The Boy Who Could Fly

by Laura Ruby

  Hewitt stepped out of the Temple. “I found it in the basement of the library, of course. I’d got lost in the stacks. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to get lost in those stacks. They seem to go on for ever. I don’t know why I picked it up but I did. And I started reading the poetry – well, incantations really – out loud. And guess what happened?”

  Now that Georgie was facing away from the Temple, she noticed the six granite thrones lining that same wall. Empty thrones. As if whoever had been sitting in them had just run out to get a drink or a piece of pizza.

  “Can you guess?” Hewitt was saying. She sounded odd, excited, enthusiastic in a way that she had never sounded before. But then, Georgie had only met Hewitt a few times. Who knew how she sounded?

  “Let’s go, Hewitt. We have to get back to Bug.”

  Hewitt laughed as if Georgie hadn’t spoken. “The chair I was sitting on actually started to dance, if you can believe that. I thought it was just one of the strange things that happens in the library. So many odd things happen in the library. But then I realised what had really happened. The poem I’d read enchanted the chair. It was probably used to animate Patience and Fortitude, the marble lions, though I don’t know who did that or when. I figured out that when you read the incantations, whatever you touch comes to life. I was sitting on the chair, so—”

  Georgie didn’t care about Patience or about Fortitude or about chairs dancing around the library. “Hewitt!” she said. “Bug is dead!”

  Hewitt clutched the book to her chest. “So?” she said sullenly. “We don’t need him.”

  Georgie’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Him! Who does he think he is anyway? He’s the son of a criminal. And those others. They’re even worse.”

  Georgie took a step back. “What others?”

  “You saw them. Roma Radisson and all those other twits at the gallery. All of them rich and famous. In the magazines and on TV all the time. But what have they ever done? Nothing! They don’t deserve all that attention. They don’t deserve all that money. Why do people follow them around taking their pictures? I’m the famous poet! Me!”

  Georgie took another step back.

  “And that stupid Mandelbrot. You think he’s an artist? I gave him all kinds of books about art and he’s still hopeless. He paints with food products! He’s obsessed with chaos! What an idiot! Too stupid to even serve his purpose.”

  “And what was his purpose?” Georgie said, trying to keep Hewitt talking. Clearly she was nuts. Clearly Georgie had to get the book from her. But how to do it?

  “He was supposed to get you to give him information about the pen. But when he couldn’t force you to do that by himself, his employer gave him to the vamps for entertainment, figuring that they would deal with you.”

  “Employer? Who’s his employer?”

  “His employer never imagined that Mandelbrot would come to the library,” said Hewitt as if Georgie hadn’t spoken. “Never thought Mandelbrot would be so dumb as to tell someone else about the plan. Did you know that vampires are obsessed with counting? That when they see seeds they simply must stop and count them? Eastern Europeans used to put piles of millet or poppy seeds in graves. There’s a book about it. I gave it to Mandelbrot so that he could control the vamps instead of the other way around. That book was amazing. When you opened it, it chattered. It sounded like clacking teeth. Or fangs.”

  Hewitt smiled then. “The ironic thing is that I wouldn’t have known how to use The Book of the Undead to reanimate things if I hadn’t got the idea from Mandelbrot. Anyway, he was supposed to get all you rich kids to the gallery opening. Just like I told him, those stupid kids thought Mandelbrot and his vampires were cool and gave him all the money that he wanted to support his ‘art’. That Punk loved the idea of having patrons. Isn’t that hilarious? A Punk who wanted patrons?” Her face darkened. “But he was supposed to bring everyone here to the museum afterwards. That was going to be my party.”

  “And what were we going to do at your party?” Georgie asked carefully, her eyes still trained on the book.

  “See, I was going about everything all wrong. I was trying to tackle my problems one at a time. I heard that Bug Grabowski was having a photo shoot at the Seaport. I heard that the American Museum of Natural History had the remains of a giant octopus in their labs.”

  “That’s why you were at the museum?” said Georgie.

