The Strange Round Bird: Or the Poet, the King, and the Mysterious Men in Black

by Eden Unger Bowditch

“Now that is interesting,” said Faye, looking closely at the painting. “Notice anything familiar?”

  “You mean Wallace’s coin?” asked Lucy. “Or the three flat wings?”

  The others moved in closer. Wallace clutched his glasses. On her headdress (hennin) was a coin. Looking closely, the three children could see that the markings on the coin were the same as those on Wallace’s coin. And next to the writing at the top of the painting was a symbol—the three wings in a circle.

  In the bookshop, Noah continued looking through the pages as Sir Edward enthusiastically looked for more books on Muhabi. Another poem caught Noah’s eye. This one, like the others, was written in more than one language. The first two stanzas were in a totally unfamiliar language.

  “That’s Ukranian,” said Sir Edward. “Roxalene was of Ukranian blood. She was a slave when she moved into Muhabi’s court. She was said to be so beautiful and elegant, Muhabi never saw her as a slave.”

  But Noah was not listening. He was focused on the second set of stanzas. The words were more familiar. Noah could read one word in the poem that was in the poet’s elegant scripts—“oyseau.” Noah’s French was not great, but he knew the word for bird, oiseau, and he knew that in the 16th century, words had no definitive spellings. “This is a poem about a bird, isn’t it?”

  Sir Edward looked only for a moment. “Now that is strange, my son. Your mother asked about this very poem. And, yes, it is.” Sir Edward looked at the poem. “I don’t know if it is the one your mother liked. But, yes, that is the old spelling of oiseau.”

  “Does he have more poems about a strange bird?” asked Noah.

  Sir Edward considered. “There were a couple poems in ancient Greek that I found recently. There are some in the collection of The Archivist.”

  “The Archivist?” asked Noah.

  “Yes, brilliant historian. You’ll find his notes in many of the volumes. Often, historians will note if the Archivist has used a reference book. Great writing on Ottoman history, The Archivist. Terribly mysterious, but then, so much is, now that the past is behind us.” He went to a shelf behind his desk and pulled out a leather-bound book with no writing on the cover. Noting Noah’s interest, Sir Edward explained, “These are my translations. I often keep notes in different categories. They were originally written in ancient Greek.” He shuffled through some pages and found what he was looking for. “There is one I have yet to translate. But this other one might interest you. This is not a reference to a bird, but it does speak of ‘wings.’”

  “Can you read it?” asked Noah. “I’d be very interested in hearing it.”

  Nodding, Sir Edward cleaned his glasses with the corner of his sleeve and, putting them back on, he read:

  “I was so young

  When I wished

  For so much.

  But now I see

  That it was

  The thoughtless,

  Careless,

  Hard and sure desires

  Of a child who knows

  Nothing

  Beyond himself.

  What comes from his desires,

  He knows not nor cares

  And he leaves behind him

  Three wings and

  A trail of dust.”

  “Three wings?” said Noah.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” Sir Edward reread his translation and compared it to the original. “Yes, three wings. Less odd when you see the drawings interspersed among Muhabi’s poems.” Noah knew what to expect before he even saw the sketch. Sir Edward held a drawing of the familiar three flat wings. Sir Edward tilted his head. “Perhaps the poet is pointing to the strangeness of a young man’s desires and how it does not fit with the way things are. Perhaps being left behind implies that he is leaving behind his false impressions of the world. Perhaps three wings represent the different directions he might want to fly or the forces of earth, wind, and fire…oh, but there’s water, too. It is a strange locution.”

  “Or, perhaps, those three wings belong to a very strange bird,” Pamina said, who came back with a tray of tea, chocolates, and honeyed sweets. “Here, have something refreshing and delicious. You need the energy. You two have been at it for hours.”

  Noah took a few deep breaths, trying to get more oxygen to clear his head. Could that poem be referring to the strange round bird? Could the other bird poem have been the poem? Noah shook his head as if to clear out the distraction. First, he had to find out more about the map.

  “Thank you,” Noah said as he gobbled sweets, three at a time. “Mmmm, these are delicious. Did you make them?”

