“Are you alright?” asked Jasper, not fooled by Noah’s casual manner and apparently easy smile.
“Yes,” said Noah, “I’m fine.”
But he didn’t look fine. He had bruises on his face and a split lip. Miss Brett approached the boy and the others moved aside. She took his face in her hands and turned it to get a good look. A big bruise under his eye was now a pale shade of purple. “Are you sure you’re alright, sweet angel?”
Noah had to look away when he spoke. “Yes, I…I really got bruised in the explosion. It was hard to get out from under the rubble.”
“You weren’t in there when we dug through,” said Faye. “What happened?”
“I’m not really sure,” said Noah. “I must have gotten knocked out. I was disoriented.”
Faye looked at him, trying to discern the truth. Noah turned away. Jasper watched Noah, never once looking anyone in the eye. What actually happened? Noah is not telling us the whole story. Jasper looked at Miss Brett.
She could see it, too. Noah was hiding something. Miss Brett, too, hid her fears and offered a smile that graced only her lips. Her eyes could not hide the worry. But Noah averted his gaze from Miss Brett, turned from Jasper, and away from Wallace. He eventually had to look down at his feet to avoid everyone else.
Suddenly the silence was broken. The renewed sound of the printing machine took everyone by surprise. And then, it began to deliver.
“What was that?” asked Noah.
Coming out of the machine was another photograph. Strewn about the floor were others. In their excitement and concern over Noah’s return, they had forgotten the incoming news that the printing machine was continuing to retrieve.
“I guess we better explain our plan,” said Jasper, moving in to collect the photographs.
As the photographs came through, it was clear that some of the butterflies had encountered problems, and some had information to offer. The children divided the photos into two piles. The useless photos went into the first pile. Several were all black; two of rocky cliffs; seven of nothing but sand; three of a gnarled tree—in fact, the very same tree, suggesting that this tree might be the final resting place of that butterfly; and one photograph of the claws of a bird of prey that Faye declared was a kestrel, but Lucy claimed was a hobby since its wings were more angular and hobbies were so good at catching flying things. Kestrels swoop, thought Faye. Hobbies catch things in the air with their fingers, thought Lucy. Lucy mouthed the word “hobby.” Faye rolled her eyes.
Six photographs were too blurry to tell where or what they were.
But plenty of photographs were in the good pile, and it was growing. There was one of ships in the canal, another of camels turning an irrigation wheel, and one of camel riders near the pyramids. More continued to come in and were placed in one pile or the other.
“This is amazing,” said Noah, picking up a few of the photographs. Each photo had coordinates. They knew where every shot had been taken.
Lucy showed Noah the single little copper butterfly still in the pocket of her pinafore. She had built the butterfly frame but had not placed the camera or navigational system inside. It was her little friend, she explained. “He’s called Nigel.”
“Nigel?” Noah asked, dislodged from his private exile and spirited back into the world of Lucy. “The copper butterfly is Nigel?” He could not help but crack a smile.
“She named them all,” said Wallace, as if this was to be expected. “We sent out one hundred.”
Jasper smiled. A spark of Noah showed through the gloom enveloping him since his return.
The children turned their attention to the pile of useful photographs. Faye fetched the map from behind the clock and handed it to Jasper. She retrieved the photograph they had enlarged of the view from Ariana’s prison window. This way, they could compare that minaret and that dovecote to anything they might find among their photos. Noah picked up the magnifying glass and focused on the view from the window.
“We need to lay out these photographs in their proper places on our map,” said Jasper, spreading out the large map on the table. The sketch looked like a giant sun, with the flight directions of the butterflies as its rays. One hundred different paths, each with its own coordinates. Each one would tell them a story.
The children divided the photos into piles among the five of them as Miss Brett went to fetch some sandwiches. Luckily, most of the butterflies had sent back at least one usable photograph. Seven of the butterflies seemed to have been lost before sending anything. One had likely been the disappointing supper for a kestrel. Or a hobby.
“All of these made it,” said Faye, holding five photographs from one vector that had survived. She placed them on the coordinate that corresponded to the coordinate on the photos. Noah picked them up.