  “I snuck into the labs, brought the octopus to life, and flushed it down a toilet. I bet you didn’t know that something that big could squeeze down that small, but they can. Anyway, the thing swam through the sewers, out into the East River and over to the seaport, and pulled Bug into the water. Priceless!”

  “Pretty funny,” Georgie said bitterly.

  “Then you told me that your class was coming to the art museum – including that twit Roma Radisson.”

  “You animated the dog,” said Georgie.

  “Yes, but it seems that whatever you animate remains true to its nature. So, the octopus wasn’t really aggressive and the dog wasn’t, either. Even the sloth was a big problem. Who knew they liked chocolate? But the biggest problem was that none of these things made Roma or Bug any less famous. If anything, it made them more famous. More! It’s insane!”

  You’re insane, thought Georgie.

  “So, I figured that instead of trying to deal with all these undeserving people one at a time, I would deal with them all at once. Here, in the museum. See, I figure that if this book can animate what’s dead, then it can probably de-animate what isn’t dead. And I can’t think of better people to de-animate than Roma Radisson and her band of useless paparazzi pinups.”

  “You were going to kill us?” Georgie said, aghast.

  “Oh no!” said Hewitt. “Not you! You aren’t like them. You have more money than all of them combined, but you have an appreciation for real art. Maybe because you grew up in an orphanage, you weren’t spoiled like the rest of them. You wanted to read my poetry.” Hewitt appeared almost shy. “Did you really like it? My poetry, I mean.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Georgie said. “I loved it.” Georgie had to get that book from her and get out of here as fast as she could. Her eyes flicked left and right, trying to calculate the fastest route out of the Temple of Dendur.

  “And it turns out that you’re even more special,” Hewitt said. “You’re a Wall. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you at the gallery. I mean, when I didn’t see you. Do you know that there are shelves and shelves of books about Walls in the library? Tell me, have you started walking through them yet?”

  “Walking through what?” said Georgie.

  Hewitt smiled. “Walls, silly.”

  Walking through walls? “Not yet,” said Georgie.

  “Georgie?” said Hewitt.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t think you really liked my poetry.”

  “Oh, I did! I did,” Georgie protested. “Really! There was that one about the… uh… the…”

  “You’re still thinking about Bug Grabowski. I can tell. You keep looking at the door as if you’re about to run away.”

  “Why would I want to run away?”

  “Oh, because of them.”

  Georgie felt a queer sort of itch in her gut. “Because of who?”

  “Them,” Hewitt repeated.

  Right behind Georgie, a strange scraping following. The sound of stone on stone. Slowly Georgie turned, barely able to look but unable to stop herself. Standing in a line were six statues, each made of dark granite. But these statues were breathing. Solid granite chests rose and fell; cold granite breath chilled Georgie’s crawling skin. Their bodies were the bodies of lithe young women, but their faces were those of lionesses. In one hand, they each held an ankh. The symbol of life.

  “Georgie, I’d like to introduce Sakhmet, Goddess of Chaos.” Hewitt chuckled. “Times six.”

  Chapter 26

  Goddess Worship

  Georgie vanished.

  “I fi
gured that would happen,” said Hewitt. “But what I didn’t figure was that I’d still be able to see your left foot.”

  Oh. No.

  “Get her!” Hewitt yelled.

  Georgie lunged, snatching the book out of Hewitt’s hands, and then ducked just as one of the Sakhmets swung a stone fist. Georgie sidestepped Hewitt and ran past the Temple towards the back entrance, the whole time thinking I am the wall and the ground and the air I am the wall and the ground and the air. Thudding stone footsteps followed her. Could they see her? She didn’t know, and didn’t stop to find out. She jumped through the doorway and found herself in the American wing. Paintings and sculpture blurred as she sped past. Her lungs were already aching from her trip through the East River; now they were on fire. She tried to visualise the layout of the museum, but nothing looked familiar and everything looked familiar and she didn’t know which way to go. She heard a loud crashing and whirled round to see two of the six Sakhmets charging through the gallery, several sculptures in pieces on the ground in their wake. There was a doorway on Georgie’s left and she ran through it, ending up in the Arms and Armour gallery. A parade of armoured figures was posed in marching position in the centre of the room. Around the perimeter, suits of armour were displayed in glass cases, along with swords and guns and weapons of all kinds. If she thought it would do any good, she’d try to smash one of the cases and steal a rifle or even a cannon, but what harm could they do to walking goddesses made of granite?

