through it all, tossing things left and right so that the two boys were forced back against the door.

  “What’ve you done with it? Where is it?”

  “We didn’t take no book!” said the boy with the stick.

  “Yeah, what’d we want a book for?” said the other, as if having or wanting a book was the silliest idea in the world.