  “Whoa, Jimmy! Take it easy. They’re not going anywhere,” said Pamina, watching Noah gulp down three more. “I’m surprised you can taste them at that speed. And, no, Uncle made them. He is quite the gourmet.”

  “Um, my name is Noah, not Jimmy,” he said, gulping down another pastry covered in almonds and honey. He blushed and his hand remained in the air, hovering above a rich chocolate-covered biscuit.

  “Pamina’s mother is from Glasgow,” Sir Edward laughed. “She picked up a few habits, don’t you know. She calls everyone ‘Jimmy.’”

  “I don’t call you Jimmy, Uncle,” said Pamina, licking the chocolate off the edges of a sweet.

  Noah blushed. “Oh, I thought she might not have remembered—”

  “I know your name, Jimmy,” said Pamina, stealing the treat Noah was about to take. “Uncle introduced us, remember? All of 2 hours and 27 minutes ago.”

  Noah smiled and picked up a napkin. He was so distracted by Pamina that he almost ate the napkin. He was able to pull it out and dab the sides of his lips as if that was his intention all along. Luckily, Pamina had not noticed.

  “So what’s on the table, gents?” asked Pamina, adding three heaping spoons of sugar to her tea.

  “Well,” said Sir Edward, “I can’t seem to find anything else that may lead us to a map—”

  “Map?” asked Pamina. “Are we going on that map quest again?” Her mismatched eyes lit up. She looked first at her uncle, then at Noah.

  “What map quest?” asked Noah.

  “Pamina, darling girl, perhaps—”

  “Oh, Uncle,” groaned Pamina. “Do tell.”

  “Goodness. Well, perhaps it is something, but there is not much more to add than what you know, Pamina. We did find a poem… or, not so much a poem as notation, as if he was commenting on something he wrote or saw. It’s definitely in Muhabi’s hand. Here, this is my translation. It is from the Latin and rather scribbled. It is from a translation I did ages ago. It’s rather jumbled.”

  “Do share, Uncle,” said Pamina, leaning forward on her seat.

  “Pamina,” Sir Edward urged, “you’ve heard this all before. You know it doesn’t—”

  “Pleeease!” Pamina stuck out her lower lip. Noah had seen the move before. Lucy often used it on Jasper with great success.

  “Very well. It is, I warn you, something of a work in progress.” Sir Edward cleared his throat. “Hidden secrets that must remain, forever…or perhaps he is saying eternity…to save and lose…or is that break…what is loved…or needed to live or…I am not certain. Map the symbols… Map the paths… or Map is the paths…and hide the marks, for the Map can remain and grow, known only to the faithful, for two things to remember, a force of twice and always…and here it is smudged or crossed off with some medieval rubber device… and to protect the…no, defend the…something…for to know the lairs of… well, this is not a word and it’s written in Arabic or Persian…to know the lairs of something is to…and that is all I see on this page.”

  Noah was looking at Sir Edward when the librarian stopped reading. Noah swallowed the bite that had remained in his mouth during the reading. If he had been hoping to gain a clue, he was sorely mistaken.

  “What?” said Noah. “What is he saying?” Noah thought the whole thing sounded like something Lucy might say. “What have I missed?”

  “Exactly,” said Sir Edward, perusing the original and his tra
nslation. He closed his eyes. “‘The Map shall not know the secret held/The hidden ways/The winding truth’” or something, hmmmm. Let’s see…but that from a different …” He returned to perusing, lost in his work.

  “Well, it’s clear,” said Pamina, taking the translation from her uncle’s hand. “There is a map—a map that has remained or was expected to. Or there was a plan to have a map to some double-evil lair of something…” She took the book from her uncle. “Well, look at this…This is something or someone I don’t know… …”

  And with that Noah jumped up. “What did you say?” Pamina had read the Arabic script aloud. The sound made Noah’s heart skip a beat.