  The goddesses! Where were the goddesses?

  Georgie froze, looking around wildly. She listened for the scratch of stone feet. Instead, she heard Hewitt calling from somewhere in the next gallery.

  “Georgie,” she said. “Don’t think you have any power just because you have the book. I brought the goddesses to life, so I’m the one they’re going to listen to, not you. They’re hunting you because I told them to. The Egyptians revered cats. Worshipped them. Lionesses, too, because they were such excellent hunters. They might not be able to see you – though who knows what a goddess can see? – but they’ll be able to hear and smell you. You won’t know that they’re behind you until you feel their cold breath on the back of your neck.”

  Georgie backed up against a wall, eyes darting left and right.

  “I want my book back,” Hewitt said.

  I want Bug back, Georgie thought, gritting her teeth. She crept to the end of the gallery and slipped into the next: European Sculpture and Decorative Arts. She moved past cases full of china to large, roped-off displays of seventeenth century parlours complete with hypnotising wallpaper, enormous chandeliers and fussy furniture, all of it stripped from “country” houses in England and France. Georgie stepped over the nearest red velvet rope, catching her foot and causing the hook to chime against its mooring in the wall. Wincing, Georgie dived behind a large chair. She peeked over the arm just in time to see one of the Sakhmets enter the gallery. Her stone feet barely made a sound as she walked down the hallway holding the ankh like a club. At the display where Georgie had hidden, she stopped, nearly stopping Georgie’s heart in the process. The Sakhmet’s blank, expressionless face and lidless eyes scanned the parlour, settling on the chair Georgie crouched behind. Georgie willed herself to be still, more still than a stone statue that was really a stone statue and not some freakish animated handmaiden of chaos chasing innocent girls around museums for kicks. Georgie held her breath as the lion goddess tested the air with her wide lion nose, hoping that she was too far away for the goddess to sniff her out. Finally, the Sakhmet turned and stalked down the hallway. Georgie waited a few more anxious minutes and then crept out of the display, crawling under the velvet rope this time.

  Exit, she thought. Where the heck is the exit?

  She glanced up. Hanging from the ceiling was a red exit sign. She followed it, but it merely led her into another gallery with the same sort of room displays as the first. She doubled back, hoping to find a way out, but all she found were more fussy rooms filled with more fussy furniture. She couldn’t tell if the rooms were different from the first she’d seen, if the red or pink or powder blue furniture in front of her was the same red or pink or powder blue furniture she’d just been looking at. She ran this way and then that way, sure that she was to be trapped for ever in a haze of clawed feet and massive gold tassels. Maybe she was going in circles, which was why the low scratch of stone feet seemed to be coming from every direction.

  Or maybe the Sakhmets were closing in.

  Maybe they were right behind her.

  She ducked through a doorway she was almost positive that she hadn’t ducked through before and almost laughed with relief when she saw that she had reached the Modern Art wing. Surely there was a way out here. She passed the Picassos and the Giacomettis and everything in between, making a huge loop around the displays, only to realise that there were just two exits in and out of the Modern Art wing and neither of them led outside the building.

  Nearly crying with frustration, Georgie again turned around. Her heart thudded against her abused rib cage. Her ruined hands burned as they tightened around the book in her arms. She wished Bug were with her, wished it so hard and so deeply that she was sure she could bring him back to life all on her own if only she could escape the museum and get to him.

