by Tony Abbott
As Tricia Powell worked through her translation of the spice box poem at the other end of the table, Becca used the cipher square, the diary’s coded passage, and the dictionary to translate the coded passage into her notebook. Then she whisper-read it so only we could hear.
My master has asked me to hide the words of this day, the xxii day of May 1514. . . .
It is past noon when the last gnarled branches fall away.
“Hans,” he tells me, “we have found Ptolemy’s lost ruins.”
My heart stops to behold what is there in front of us. It is clear, we have indeed found Ptolemy’s secret. In a deep pit amid the jungle-like growth in the hidden depths of the island are the fragments of his strange astral device.
The base of the secret astrolabe.
To be both as precise and as guarded as the Magister has asked me to be, I will say that the legendary Temple of ———— sits buried beneath a jagged ———— on the ———— side of the island, overlooking ———— to the sea.
It is where the infamous guides assured us it could never be.
Master Nicolaus smiles. “Now begins the reconstruction. For that, I must send for my brother.”
“Whoa,” Darrell breathed out. “That’s the moment they find Ptolemy’s ancient astrolabe. This is incredible.”
The diary had begun with Hans Novak’s first entry on February 13, 1514. Here it was, over three months later, and they were on an island.
“Go on, Bec,” Lily urged.
xxix June 1514
Nearly one month of weary toil has passed since Nicolaus’s brother arrived. Andreas looks like Nicolaus enough to be his own double.
Then, something very strange.
This morning, Andreas emerges from the pit in which lies Ptolemy’s device. His hands are bleeding. I run to get cloths.
“Brother,” he says to Nicolaus, “the scorpion’s tail may be long, but its claws slice like razors. I have lost much blood.”
xvii July 1514
On the island still, the night as black as the pit wherein we discovered Ptolemy’s device. In Frombork at this moment, so you will understand the hour, we would hear the vesper bells ring from the cathedral across from Nicolaus’s tower.
After nearly three weeks, Andreas’s wounds from the scorpion have not healed. His left hand, with which he is most adept, is black. His face has thinned and twisted even as the Magister and I hurry to complete the device before the change of days Ptolemy wrote of.
“The hours are running away,” Andreas says, “and so is my time. I must seek a cure, if a cure may be found.”
And thus, by boat, Andreas Copernicus leaves us this evening. “In my mind, Hans,” says Nicolaus, “the church bells toll with every splash of the oar that takes my poor brother from me.”
The centuries-old pages of the diary sat illuminated by the computer screen in front of Becca. Listening to the deep sorrow in the words she read, I was struck by how things so old can be as alive now as they were when they were first created.
Lily whispered what we all felt. “It’s so amazingly sad. The Copernicus biography I read on the plane said that his brother died just a few years later than this. How terrible Nicolaus must have felt.”
“I never knew his brother was involved in the building of the machine,” I said. “The books say he had leprosy, but all this scorpion stuff, it makes me wonder . . .”
“He still doesn’t tell us what island they’re on,” Darrell said. “It reminds me of those old charts showing dragons bobbing around in the sea. Maybe looking at old maps would help us figure it out.”
“And what is the ‘change of days’?” Lily asked. “‘The change of days Ptolemy wrote about.’ That sounds ominous.”
It did sound ominous, as if there was suddenly a deadline we hadn’t known about. “I wonder if Galina knows about a deadline for the astrolabe. Maybe that’s why she’s so obsessed with chasing down the relics. Is there any more?”
Becca frowned. “There’s a teeny red drawing in the margin that is repeated next to another coded passage later in the diary. It’s a scorpion, I think, but the key word we just found doesn’t work for the later passage.”
She showed us the margin.
Tricia suddenly stood at her table and stretched. “Kids? I translated the text inside the box. It’s a poem. There’s one odd thing I have to tell you about, but first listen to it.”
Scorpio
The deadly claws of scorpion
Lie quiet in jade’s green tomb.