“But look!” He pointed to the top photo and compared it to the photo of his mother. “This is water. And so is this. These do not seem to be from the right direction.”
Taking a closer look, Faye agreed. “We can likely eliminate this pile from Suez and this pile from just south of that. Both are on the sea.”
“There seems to be some kind of farm in her photograph,” said Wallace. He selected the photographs of the vast desert landscape. “These southwestern photos can be eliminated.”
Systematically, the children and Miss Brett began to go through the photos. Each pile along each vector had to be perused and examined. Each child employed a magnifying glass to be sure no detail was missed. They were left with seventy-five photographs that needed more examining. Before supper, they narrowed those down to twenty-three.
“The one thing that worries me is Sabi,” said Noah. “I wish he had been able to get here and explain. I hope he is alright.”
Faye dropped her magnifying glass. Jasper’s mouth fell open.
“Oh, no,” cried Lucy.
“We forgot to tell him,” said Wallace.
“Forgot to tell who what?” asked Noah.
“Sweet angel,” said Miss Brett, “Sabi did arrive.”
Noah jumped up. “Why didn’t you tell me? Sabi is the map, the living map. He probably has coordinates to all of Komar Romak’s hiding places.”
The others looked from one to another.
“Noah,” said Jasper, “we had better speak with Mr. Bell.”
“Is something wrong? Is Sabi hurt?” Noah was worried.
“Sabi is…being cared for,” said Miss Brett gently. “But Mr. Bell explained that there is cause for concern.”
“Concern?” Noah was ready to run to the door. “Is it serious?”
“It is serious,” said Miss Brett, “but Sabi is not hurt. Not…not hurt. The problem is that the maps he wears—”
“You know about the map?” Noah asked.
“Yes,” Miss Brett started, “Mr Bell said that—”
“Mr. Bell knows about the map?” Noah was almost yelling. “It can lead us to Komar Romak. It can—”
“Noah,” Miss Brett said, putting her hand gently on his arm. “The maps are not of Komar Romak, but from Komar Romak.”
“What? What do you mean?” Noah looked from one to another. He stopped at Faye.
“Sabi is an agent of Komar Romak.”
“What? No…No …” Noah backed away until he came to a chair. He sat down hard. “What do you mean? No, that’s not… That’s impossible. He…he is just a little boy. He’s all alone. I don’t understand how…how …” Noah sat there mumbling in disbelief. With visions of that horrid little room and the moldy bread and the rag dog, Noah was unable to get his head around the idea that little Sabi was a partner of the devil.
“We don’t think he knows,” said Jasper. “We believe he is innocent and knows nothing of the true role he has been made to play.”
“We think,” said Faye, “that it has just been some horrid tradition that Komar Romak started, to turn a child into the map that reveals secret safe houses of the brothers. Maybe there is some passageway system it shows. We aren’t sur
e yet. I think Mr. Bell plans to make sure.”
Noah’s face went blank. He didn’t know what to think. Had little Sabi been some kind of slave, some kind of victim, of Komar Romak? Had the little boy unwittingly brought evil to their door? No, Sabi had not brought evil to their door. Was Sabi any different from Noah?
Miss Brett put a gentle hand on Noah’s shoulder. “Perhaps it is time to talk, all of us. Perhaps we need to sit together and speak of this.”
“Where is Sabi?” said Noah, only half hearing what Miss Brett said.
“They have him…safe,” said Faye, looking away from Noah.
“He’s a prisoner, isn’t he?” asked Noah. “They have him in the dungeon, don’t they?”
“Not dungeon,” came a booming voice from across the room. A brother in a black tutu and black stockings stood in the doorway. He had a wreath of black flowers around his bushy hair and a bushy beard on his chin.
“Where is he?” asked Noah.