  Scratching noises sounded to her left. Georgie shot right, running straight into a large stairwell. The stairwell! The stairwell that could be seen from the museum’s entrance! Another right turn brought her into the atrium. She ran past the visitors’ booth and stopped short. Guarding the doors were three goddesses, each of them prowling back and forth, arms spread wide, ensuring that no one, not even an invisible girl, would get past them.

  Georgie whipped round.

  And stared right into the face of another Sakhmet.

  The stone goddess growled, sounding like two rocks being scraped together. She raised her ankh high and brought it down hard. Georgie jumped sideways but not fast enough. The stone ankh thumped against Georgie’s shoulder, sending bright bolts of pain down her left arm. Biting her lip to keep from screaming, she ran for the nearest doorway, hoping that this too wasn’t blocked by the other Sakhmets. She didn’t even know where she was running to, she didn’t even register the items on display all around her until she lurched into a large room.

  She was back at the Temple of Dendur.

  Trapped.

  Scratchy footsteps sounded behind her. She had no choice but to move forwards and hope that she could reach the doorway at the far end of the room before she was caught. Georgie careened wildly past the still pool of water gleaming in front of the Temple. And tripped over her own feet.

  The book went flying, instantly appearing as soon as it left her hands.

  Georgie fell into the water, the splashing sound reverberating off the walls of the gallery. Coughing and choking, she sat up in the shallow pool. All around her, Goddesses of Chaos loomed. Hewitt Elder scooped up the book from the ground.

  “Thank you for bringing this back,” she said. And then she said, “Ladies? Do what you must.”

  The Sakhmets closed in and Georgie closed her eyes.

  “Meow.”

  Georgie’s eyes flew open.

  Noodle! But how…?

  The little grey cat trotted into the room. The Sakhmets shrank back.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Hewitt. “It’s just a cat!”

  But Noodle was not just a cat; as the Egyptians well knew and as we have forgotten, no cat is just a cat. When Noodle meowed, it sounded like the cracking of thunder, the splitting of sky. The Sakhmets fell to their knees before her, pressing their lion faces against the floor.

  “No,” Hewitt whispered.

  “Yes,” said Georgie. She climbed from the pool.

  Hewitt’s eyes followed the wet footsteps Georgie left on the floor. She clutched her precious library book of death and rebirth to her chest. “It’s mine,” she said. “You can’t take it from me.”

  Georgie grabbed the book out
of her hands. “Watch me.”

  Hewitt wrung her now-empty hands. “That’s not the only book that can do powerful things,” she said. “There are so many books in the library. So many. Don’t you want to know who you are? Don’t you want to know what you can do? There are books in the library that can teach you. I can get them for you. We can be friends.”

  “Friends?” said Georgie. “No, we’re not going to be friends! Why did you do this? Why did you cause all this chaos? Because nobody wanted to read your stupid poetry any more? Because nobody was paying attention to you? Because someone made more money? Because someone was more popular?”

  “Oh, what do you know?” said Hewitt, her eyes flashing, no longer trying to plead with Georgie. “You’ve never done anything but get kidnapped by some lunatic. You don’t know what it’s like to live in a world where the crooked son of a gangster gets more attention than you do.”

  Georgie thought of Bug lying cold and alone on the banks of the East River and fury pulsed in her veins. She raised the leather book and smacked Hewitt right in the face. Wham! Hewitt fell back on her bum, her hand on her cheek.

  “That,” Georgie said, popping into view, “was for Bug.” She turned her back on Hewitt. “Hey, Noodle,”

  “Rrrow,” Noodle replied.

  “Not like I really have to ask this, but do you think you have things under control here for a while?”

  The little cat yawned.

  Georgie nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  The cabbie wouldn’t let Georgie in the car until she showed him several wadded bills that she found in the pocket of her jeans. Still, he wasn’t happy about driving her.

  “Whaddya do?” the cabbie barked, taking in her wet clothes and bedraggled hair. “Fall in the East River?”

  Georgie was in no mood to make up a story. “Yes, actually, I did.”

  The cabbie rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. So, where to?”