Its guardian stands masked of face
And sinister of hand.
Seek him no more, no more
Upon this moving earth.
“Wow, thank you,” said Darrell.
“Tomb guardians are common in Ming art,” Tricia said. “As for the rest . . . well, I heard you talking before, so you might know better than I what it means. Is it really an old story you’re working on?”
“Kind of,” said Becca. “Kind of history, too. But I don’t know if we actually do know any more. The poem seems like a riddle.”
“Tricia, you said there was something else,” I said.
The curator shifted her computer screen so we could see it. “See this symbol at the very end of the poem?” She zoomed in on an ink block made up of two more or less vertical lines, each with a top branch that nearly touched the other. Inside it were several smaller strokes and a dot in the upper right corner.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Well, that’s just it,” Tricia said. “This is not a Chinese character at all. It’s not even ancient Chinese. I’ve emailed the image to my colleagues, but so far no one can identify it.”
I looked into her eyes as she said that. I didn’t know if I was getting better—or worse—at reading people, but if Tricia Powell was keeping something from us, she was very good at concealing it. She seemed to be telling us the absolute truth.
“Of course, it’s modern, too,” she said. “Not like the armillary sphere or the dish.”
“Hmm. Excuse me for a second. . . .” Becca walked back to the table with the diary lying on it and sat right down.
“Thanks,” I said to Dr. Powell, then joined the others at the table.
“Becca, you’ve just had a brainstorm,” Lily whispered.
Becca smiled. “The dish. I just realized something. If the Guardian is a Portuguese trader from Lisbon, and the dish represents him or his name, maybe it’s a clue to the last part of the scorpion story in the diary. Wade, your dad told us about that code in Berlin when we found the dagger. It’s called a rebus, remember? Where a picture represents a word or a name. If the dish represents the trader’s name and it gives us a word, we can translate the final part. Lily, back to the computer.”
While Dr. Powell took more pictures of the spice box, Lily keyed in plate and dish, both of which translated into Portuguese as prato. The word meant nothing special and didn’t make the code work.
“What’s another word for what this looks like?” said Lily.
“Platter?” said Darrell. “Saucer?”
“It figures you’d know words that relate to food,” said Lily. She keyed both words into the dictionary. “‘Platter’ is also prato, so no to ‘platter.’ Hold on. ‘Saucer’ is pires.” She typed in a flurry of letters, hit Enter, and waited for the search response. Three or four entries down she hit a link. “Aha! Check this out. There was a Portuguese merchant named Tomé Pires, who lived from 1465 to either 1524 or 1540. He was a major trader between Europe and the Far East. He lived in China for many years and even died there.”
“That’s it! It has to be,” said Becca. “Oh, please work. . . .”
She moved her fingers over the cipher square again, making notations in her notebook. It was coming. Words and sentences collected. This time, she was really zipping along.
Finally she put down her pencil. “Whoa . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
11 October 1518
N
ight. Cold stars. The streets of Lisbon lie over the next hill.
I rest at my campfire. By my side lies a thick cloth woven of lead fibers, in which Scorpio sleeps.
I know the properties of lead to shield oneself from harm. But I have since learned of the legendary stone called jade, found only in the distant East. Jade is said to more strongly guard one from such dark energy as our ancient Scorpio emits.
And so I call upon a friend from days gone by—a trader with the Chinese of the East. He will bring the relic there and ask those Eastern artisans to craft for it a shell of finest jade.
I glance up at the position of the stars over his city, and like clockwork, the branches rustle. My friend appears, carrying in his hands a simple lead casket that will soon, I hope, hold like a tomb the scorpion of Chinese jade.
“That’s all,” Becca said quietly. “The next coded part doesn’t use this keyword. It must be about another relic and another Guardian.”
I read the translation from her notebook again. “Copernicus had already hidden the Scorpio relic in lead,” I said, “but he wanted it also sealed in jade. He was afraid of its . . . ‘dark energy.’ Guys, this sounds like some kind of radioactivity. But that can’t be . . . can it?”
