Battle of the Beasts

by Chris Columbus

  “That’s called a tank, and it isn’t ours,” Cordelia said. “It belonged to the Nazis. And we don’t ever want to see them again.” Although . . . , she thought.

  “But without a war machine, how will you fulfill the prophecy?” Wangchuk asked.

  “Please, mate,” Will said. “Stop babbling nonsense. They’re telling you the truth.”

  Wangchuk paused, as if pondering this, and sighed.

  “Then I’m afraid we have only one choice,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “To feed you, shelter you, and provide you with a warm bed.”

  “Sounds like a spectacular idea,” said Will, grinning in relief. “As you said, we’re rather exhausted.”

  “However,” said Wangchuk, “it is written that only warriors who protect our monastery may be given shelter. All others must join the order of the monks.”

  “Fine,” said Will. “What do we need to do? Say some prayers? Drink tea made of goat vomit?”

  “Shave your heads,” said Wangchuk, before turning and shouting: “Brothers!”

  All the monks stood up in a flash, pulling out rusty scissors and sharp razor blades. They grabbed Cordelia, Eleanor, Will, and Felix to chop off huge chunks of their hair. Everyone squirmed and protested. One of the monks dipped a straight razor into a porcelain bowl of yak shaving cream and brought it up to Cordelia’s head—

  “Wait!! Stop!!” she yelled.

  The monks paused, looking at the kids.

  “Okay, okay,” Cordelia said. “Maybe you are right. Maybe we were sent here to help you. Let’s just put a hold on this head-shaving stuff, and we’ll start working on a way to beat the frost beasts!”

  Wangchuk held up his hand; the monks backed off. As they were putting away their scissors and razor blades, Eleanor whispered to Cordelia, “Do you really think it’s worth risking our lives against some horrible monsters just to save our hair?”

  “I don’t know about you,” said Cordelia, “but I’ve had enough embarrassing episodes at school with my tooth falling out. I’m not going back all bald and Joan of Arc–like. Can you imagine walking down the halls? Nope.” She dropped her voice to a whisper: “And maybe, while we’re fighting these frost-beast things, we can get into that Nazi tank.”

  “You want to go back inside the tank?” said Eleanor. “What for?”

  “To find the treasure map.”

  A world away—literally—Brendan Walker was having the time of his life. Since watching the tank tow Kristoff House out of the Colosseum, he had done everything he could to not think about what was happening to his sisters, and Will, and Felix—and he had succeeded. If you go to enough feasts and dances, he now realized, you don’t have to think about anything.

  First, in the aftermath of the tank attack, Brendan had dashed back desperately to the emperor. When he reached Occipus and his mistress (along with that annoying announcer, Rodicus), he told them that the Nazis were part of a powerful sorcery and had sprung from a magical book.

  “Are they coming back, General Brendan?” Occipus asked.

  “Luckily, Supreme Emperor,” Brendan said, “I’ve read the book. And now that they have passed through Rome, these Nazis will never return.”

  Of course Brendan hadn’t read any book; he didn’t even know Assault of the Nazi Cyborgs existed. But he was getting good at lying. If somebody asked me now how good of a liar I am, he thought, I’d say, “Seven out of ten.” But really I’d be lying. I’m a ten out of ten.

  “I wouldn’t trust this one,” Rodicus whispered to the emperor. “We have reports that these ‘Nazis’ are right outside the city, perhaps gathering reinforcements. The people are certain that they’re coming back with their crack-sticks”—this had become the Roman word for gun—“to kill us all!”

  “Well then,” Occipus said, picking lint out of his belly button, “we will see soon if General Brendan speaks truth.”

  Rodicus frowned, clearly annoyed.

  The day went on and no Nazis returned to Rome. Occipus was overjoyed—and quite impressed with Brendan’s predictive abilities, even though Brendan had only been guessing. To honor him, Occipus arranged to throw a feast. Brendan was led into the emperor’s Jovian Banquet Hall, beside the Colosseum, and seated at the head of a table that was over one hundred feet long.

  The room was arched like a cathedral, with columns depicting ancient Greek legends. The table was made of silver-flecked white marble; when Brendan sat down, it was already filled with roasted pork, figs, veal, cheesecake, goose, rabbit, and boats of gravy. Brendan couldn’t identify many of the dishes, but he wasn’t going to be rude—he took huge helpings and ate as much as he could stomach.