The brother stood aside and gestured that they come. The five children and Miss Brett left the room, following the ballerina brother, who walked on his toes and made little pirouettes along the way to the salon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE STORY OF THE LIVING MAP
OR
SIR EDWARD’S SECRET
Tea had been served, but the children, Miss Brett, the Modests, Dr. Banneker, and the Vigyanvetas seemed entirely uninterested. Nikola Tesla sat alone with a napkin spread neatly in his lap, sipping daintily at a cup of tea, wiping his moustache after every sip. The others shuffled about, the children nearly causing collisions, and the parents pacing back and forth. In Mr. Bell’s office, no one spoke. Mr. Bell sat at his desk, sipped tea, and looked grave. On the settee sat a little boy hungrily devouring cakes from the silver tray.
“Sabi!” cried Noah. It had taken a few moments to recognize the little boy. Sabi jumped down and ran to Noah. The boy stopped, bowed, and then threw his arms around Noah who hugged him back. Then Noah took him by the shoulders to get a better look. Sabi was clean and wore fresh clothes. His hair had been washed and combed. He had clearly been bathed. And just as clearly, he had been fed—and fed well.
“What a relief,” said Nikola Tesla. “You’ve washed him.”
“Sabi, you’re not in the dungeon,” Noah blurted out in relief. “I’m so sorry I sent you here. I’m so sorry that—”
“No, I am sorry,” said Sabi. “I am never knowing that I am bad things. I belong to someone and I do as I am told. I am not know.”
“I understand,” said Noah. “Sometimes we do things we have no choice but to do. Sometimes we do not know or…or we do not understand or…or we have no choice.” Noah closed his eyes against his own inner turmoil.
“I am not knowing choice,” said Sabi. “I want to help you but I hurt you. I very sorry. Ana asif, Noah, I sorry.” Tears welled up in the little boy’s eyes.
“There is nothing to be sorry about,” said Noah. “You are safe here and we will take care of you.” As he said this, he looked around the room. He wanted confirmation that this was true. Mr. Bell gave a slight nod that Noah took for agreement. “It is time you have people to take care of you and teach you.”
“It’s time someone teaches us a thing or two,” said Faye. “Sabi isn’t the only one who doesn’t know what is going on around him.”
“It is time that we put all our heads together,” said Miss Brett to the parents. “You are keeping secrets and the children are keeping secrets and unless we all work together, we are working apart.”
“First, I want to understand this boy, Sabi. What do you know of him?” asked Noah. “He is a living child, here and now. He’s not just some item that can be stolen or destroyed. He’s not just part of some giant history that threatens the world.” Noah was less sure of this final proclamation, especially because this elicited a hushed murmur among the parents. The instant Mr. Bell raised a hand, there was silence.
“Indeed, Master Canto-Sagas. Sabi is The Map. We have known of the story for many generations. Mimar Sinan, the great architect of Suleiman, built many secret spaces and places for those in the sultan’s protection. He built these knowing that there was a force in search of these safe places. There were stories of a traitor who brought pieces of the map out of safety by tattooing his skin. At some point, the story of The Map came to light.
“It has been referred to as ‘The Living Map’ and, for hundreds of years, it has been a threat against us. Yet, the choices of how a map is made can reveal things it was not meant to reveal. A map, for example, that leads to one place must originate from another. While this map betrays paths to our safe places, it does so by charting paths for Komar Romak. If the map could be read in reverse, it could lead us back along those paths to Komar Romak. For centuries, we have sent brothers to look for it, but no one has been able to find it. Now, it seems, the map has found us.
“What we feared,” Mr. Bell continued, “was that Sabi had been sent as a spy. You see, while Komar Romak found many of our secret places, some were meant to act only as decoys, protecting the real havens. This castle, for example, has been safe for centuries. We feared that Sabi was sent to find this castle and that he had succeeded. Instead, he now serves as a warning. Upon his body are places we must destroy or convert to something other than a haven in these next few days.”
“A trap?” asked Jasper, softly.
“Well, of course. We’ve invented ways to deceive Komar Romak,” said Nikola Tesla, “and to thwart his plans to infiltrate our system of safe houses.”