  “It says and the second word is—”

  “Romak.” Noah didn’t need to read Arabic script to know what it said. “Komar Romak.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE SULTAN’S BEAUTIFUL WIFE

  OR

  THE ANCIENT EVILS

  OF KOMAR ROMAK

  Wallace was holding his coin next to the painting of the Hürrem Sultan page in the book. “It is my coin. It is my coin on that lady’s hat. It really is my—”

  “Yes, Wallace, we can see that,” said Faye. “The question now is why.”

  “And how?” added Jasper. “How is it that the coin came to be there?”

  “And how did Wallace get it from the lady’s hat?” added Lucy.

  “Well, we can now say, with certainty,” said Jasper, “that whatever this mystery is, it has been going on for hundreds of years. Wallace’s coin is somehow connected.”

  “And Faye’s amulet,” said Lucy, who was now reading another book, Art of the Ottoman Empire. She carried the large and heavy book over to the others and placed it on the desk. There again was a painting of Hürrem Sultan. In this painting, she had an amulet that looked remarkably like Faye’s.

  “That is simply impossible,” said Faye. “There is no possible way that my amulet would be there. It’s from India. It’s a family treasure—something passed down from …” Her voice faded as she thought about her amulet. It had been handed down to her from prior generations. But from whom exactly? Inheriting something from generations past meant something different now, didn’t it? Her father had never said where the heirloom amulet came from or from whom. He had given her detailed histories of all her other jewels, especially from which maharajah and queen they came. But not the amulet. Not her special piece that was always being taken away from her for “safekeeping.” Yes, thought Faye, perhaps it did make sense.

  “Very well, there is something that connects my amulet and Wallace’s coin,” said Faye.

  “And Jasper’s and Lucy’s bracelets,” said Wallace. “There was some strange reaction last Christmas in Solemano. You felt it, Faye. The electrical pulse or shock. There was something wrong—something electric or magnetic. That’s why Jasper and I have been trying to uncover the elemental structure of the coin. There must be something in it, something that creates a catalyst. It all must fit together, something to do with the history, the big picture.”

  Faye understood. “But can we find Ariana Canto-Sagas in the same big picture? Only it is awfully big, isn’t it?”

  “Yes!” Pamina was utterly surprised. “But Komar Romak is not a word in any language I know. I certainly can recognize the word. What is it?”

  “It’s not a thing. It’s a person, or rather, two people, or rather many but…it’s hard to explain.” Noah felt confident for the first time since his mother had been taken. This was a clue to something important. It was a clue to a map. It was going to help him find the lair, or lairs, of the “force of twice.” Yes, it had to be. Twice. Komar Romak.

  “You know,” said Sir Edward, “that is ringing a bell. Komar Romak. It is something that is written in one of these books, something about…an archive…maybe The Archivist…Oh, me, I’ll have to hunt it down. But I think you’ll want to take a look.”

  “Yes, I do, Sir Edward,” said Noah, now totally distracted. “But please, I want to know more about the map. How could they keep it safe? Where would it have been? And is it still around? Is it still hidden?”

  “That is a plethora of questions, young man.” Sir Edward looked over his glasses. “Let’s see. The map could have survived, I suppose, and may never have been found. But, let me see…something…Those words, Komar Romak. It is something, Slovenian or Ukrainian, but someone…someone asked about that.”

  “Who?” Noah asked, hopeful.

  “Someone…some time ago. More than once, I believe.” Sir Edward thought, but he could not immediately recall.

  Noah was trying to hide his anxiety. Sir Edward continued to peruse the work.

  “Ah, well, now that’s interesting,” the librarian said, pointing to the page. “This writing is from Muhabi’s private journals. They’ve never been catalogued in public records. I’ve been cataloguing them myself and plan to write a book about them.” Sir Edward flipped through pages. “Here he noted something like that…yes, here…on this page from 1557. Interesting. There is a connection from before his wife died. I had never noticed.

  “This is before his tragic poems of that year, as well as the strange writing he produced just after his wife’s death. I have always considered that odd writing to be some part of the grief process. The map of his heart—the map to solace, I thought. I thought the map was connected to some greater grief or danger. Yet, at the same time, I wondered if there might be something he was trying to hide, something secret written into his work of that era. And, with the dates here, right before Roxalene’s death…it is very interesting. It tells us something …”

  “It does?” Noah wanted to keep from being rude, but Sir Edward was becoming lost in his discovery. “What does it tell us?”