  Suddenly, after all dishes, glasses, and silverware had been cleared, the table began to descend shakily into the ground.

  “What’s happening?” Brendan asked. “Is it a sinkhole?”

  The Roman dignitaries laughed. They were all very familiar with this trick. Brendan felt ashamed for not understanding what was going on, but Occipus patted his shoulder. “Relax, General. Just watch.”

  The table’s top was well below the floor when Brendan heard a gurgling sound. Water began to flood the hollow space, and after a minute, what had been the table was now a long, clear pool. Crawfish, lobster, and trout were released by tiny metal gates, swarming into the water. Slaves appeared with spears and nets and caught the fresh seafood, carrying it away before the pool drained off and the table rose back into the room. Water sheeted off it.

  “How did you do that?” Brendan asked the emperor.

  “A complex system of hydraulics and pulleys,” the emperor said. “And now we’re ready for the second course.”

  “Wait? All that stuff I ate . . . that was all just one course? How many courses are there?”

  “Twelve.”

  “What? Are you kidding me?” Brendan was genuinely worried about being able to eat that much, plus he felt a little guilty. He didn’t deserve this—and where were his sisters? And Will? Did the Nazis get to them? . . . No, he couldn’t think about that. Hopefully Felix had defended them. He seemed tough enough.

  By the time the fourth course was delivered, Brendan was having a difficult time swallowing. His waist had expanded several inches. He was feeling sick. The luxuries of the Roman feast were starting to look disgusting to him. I gotta get out of here, he thought. I have to find my sisters. I never should have left them.

  Brendan stood up to leave—but Occipus gently sat him down. “Where are you going? Don’t you want to see the juggler?”

  A juggler carrying several lit torches appeared. Behind him, the slaves brought in course number five—stuffed doves—and as the juggler started juggling the torches, Brendan noticed the huge armed guards who stood at each door. Like those guards would ever let me leave. I’m trapped!

  But a strange thing happened as the meal went on. Brendan began to enjoy himself again. All he had to do was force himself not to think about his family. It wasn’t easy, but as he spoke to the other people at the table, and they seemed genuinely excited to meet him, and looked at him with sparkling eyes because he was so interesting, he found it easier. The reactions he got from the Romans were the exact opposite of those he got from people like Scott Calurio. People respected him here. And wasn’t that why he had stayed? Hadn’t he argued to his sisters that this was the better life for him? He couldn’t go back on his word.

  At the end of the feast, the conversation turned to music. Several guests were asked to perform a song for the emperor. The performances were out of tune, warbly, and operatic. When it was Brendan’s turn to sing, he knew he could outdo everyone. He stood up and began a sing-along of his dad’s favorite song, Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” He felt a bit melancholy at first, singing something that reminded him so much of his father; Brendan and Dr. Walker had sung “Glory Days” together when it was just the two of them in the car, nobody to judge. But then Brendan remembered: That was a long time ago, in a dif
ferent time and place. Why should I be missing Dad now? He only thinks about himself these days. I’ll bet he’s still back in San Francisco gambling our money away. Meanwhile, I’m the hottest thing in Rome.

  The Romans loved Brendan’s performance. They applauded wildly, asking him to sing the song again and again. After the fifth performance, which lasted for fifteen minutes, Occipus declared “Glory Days” to be Rome’s new national anthem.

  “You’ll go down in history!” he told Brendan. “A great singer and a great warrior!”

  Then things started getting weird.

  The feast ended. The guests stumbled out. Brendan tried to exit with Occipus, but a freakishly muscular slave with intricate, gory tattoos grabbed him. The slave pulled Brendan aside.

  “What are you doing?” Brendan asked. “Get your hands off me!”

  “No, no, it’s all right, General,” said Emperor Occipus. “This is Ungil. He’s to escort you to your room.”

  “I thought I’d be staying in the Royal Bedrooms. . . .”

  “Brendan, Brendan,” said the emperor, “you’re to be a great warrior—and great warriors don’t sleep in the Royal Bedrooms.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because great warriors don’t sleep.”

  “Huh?!”