“Yes, Master Modest, something of a trap. Komar Romak cannot know we have the map. We assume that, at a certain age, the map is transferred to the next generation. From what Sabi tells us, the previous Living Map, the man he knew as his ‘uncle,’ was…removed. One day, Sabi was taken, strapped to a table next to this ‘uncle,’ and mapped with a tattooing needle. The next day, Sabi was alone and never saw his ‘uncle’ again. He was left to heal alone. From then on, the boy was made to carry the map on his body. He became the map.”
“Uncle,” said Sabi with a shutter. “I am taken from street. They put straps on my arms and legs and make me the map. I remember I cry until I sleep. I don’t remember.”
“Probably fainted from the pain,” Faye said in disgust. “Those monsters.”
“No, no. They say it honor,” said Sabi, looking around the room. “Honor like wearers of map before. Noble, they say, even the pain and…and me to be alone.” Sabi seemed to be wavering between emotions. He had the urge to defend his noble station as the map, and yet could not escape the loneliness and life of pain and hunger that would endure until his death and replacement.
“You were a slave,” said Faye, looking at Sabi with new regret and sympathy. “You were mistreated, and they cared nothing for you as a person. They tortured you for the sake of their own rituals and secrets. They used you. You were disposable.” Sabi looked from Faye to Noah, not fully understanding. But the others understood exactly what she was saying. “This was a tradition of torture.”
“And smelliness,” added Nikola Tesla.
“Yes, Miss Vigyanveta,” said Mr. Bell, ignoring Tesla, “and this was done from generation to generation, from child to child. We’ve determined from Sabi’s body that both Sole Manner Farm and the environs of Solemano have been penetrated. We have had to make changes. The Sole Manner Farm will remain, but as a façade. It will divert Komar Romak from a new location that shall be secure. Solemano has been breached as well, but we have responded.
“We can use this to our advantage. Komar Romak has not penetrated all of the safe tunnels, nor discovered the inner castle built into the hills of Solemano This castle in Cairo is still safe. Komar Romak shall not prevail. As for Sabi, he will stay with us, so his sad fate shall be changed. Both the map and the child shall be taken from the clutches of Komar Romak.”
“Fine,” said Noah. “Fine, so we know about Sabi’s rescue from his sad fate. But what about his arr
ival here, at the castle? Could he have been followed?”
“He followed your instructions and did not try to make contact with Komar Romak,” said Mr. Bell. “His instructions from Komar Romak are to send word back so new paths can be mapped. It is rare, but that is a rule of the map. He did not do this. We intercepted him, and now he understands why he must remain here. He will find happiness here. He will find a home. The poor child has never received any real care or comfort. This has changed.”
Noah nodded. This was good. At least someone was free of Komar Romak’s clutches.
“Very well,” said Noah. “I am glad to hear this, Sabi.”
“I am to be a brother,” said Sabi. “I am to study and become a brother with a hat.” Sabi’s face beamed. He looked from Mr. Bell to the brothers.
“We will have him here,” said Mr. Bell, nodding towards little Sabi. “He may, indeed, become one of us one day. For now, there is much to undo before we can include him in our brotherhood.”
“I am gald for Sabi,” said Noah, who now found it necessary to ask the bigger question. “But now you must tell us: Inasmuch as you have placed our lives at stake, and my mother has become an innocent victim of this horrid history, you must tell us now—what is Il Magna?”
Nikola Tesla put down his tea. Isobel Modest protested, shaking her head. The doctors Vigyanveta clung to one another.
“Yes, we have heard the name,” said Noah, “and I know that somehow, Il Magna is at the center of all this.”
Dr. Tobias Modest stood up. “Noah, how could you—”
“Il Magna?” asked Faye. “Il Magna. Everthing keeps coming back to that. What is it? Is this something you’re hiding?”
“El Magnau Il Magna mid-dinja,” said Lucy. “On the boat from Solemano and in the castle, that is what the brothers sang and, in the book, what we found.”
Dr. Banneker put up a hand. “Son, I don’t think…I…I—”
But Miss Brett stopped him. “They know more than you think. These are your brilliant children. What would you expect? It is time you all shared.”
The Strange Round Bird: Or the Poet, the King, and the Mysterious Men in Black Page 26