“Dad would know,” said Darrell. “And Becca, you know I usually reserve praise for myself, and sometimes for Lily and Ifgabood over here, but that translation was awesome. My mom would totally agree.”
We were good at figuring out stuff, but the mention of Sara and Dad made me realize that time was passing. We needed to put everything together, understand it, and get moving.
Tricia Powell received a phone call from her director. While she was talking, I quickly went over what we knew so far.
“Okay, look. In 1514, Copernicus and Hans Novak leave Poland for some island. There they find Ptolemy’s wrecked time machine. Copernicus sees how to fix it and really make it work. He calls his brother to help. Andreas comes, taking over some of the relics. One of them represents the Scorpio constellation. Only there’s something weird about it. The claws are razor-sharp, and they poison him.”
“Right,” said Lily. “They all think it’s leprosy, but it’s not.”
“It could be some kind of radium poisoning,” I guessed. “Don’t ask me how or why the relic got radioactive, but people at that time didn’t know anything about radium. Leprosy was what people used to get back then, so they said Andreas had leprosy.”
Becca nodded at that. “Fast-forward to when Copernicus decides to hide the relics. He remembers what he’s heard about jade, this mysterious stone from the East. He thinks that jade can keep Scorpio from poisoning anyone else.”
“Enter the trade guy, Tomé Pires, who meets Copernicus in Portugal,” said Darrell. “He takes the scorpion in the lead box to China, where artists create a jade scorpion to hide it even better.”
“Somehow, the original lead-lined box ends up here,” I said. “But it’s empty. So where’s Scorpio now?”
Darrell’s phone rang and he snapped it on speaker. “Dad? Where are you? We’re in the conservation center with the tile. We found out so much. Did you track down the baby-laughing man?”
“His name is Feng Yi,” my dad whispered. “He was actually looking for us. Kids . . . he says he’s a Guardian. He was working with Mr. Chen, and has information for us.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I didn’t know how to take this. A pair of Guardians?
“He came to warn us,” Dad said. “There’s a group working with the German. They’re called . . . Star Warriors. I know it sounds crazy, but they’re onto us now and they have razor weapons or something—”
There was a crash on the other end of the phone.
“Dad?” I said. “Dad!” The phone went dead.
Tricia Powell instantly ended her own call. “There’s something going on downstairs. A security guard has been wounded. The museum is in lockdown!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chain walls fell quickly over the doors to the conservation lab and hit the floor with a clank. Bolts slid instantly inside the door frames.
“Shh,” Tricia said. I didn’t hear anything except an alarm sounding on another floor, but she did. “Someone’s coming. . . .”
“Grab your stuff,” Becca whispered, quickly gathering her notebook and the diary and shoving them into her bag. I wanted to take the box, or at least the tile, but Tricia stowed the mechanical box in a safe under one of the work counters. Then she pulled out a key card. Placing her finger on a pad and simultaneously sliding the card opened a locked door at the back of the room. “Everyone out, quietly.”
She hustled us down a narrow hallway along the rear of the lab. It connected with a second hall that split off to both the front and the back of the building. A new alarm sounded from the direction we’d come from. “Is this about the ‘story’ you’re working on?” she said, her face strained. When we didn’t answer, she just said, “Follow me.”
We’d gone through passages before, and I was sure we would again, but then we’d been escaping from the Order. Who was coming this time? Star Warriors? What in the world were they? More alarms started up, and we heard the sound of feet running behind us.
Tricia pushed on toward the end of the hall, where she unlocked the door with another fingerprint. It led into a small office. We paused for a moment to catch our breath, but my heart pounded so quickly I could barely get any air in my lungs.
Tricia’s phone buzzed. “A text from the director. There are ten intruders, maybe more, some on each floor. The police are outside the building.”
Another alarm sounded. “We have to get out of here,” I said.