  Ungil grabbed Brendan’s elbow and pulled him out of the Jovian Banquet Hall. The last thing Brendan saw was the emperor waving good-bye. Ungil led him to a winding stone staircase that smelled like burned, rotten eggs. Then he pulled off Brendan’s Roman sandals and threw them away.

  “Hey! Stop! Where are you taking me?” Brendan demanded, but Ungil didn’t answer—and then two more ridiculously muscle-bound slaves approached, holding knives to Brendan’s throat.

  “Keep yer mouth shut, boy,” one of them said.

  Brendan descended the smelly steps. He noticed water seeping out of the walls, dribbling over the sharp stones; the water stank. He must be near some underground sulfur spring. And he was only going deeper.

  The staircase brought Brendan to a hallway from which different bedchambers branched off. But these looked nothing like the Royal Bedrooms that Brendan stayed in the night before. They were small, barred spaces with no beds to speak of, containing large jars for human waste.

  “This is a dungeon!” Brendan protested. Ungil and the slaves laughed as they moved him along.

  The barred rooms seemed empty at first, but as Brendan went past, people called out: “Fresh meat!” “Where’d they find you, at the baths?” One of the cell occupants, a sinewy man with long, shaggy hair and a black beard, ran up to the bars and taunted Brendan: “Is this what they call a gladiator these days? A skinny, soft little baby? Go back to yer mother’s milk, sonny!” Some of the others stayed back, restrained by metal cuffs or strapped to wooden beams. Brendan gasped at one man who was hanging upside down, whimpering.

  “Here you go,” Ungil said as he opened the last cell in the corridor. “This’ll make you a gladiator in no time.”

  Brendan squirmed, trying to release himself from Ungil’s grip, which was impossible. “I changed my mind! I’m not a warrior! Let me out! I don’t belong with these people! I’m not like Felix—”

  Ungil slapped him. Brendan jumped back.

  “Felix the Greek was trained by me. And now Occipus wants me to train you. And the emperor’s wish is . . .”

  Ungil let the actions of his fellow slaves finish the sentence. They pulled Brendan inside the cell and turned him upside down, clamping his ankles into manacles that hung from the ceiling.

  “No, no!” Brendan said. “What is this? Is this ‘inverted noggin training’?! You can’t put me through that. I’ll black out!”

  “You’ll die, in fact,” said Ungil, “but we’ll come in and rotate you periodically so the blood doesn’t flood your brain. And you won’t black out. The pain will keep you from doing that.”

  “What pain?” asked a terrified Brendan.

  Ungil reached into a miniature barrel stored in a corner of the cell. He pulled out a handful of stinky soft cheese.

  “What are you—ugggh!” Brendan said.

  Ungil smeared the cheese on Brendan’s face. Huge soft chunks entered his mouth. The cheese tasted like the bottom of an old compost bin.

  But Ungil wasn’t finished. He and his fellow slaves dug their hands into the barrel and coated Brendan’s entire body with the pungent, repugnant cheese.

  The smell was unbearable; Brendan felt as if he were going to upchuck all twelve courses of his recent meal. But Ungil still wasn’t finished. He tied a blindfold around Brendan’s cheesy, upside-down head; one of the other slaves handed Brendan a short sword.

  “What’s this?” Brendan asked—but he quickly figured it out and started swinging wildly, trying to get the slaves, who laughed. They were out of range.

  “Bring him down!” ordered Ungil.

  A slave pulled a lever on the wall. Brendan was lowered until his hair (which was covered in cheese like the rest of him) just touched the floor. He continued swinging the sword, but hearing the slaves’ laughter, he gave up. He wasn’t there to entertain them.

  “Release the vermin,” Ungil said. One of the slaves hit another lever on the wall.

  Brendan knew what had happened even though he couldn’t see. He remembered Occipus explaining about a “complex system of hydraulics and pulleys”; now he could hear a similar system at work all around him. Panels in the walls slid away. Ungil and his slaves stepped out. The cell door locked. And Brendan heard the chittering of rats.

  An army of them.

  “Why are you doing this?” yelled Brendan.

  “Gladiators need to rely on their speed and accuracy,” said Ungil through the bars. “This is the first part of that training. Cut the rats . . . and not yourself.”