  “Well, this collection from 1557 was written here, in Cairo.” Sir Edward looked at Noah.

  “And?” Noah asked, feeling something important was to come.

  “It is possible that the map was hidden when he was here,” said Sir Edward. “I don’t know much about maps, I’m afraid. I know there are collections, but I would not even know where to start.”

  Where, indeed? thought Noah. He again looked up at the painting. What is it about that painting? Something in it is familiar.

  “And that is Roxalene,” said Pamina. “A beauty, isn’t she, Jimmy?” Pamina’s hand went to her neck. “And such a lovely amulet. Not that I care about those things, really.”

  And that was it. “Faye!” shouted Noah.

  “Faye?” asked Pamina.

  “She’s…a friend, a girl I know. That is her amulet.”

  “Well, that is unlikely. Perhaps she has something similar,” said Sir Edward, “only that is a piece belonging to Roxalene, designed expecially for her by the poet. It was said to be so beautiful that it was considered dangerous. Muhabi supposedly had to take it to the palace and hide it for protection. Apparently, attempts to steal it were relentless. I believe this is the only surviving record in which she is wearing it.”

  “Well, it looks like the one I recognize,” Noah said, still convinced it was the same as Faye’s. “When was this portrait painted?”

  “It was painted in 1555,” said Sir Edward. “It appears in a book by—”

  “Who was Roxalene before she married Muhabi?” Noah suddenly wondered if she might somehow be related to his mother. Her hair was reddish and she was beautiful. Maybe that was the connection.

  “She was known,” said Sir Edward, “to be a charming young girl who captured his heart. Some say her father was a priest, some say he was royalty. In fact, not much is truly known, other than two facts: she had once been enslaved, and Muhabi freed her.”

  “There’s a load of mystery around her, wot,” said Pamina, “and Muhabi’s poetry is riddled with his passionate love. And sorrow. There was something that tore awfully at them both, something that might have torn them apart. And the story goes that there was something that he had to keep secret from her. Perhaps that was the killer—mi
strust.”

  Roxalene might not be related to Ariana, but Noah was certain that there was some connection between this poet, Komar Romak, the Young Inventors Guild, and the parents. This poet was the link. Noah had to find the map. But where to even start? He thought that he could search in the castle, but the place was giant and he’d never find it. Mr. Bell might know, but then again, maybe not. “Is there someone who does know about maps? Someone who might know about this map?”

  “There are cartographers, map makers, map specialists, and even specialists who focus on historic maps. Indeed, it has been said that there are secret map societies in Cairo,” said Sir Edward. “The Emersons—Radcliff and Amelia Peabody Emerson—are expert Egyptologists, but they work on much older manuscripts. Radcliff won’t even touch anything newer than—”

  “Secret map societies?” Noah couldn’t imagine what that lot must be like—an odd collection of social misfits poring over old maps.

  “Well,” Sir Edward said, “I suppose there are all manner of secret societies …”

  Noah could not have agreed more, but bit his tongue and waited.

  “… but as far as maps go, we’d have to consult a specialist, someone who would know about the Muhabi map.”

  Noah looked up at the painting and thought, Yes, you certainly left us a mystery, Muhabi, and what a bother it promises to be.

  “There’s only one person to talk to about maps. The best cartographer and historian of maps would be Corlyss Swayne,” said Pamina, nibbling the edges of her chocolate-creamed cake. “They say Corlyss Swayne knows where all the secret maps can be found, and perhaps this one in particular. At least that is what I have heard.”

  “You’ve heard? Do you mean other people have asked for the map?” Noah reached for another sweet.

  “Well, not in many years, have they, Uncle?” asked Pamina, in the midst of devouring another chocolate. “And we cannot know for sure that it was this map. Uncle told me about several people who came to ask, but that was ages and ages ago, when I was very small. That’s what got me interested.”