by Mike Rich
“I was getting a tad concerned you’d overlooked the words that were right there in front of you.” He chuckled. “Words I had written specifically to help my good friend, Mr. Hunter S. Skavenger.”
The quartet of hunters stood there in front of him, stunned into momentary silence. Well, most of them anyway.
“You know Skavenger?” Henry asked.
“For as many years as I’ve tried to quit smokin’,” he replied, “which is more than a few now. When I gave him my first manuscript of this here book, he asked if I’d be open to the possibility of conspiring on his upcoming quest. As you might imagine, I was more than happy to say yes.”
Henry looked at the envelope. He dipped his finger into the upper fold to open it—
“No, no, no! Not yet!” Twain stopped him. “That’s for you and the four other owners of these envelopes to do on your own. I’m not supposed to watch anyone open it either. Rules being rules. I usually say life’s short, break the rules, but I did make a promise to ol’ Hunter boy.”
The declaration that four other yellow envelopes had already been given out caught Henry’s attention, along with one other person in the room.
“What do you mean? Four other owners?” Jack wanted to know.
Skavenger’s good friend smiled. “You don’t understand, do you?” he asked. Nor would they, apparently, until such time as he was done relighting his struggling cigar. Once he was apparently satisfied in that regard, he nodded toward the envelope.
“There are five of those,” Twain carefully intoned. “Five and only five. Which means there are only five of you who now have the chance to do what no one’s been able to do these past two years.”
He paused to spit out a stray speck of tobacco, before uttering the astounding words: “To solve Skavenger’s great mystery.”
Henry couldn’t speak. None of them could. Aside from Jack once again.
“And this is the last one? The last one to be claimed?” He peeled his eyes from the yellow, almost-glowing, envelope—obviously thinking about what Grace had mentioned just that morning. That Doubt was already heading toward where he knew the next clue would be found.
Twain looked as if he knew the question would be coming.
With a half nod and a slow blink, he answered, “Yes, son, and that’s all I can say. Though I am also instructed to give you this, which I urge you to handle with exceptional care.”
Twain handed Jack a much different envelope. “Enough money for the four of you to go wherever you decide to go, which the other four envelope holders have received as well.” Jack inspected the envelope reverently. “Do choose carefully, though. Hunter tells me if you make a mistake on this particular riddle, good chance it’ll spell the end of the road.”
The great author then looked at Mattie once more. “Oh, and Miss McGillin?” he added. “Congratulations on finding one of only ten clean glasses at the Jennings Establishment, placed there by Mr. Skavenger himself that night. Hence the lack of traffic here on the Natchez.”
Twain now found himself looking at four equally stunned faces as he reached for a pen and flipped the pages of his novel back to the very front. He scribbled a message, then placed his pen in a nearby inkwell and gently slid the book to Henry. The twelve-year-old looked down at the inscription in awe:
To Henry—Good luck as your adventures continue! Your friend, Mark Twain
“Hope you like it.” Twain shrugged, before adding with a note of sadness, “The critics have been vicious with this one, but I always feel the public’s the only critic whose opinion’s worth anything.”
“The public will love it,” Henry tried reassuring him. “Readers’ll be reading it forever.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, son,” Twain replied with a smile. “We need more readers out there. That’s the other thing I sometimes say: the man who doesn’t read has no advantage over the man who can’t.”
Bearing the gruff, curmudgeonly look Henry had seen in countless history books, Twain ushered them out for a second time, earnestly wishing the young hunters the very best of luck.
The door had barely closed before Henry began to open the envelope, only to be stopped by Jack’s hand thumping hard onto his shoulder. This time, though, it wasn’t to grab him by the collar. No, this time it was for something much different.
“You did good, Babbitt.” Jack smiled at him. “The smarter Babbitt of the two, I mean.”
It was as deep as he’d ever dipped into what Henry knew was a shallow well of compliments. Jack then followed with a burst of startlingly loud laughter.
“Did you hear what he said in there?! Did you?!” He leaned his head back and yelled at the ceiling, “Five envelopes! ONLY FIVE! WoooooHOOOO! We could win this entire hu—”
“Jack, Jack, Jack, no, no, no,” Ernie tried to calm him, even though he looked just as excited himself. “We don’t need anybody hearin’ usssssss, like our friend Grace. We gotta get outta here!”
“Ernie’s right,” Mattie said, trying to subdue her joyful laugh as well. “I think we should open it in the boiler room. Better yet, when we get off at the dock. But for now . . .”
She suddenly wrapped her arms around Henry in a bear hug.
“Henry, you did it!” Mattie yelled with delight as she squeezed him tightly—long enough, thankfully, that she didn’t see him blush.
“Yeah, yeah, beautiful.” Ernie exhaled, clearly worried he’d never be able to herd them downstairs. “Can we get outta here before the Dark Men start collecting yellow envelopes? In case they already don’t have one of their own?”
“Yes, good idea.” Mattie broke away from Henry, just as they heard the lead banjo player up top announce:
“ON BEHALF OF THE FINE CREW OF THE RIVERBOAT NATCHEZ, THANK YOU ALL! AND MAY YOU CONTINUE TO HAVE AN EXCEPTIONAL NIGHT!”