  “But that’s impossible—”

  “Not for a great gladiator,” said Ungil. “Oh, it doesn’t happen overnight. Training like this usually goes on for several weeks—”

  “Several weeks?”

  “Until you can kill the rats without leaving any scratches on your body,” said Ungil, as he and the other slaves exited. “See you in the morning! Good luck.”

  The first rat came up to Brendan’s hair. Brendan swung his sword and missed, hitting the ground, sending up sparks. Other rats seemed to laugh at him: Chee chee chee. An intrepid one climbed up his hair, scaled his face, and went up his chest before it began to eat the cheese nestled around Brendan’s belly button. This made matters worse because Brendan was extremely ticklish; as the rat nibbled, he found himself laughing while slashing wildly. He managed to cut the rat in two, but also nicked the skin above his pelvis. As a giant rat started to eat cheese off his eyebrow, he screamed.

  Meanwhile, a long, long way away, Cordelia, Eleanor, Felix, and Will got a tour of the monastery. They had had a good night’s rest on straw mattresses—or at least, better than they had had the night before, when they slept on a bunch of manuscripts.

  Batan Chekrat was a grand fortress made of rust-colored rock held in place with frozen mud. In the summer, Wangchuk explained, the snow melted, and for two weeks the land was a paradise of grass and butterflies. But even then the frost beasts did not let up. They still demanded their sacrifices, and their appearance was even more horrible in the summer. They molted, losing great patches of hair all over their bodies, like giant mangy dogs.

  Wangchuk showed the kids the monastery kitchen. There they learned that there were 432 monks in the monastery, among them a head chef and two sous chefs. There were seventy-five yaks on the premises as well, kept outside in a walled-off pen that the frost beasts couldn’t reach.

  “Are all these yaks going to be sacrificed to the frost beasts?” Eleanor asked worriedly as they toured the pen, wearing bulky coats that the monks had lent them.

  “We eat them too,” Wangchuk said, petting a giant, shaggy yak with big wet eyes. “But right now they’re our pets.”

  Eleanor felt sick. She had learned in school
that you needed to respect other people’s cultures, but it was really hard to understand the monks’ customs and eating habits. And although Cordelia and Will and Felix thought yak meat was pretty tasty after breakfast—and were looking forward to more at lunch—Eleanor didn’t. I can’t eat yak sausage and yak meatballs when I think of all those poor yaks staring at me with their big, sad yak eyes! I need to get out of here, she thought, but first I need to learn more about this Door of Ways.

  After lunch, Wangchuk brought them to the monastery’s atrium, which doubled as a library. It was a domed room with rows and rows of ancient books and glass drawers filled with scrolls.

  “Do you have any books about the Door of Ways?” Eleanor asked.

  “Why, of course,” Wangchuk said. “On the top shelf. Over there. But those are sacred documents. Only meant for the eyes of our brotherhood.”

  Eleanor stared, obsessed with learning more. But Wangchuk was ushering everyone out of the library, telling the “traveling warriors” that it was time to see the meditation room.

  This was a large space where monks sat in lotus position every day for hours in complete stillness. The room had a grass floor and warm steam floating through bamboo pipes. It was completely quiet. Inside it, the buzzing of a fly was a momentous event. Cordelia, Eleanor, Will, and Felix joined the meditation. Wangchuk led, instructing everyone to imagine the pain of life as a large red balloon, floating directly above them. With each passing minute, the balloon would float farther and farther upward . . . until it disappeared among the clouds.

  During meditation, one of the monks paced around the room with a bamboo stick, ready to whack anyone on their skulls if they fell asleep. This would have scared Eleanor, except she wasn’t close to falling asleep—she actually loved meditating!

  She found it hard at first; it didn’t make any sense to sit and think about a red balloon. But as Wangchuk instructed her to make her breathing very regular, and to think about each breath, she slowly entered a clear place where she could see the balloon, and could imagine that it really did hold all her crazy thoughts and pain. “Our mind is the sword that cannot cut itself,” Wangchuk said. “I ask you to remove the barrier between your mind and what you are aware of. Banish all thoughts of the past and future. Immerse yourself in the present, in the here and now. Only then will you conquer your pain. Only then will you find enlightenment.”