“Tricia, tell us where to go,” said Becca.
The curator moved across the office to a back door. That required her key card, too. It led into a short passage, through another bolted door that she unlocked, and finally into a dim gallery. The chain wall closed behind us. There was a bank of shaded windows running along one side of the room, and I was stunned to see streetlights and car headlights blazing outside the museum. We had spent hours studying the box and translating the diary, and it was already evening.
As much as I wanted Dad to come for us, when I heard a small explosion behind us, I hoped even more that he was okay.
We hurried across the floorboards when there was a second muffled blast, and the chain wall blocking the entrance to the last gallery crashed to the floor. The opening darkened suddenly, and we crouched. But it was neither Leathercoat nor any alien star man. It was the guy Dad had told us about. The second Guardian. Feng Yi.
He approached us on tiptoe as if he was sliding across the floor. His slender finger was at his lips. “Children, your father sent me. Tell me yes or no. Do you have the scorpion box with you?”
Tricia gave him a worried look. “It’s in the safe.”
Feng Yi nodded once. “Good. Markus Wolff has sent the Star Warriors for it, but you have foiled them for now. Please follow me—”
Before we could move or ask who Markus was, a bunch of figures in sleek black jumpsuits flew into the room, completely blocking the exit. Their heads and faces were obscured by scarves, their hands by black gloves. Then we heard the sound of clinking metal as they lunged forward.
“Throwing stars! Down!” Feng Yi shouted. We hit the floor as tiny sparks of light whooshed across the room at us. Glass shattered all around, setting off more alarms.
“Are you hurt?” Feng Yi whispered, his cheek red and wet.
“No, but—” Tricia started as he crept away, and more glittering flashes—stars with razor-sharp edges—ripped across the open space, clattering to the floorboards amid the broken glass and shards of ancient pottery.
The black-clad men raised their hands. “Come out,” one said.
“Stop! Please stop!” Tricia cried.
The metal stars flew at the sound of her voice. Glass exploded on the far side of the room. Tricia dropped to the floor unhurt, then rolled behind the display c
ase near Darrell and Lily.
“Give us what we want,” the Star Warrior said in robotic English.
Meanwhile, Feng Yi had slithered across the floor like a snake, and he now emerged behind the bulk of the black-uniformed warriors.
As if he were on springs, he leaped up. With a series of amazingly high jumps across the room—half circus act, half martial arts movie—he tossed his own gold stars like a machine gun. Most of the scarfed men scattered for cover, but three went ahead and charged us.
Feng Yi shot more metal stars. The three fell back, groaning. “Dr. Powell,” he yelled, “take them out of here now!”
She rushed ahead, unlocking the far door and shouting into her phone, while Darrell and Lily bounced to their feet and hurried after her.
“Becca, let’s go!” I slung her bag over my shoulder and pulled her up by the hand of her good arm.
Feng Yi threw himself between us and the men, hurling another barrage at the attackers, and we raced out of the dark room to the clatter of metal stars.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tricia hurried Lily and Darrell down a silver-walled hallway. Becca and I ran to catch up. Suddenly the yells from the gallery behind us stopped.
Darrell blew out a breath. “Oh, no, they got him. . . .”
There was the thump of another muffled blast; then Feng Yi jogged down the hall toward us, trailing a cloud of white. “A smoke bomb will confuse them,” he said. “Ah, look down there—” He pointed out the windows. My dad was on the sidewalk below, speaking with a suited woman who I assumed was the museum director. Then he hurried off down the street, looking back over his shoulder at the museum.
“Sometimes the best offense is a hasty retreat,” Feng Yi said. “Please come with me. I have told your father of a safe place. I will take you there now. But we must move quickly!”
Becca slid her hand from mine. I hadn’t realized I was still holding it. “Is your dad really all right with this?” she whispered.
“We sort of have to trust that he is,” I said under my breath. “He said so on the phone. Let’s do what this guy says, but be careful.”