The steady slap of the giant rear paddles slowed, signaling their imminent arrival dockside. The riverboat’s steam horn gave a piercing blast, which may as well have been heralding the foursome’s triumphant discovery to one and all.
Jack, Ernie, and Mattie broke into a run down the hallway. But Henry stayed behind, still marveling at what he held between his two hands.
“And sometimes . . .” a familiar voice suddenly echoed in his head.
“Henry?” Mattie turned and walked back to him. Ernie and Jack followed. “Henry, come on, we need to get off the boat,” she reminded him with an urgent tone in her voice.
But Henry was too busy listening to his father again—hearing the words that had come back to him on more than one occasion during the hunt.
“And sometimes,” the voice continued, “if we don’t act upon it right now, in this very minute, it’ll be too late. Always remember that, son . . . all right? Never let an extraordinary moment wait.”
Henry slipped a finger beneath the envelope’s flap. “I’m gonna open it now,” he said with a tone that told them not to argue.
“You sure?” Jack looked over his shoulder, making certain no one was coming. Hearing the envelope getting torn open made him turn right back around. Four sets of anxious eyes watched as Henry gently removed a delicate, small slip of paper. The feather-light parchment was almost gold on the edges, with graceful black lettering.
The nature of the lettering, however, instantly drew a sigh of disappointment from Mattie.
“Oh no,” she said, scratching her forehead. “This’ll slow us down a little.”
Ernie had taken out his notepad, but didn’t even bother taking notes after seeing the first few words:
Une vision trés haute à l’oeil, complètement et impressionnant en tant que tout continent ou toute mer. Trouvez-moi sur un voyage de neuf jours. Paris. New York. Le visionnaire et la vision.
“Anybody know anyone who can speak French?” Jack asked them.
“Oui.” Henry beamed. “I know a little. Actually, more than a little.”
Actually, more like a lot. You want Français? I can give you beaucoup de Français!
“What does it say?!” the three other kids asked him in anxious harmony.
Henry frowned slightly, recognizing this wasn’t basic French. He’d always had better luck, though, when he slowed down and read the words deliberately; something that wouldn’t be easy to do at this moment, with his three friends watching. Anticipation and all.
“A towering vision . . . to the eye,” he haltingly translated. “Full and . . . full and . . .”
He let out a frustrated breath and stopped, unsure, seeing that Ernie was now writing down each of his words. He tried again.
“Full and . . . IMPRESSIVE, that’s it. I mean, that’s the word in the clue, not the clue itself. Ernie, got it?”
“Got it.”
Henry dug back in. “Full and impressive as any . . . as any . . . as any continent or sea! Now we’re talkin’!”
“Well, you are,” Jack noted. “The three of us are just listening. Oh, and can we get outta this hallway? Somebody’s bound to turn one of these corners any minute now.”
They ducked into an alcove where they wouldn’t be seen, Henry studying the clue as the others dragged him in.
The rest of the passage proved easier. “Find me on a nine-day journey. Paris. New York,” Henry said and then looked up. “The visionary and the vision.”
A trio of blank faces looked back at him.
“Find who?” Mattie scrunched her forehead again as she asked. “The vision? Or the visionary? I don’t understand. Are we supposed to go back to New York or go to Paris?”
“Oh. Paris. That’ll be easy,” Ernie scoffed. “That’ll be a cinch for four ragamuffins like us. How are we supposed to do that?”
“I think he wants us to find both,” Henry ventured. “Not both New York and Paris, but both the vision and the visionary.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s Paris, how long does that trip even take?” Jack already sounded worried.
“A few years ago it took months,” Mattie told him. “Now it’s only a week, maybe a little longer, but not much.”
“Twain’s right. If we go to Paris, we better be really right,” Jack shot back. “If we’re wrong, we lose.”
Henry went back to the start of the message again, just as the steam whistle on the Natchez sounded with three short pops. A deep-voiced porter shouted out instructions for disembarkment, even though a good number of passengers would be staying on board—not to mention coming downstairs to their staterooms.
Henry shook his head, eyes moving from left to right over the now familiar French text.
This one might not be easy.
“It’s a towering vision,” he decided to move ahead a few words. “They’ve got towering things in both New York and Paris, with visionaries who made ’em happen.”
“Okay, so?” Jack was now pacing in the dimly lit alcove—or rather, still pacing.
“What’s the tallest building in New York right now?” Henry asked. “It’s prob’ly the Empire State Building, right?”
“The Empire what?” Mattie responded, just as the whistle sounded again up top, long and steady this time.
Great. The Empire State Building doesn’t even exist yet.
“I know Mr. Pulitzer’s been writin’ in all his papers about building something,” Ernie tried to help. “Says it’ll be the highest building in the whole city once it’s done. Twenty stories!”
It can’t be New York, Henry decided—though he was just as puzzled as the rest of them.
It’s gotta be France. Has to be. A vision that’s full and impressive.
“Hold on a minute.” He held up a hand, his eyes darting back to the first words of the clue.
A towering vision. A towering vision to the eye. Full and . . .
His pendulum-swinging eyes slammed to a stop.
“A towering vision to the eye, full . . .” He spoke the words out loud, but so softly that they hadn’t heard any of it.
“What did you say, Henry?” Mattie asked.
“Tower,” he repeated, now with a steadily growing smile. “Eye. Full.”
One of the big E’s! Riggins would love this. Einstein, Edison, and . . .
The rest of the clue—everything—tumbled into place. The vision and the visionary.
The vision had been constructed long before the Empire State Building or even Mr. Pulitzer’s future twenty-story behemoth back in New York.
And the visionary was now a complete no-brainer.
He smiled and looked up.
“We’re going to Paris,” Henry told them with confidence. “Let’s get off this boat, we’ve got a bigger one to catch.”
SIXTEEN
A Journey to Le Havre
AH-AHHH . . . CHOOO!
Henry sniffled and wiped his nose—again. He lay back onto his cot, having picked up a more-than-determined cold during their nine-day cross-Atlantic journey to France. He even went ahead and pinched the top of his nose to make sure the next sneeze in line didn’t get any ideas.
Fortunately, it was already the evening of day eight, and Henry was appreciating the fact that the rain had finally subsided.
Most of the trip on the SS Persévérance had been miserable. Besides Henry’s cold, the quarters were cramped, Ernie had been struggling with seasickness, and the near-constant rain made everything feel damp. The only thing all of them kept very much in mind was that there was just one more day to Le Havre. The front door to Paris.
The tickets they’d bought a week and a half ago were for down in the very cheapest part of the ship, where satin sheets definitely were not included. What they each got was a saggy cot and a thin, holey blanket.
What they also got was an uncle.
Uncle Seymour, to be exact.
Even in 1885, Henry had learned, four young ragamuffins couldn’t exactly just cross the Atlantic together. That was the bad news. The good news was that they didn’t need passports or anything else that might have slowed things down. All they needed was a tidy little sum of money and a willing traveler from Pennsylvania named Seymour Simonton to help get them on board.
They’d found Uncle Seymour on the dock, waiting to take the trip to France himself. Once the friendly transaction was finished, he’d told the ship purser that the five of them were family, and just like that, they were on board, heading down to “entrepont,” never to see their beloved uncle again.
“Entrepont” was what the French passengers called the “lowest of the low quarters,” which was where Henry had been for the past hour, hoping to speed up the remainder of the trip by getting some sleep.
He wasn’t having much luck, though.
Ever since that late Christmas Eve or early Christmas Day, just the thought of “time” had typically prompted him to reach into his pocket for the old piece of ledger paper. He pulled it out just now without thinking twice about it.
Skavenger’s written words were still inscribed right there up top, just as they had been from the first day.
To whoever has found this page from my
ledger: find me. There is a way back. Or
forward. But know this too-when the final
empty box of this sheet is full, so ends
your adventure. Whatever the date and
location, there you will stay. Forever.
Sincerely, Hunter S. Skavenger.
Henry turned over the front side of the ledger page, only to find there were just nine empty boxes left on the back.
Nine. That was it.
Now a keen student of what might persuade the ghostly lettering to steal another ledger box away from him, Henry was certain of one thing.
They had to win the hunt in Paris. If they didn’t, he would never get back home.
>
Henry figured they had, at most, one week left. One week to meet Skavenger face-to-face before the ledger page would be full and he’d be stuck in 1885 forever, haunted by the unthinkable pain his disappearance had brought to those he loved most.
“You awake, Babbitt?” he heard from the bunk across from him.
Jack had his hands folded behind his head as he stared at the bottom of the bunk just above him. That’s where Ernie was, apparently able to sleep from the sound of his snoring.
Mattie was probably outside, Henry guessed. She’d been hesitant to wander the ship at first, informing all of them that she’d never really learned how to swim, but after that many days breathing the stale air in entrepont, she’d decided a stroll on the deck was worth the risk.
“Babbitt?”
“Yep, I’m awake,” Henry finally answered.
“You weren’t sleeping, were you?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. Maybe a little.”
“Me too,” Jack said, then waited a few more seconds before continuing. “So I’ve been thinkin’ about things a little bit. What do you think happens if we get over there and we solve this next clue? We’re one of only five, Babbitt. Five envelopes. What happens if we win this?”
Henry folded the ledger page and tucked it back in his pocket. “I don’t know,” he replied. “What about you? What do you think happens?”
“I don’t know either,” Jack answered, still keeping lazy watch on the low-hanging bunk springs above him.
Neither said anything for a while. Henry was content to listen to the sloshing sound against the dank green walls that separated him from a bazillion gallons of seawater.
It was strangely calming, actually. On the rare occasions when he’d strung together more than four or five hours of sleep, it was because he’d been soothed by the sound of the ocean.
“You still worried about us seein’ Doubt’s men again?” Jack’s sudden switch of subjects guaranteed that four or five hours would be a long shot tonight.
“Every minute I’m here,” Henry replied, somewhat embarrassed by the admission. He crossed his arms to hold off the shiver he knew would probably follow.