Star of Stone

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Star of Stone Page 17

by Pierdomenico Baccalario


  A second rumble makes the station’s vaulted ceiling tremble.

  “Enough!” Egon Nose shakes his fists in the air, as if this is the last straw. “I’ve always hated the idea of hurting children … but you leave me no choice! Get them!”

  Just then, a flapping of wings can be heard behind Dr. Nose. A crow blind in one eye alights on the ground inside the abandoned station, halfway between the man and Harvey. It peers at one and then the other curiously. Then it takes wing. Behind it, another one arrives. The wings become four, eight, ten. Other crows emerge from the darkness of the tunnel, flying low, like gliders. Nose turns around, stunned, trying to understand where they’re coming from. And why.

  Ten crows, twenty crows, then fifty. It seems like they’ll never stop. An entire swarm of black feathers is belched out of the tunnel with a deafening screech. Beaks, wings and claws fill the cramped space inside the abandoned station.

  In the confusion, a giant Indian man appears, running in from the tracks. His long hair is streaming down and his wrinkled face is that of someone who’s always lived outdoors. As fast as lightning, he throws Ermete over his shoulder and orders the others, “Come with me, quickly.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turns, jumps down off the platform and starts running along the tracks, in the direction the crows came from. Too shaken to even think, Harvey, Elettra, Sheng and Mistral do as he says. They’re swallowed up by the darkness.

  Behind them, the crows are filling the air with piercing shrieks. Egon Nose thrashes his cane around, trying to keep the birds at bay. He strikes ten, twenty of them but is finally forced to retreat. His girls are screaming like crazy, doing everything they can to keep them away, but everything they do against the wall of sharp beaks and claws leaves them with cuts and scratches.

  Then, the moment the Indian man has disappeared with the kids, and just as quickly as it arrived, the frenzied black cloud also disappears into the darkness.

  27

  THE WOODS

  THEIR ESCAPE THROUGH THE SUBWAY TUNNEL LEAVES THEM breathless and panting. The Indian guiding the kids has the fast pace of someone who could run for miles and miles without growing tired. He’s carrying Ermete over his shoulder, and judging from how he’s moving, it looks like he can see in the dark. He slows down only when the old tracks cross over other ones coming from a tunnel running perpendicular to their own. Then he turns and says, “We only have two minutes. Don’t touch the tracks.” He starts running again.

  There’s a faint, distant glow in the new tunnel. Running in front of his three friends, Harvey spots a few lights beyond the bend. He sees a square, lit-up sign and a small green signal. Only then does he understand where they are: in the subway. The real one. He shouts this to the others, trying to get them to move faster.

  “Oh man, oh man, oh man!” Sheng starts to repeat, passing Elettra, Mistral and Harvey at full speed.

  Their run down the tunnel becomes frenetic. Mistral stumbles, falls to the ground and gets back up again.

  “Hurry! The train’s coming!” Harvey shouts to her.

  The walls are black, as are the tracks. Harvey lets Elettra and Mistral pass him, too, and then starts running behind them, almost pushing them, to make them move faster. He doesn’t know what direction the train is coming from, whether behind them or in front of them. “Run!” he shouts with all the breath he has left in his lungs.

  Her heart racing wildly, Mistral doesn’t think she can take another step. Harvey scoops her up, cradles her in his arms and keeps running. While he’s doing so, something sticking out of the wall rips the professor’s tuxedo at the shoulder.

  “Oh man, oh man, oh man!” Sheng keeps repeating. He’s almost caught up with the Indian man.

  They run around a bend. Behind it, not more than a hundred yards away, they spot the subway station. It looks completely different from below. On the platform are five people waiting for the train.

  The Indian reaches the platform and tosses Ermete up onto it. Then he turns toward Sheng, waits for him, clasps his hands together and boosts him up.

  The people waiting there start shouting with fright. Elettra is also given a boost up onto the platform. A recorded voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing that the train is now arriving.

  “Come on! Come on!” Sheng shouts to Harvey, who’s staggering, still carrying Mistral. “You’re almost there! You’re almost there!”

  Suddenly, the tunnel turns white. The air is sucked away like in a giant ventilator.

  “No!” Harvey shouts, lunging forward.

  The Indian grabs Mistral and hurls her onto the platform. Then he grabs Harvey and pushes him up as well. A second later, the boy finds himself staring up at the lights in the ceiling of the station and the curious faces of the other people.

  The train’s arrived.

  Harvey leaps to his feet. The Indian is there beside them. The train doors open. The man shakes his head, as if nothing at all has happened. “Not this line. We need to walk to the one train.”

  They’re sitting down now. Their train is quickly traveling north. The night is still young, but no one feels like talking. They’ve just dropped Ermete off at the hospital and they’re confused, scared. Exhausted. Their eyes are closed and their heads are resting back against the windows. Their torn clothing is covered with soot, dust and grease.

  “I’ve seen you before,” Harvey says to the Indian man as the train makes a stop. “Outside my house. Is that possible?”

  The man nods. “I’d say so.”

  “But when?”

  “Every morning?” the Indian suggests, braiding his long hair behind his head. Watching him do this, Harvey suddenly remembers where he’s seen him. “You’re the postman?”

  “Yes,” he admits. Then he turns to the other kids and introduces himself. “My name is Quilleran, of the Seneca tribe.”

  “I’ve heard that name before …,” Sheng murmurs.

  “Where are we going?” Elettra asks.

  “To the old tree.”

  “What old tree?”

  “The dead tree,” Quilleran replies. “In Inwood Hill Park.”

  “The woods in upper Manhattan,” Harvey explains. Then he asks, “Why are we going there? And what was with all those birds in the tunnel? Where’d they come from?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Star of Stone.”

  “What did you just call me?” Harvey asks, almost jumping out of his seat.

  “I called you by your name,” the Indian repeats. “Star of Stone.”

  “My name is Harvey Miller.”

  “That’s your American name,” the man insists.

  Harvey leaps to his feet. “Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”

  “I’m happy I saved your lives.”

  “Who told you we were in danger?”

  “I’ve been following you for months.” The Indian smiles.

  “Following me? Why?”

  “To protect you. You are Star of Stone.”

  “I’m not Star of Stone! I’m Harvey Miller!”

  Elettra tries to calm him down and it seems to work.

  “Why are you calling Harvey that, Quilleran?” Mistral asks with a small voice the moment things have settled down a little. “What does ‘Star of Stone’ mean?”

  “It means that he received the gift of stone from the stars. He can hear the voice of the Earth and understand how to heal it.”

  “That’s not true!” Harvey exclaims. “I’ve never gotten any gift, I’ve never heard any voices, and I’ve never healed anybody!”

  “Every era has a Star of Stone,” the Indian continues calmly, “and we’ve been waiting for ours.”

  “Well, I think you’ve made a big mistake,” Harvey retorts.

  “It’s a darn good thing he did!” Sheng cuts in. “Otherwise, we’d still be down there, dealing with that big-nose and his panthers. Man, what a sight! So, are you the one who sent in all those crazy birds?”

  The Ind
ian nods.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “They listen to me, and I can tell them what to do.”

  “Hao! That’s so cool! Is it something anybody can learn?”

  “Of course. I learned it here in New York.”

  “Oh, please!” Harvey grumbles. Then he clenches his fists and tries to calm down, but he can’t help admitting that there were, in fact, crows down there. Hundreds of crows, which appeared just in the nick of time. “You still haven’t explained why you were following me,” he insists, changing the subject.

  “To protect you.”

  “Who from?”

  “Your enemies.”

  “You know my enemies?”

  “Everyone should know their own enemies.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s late,” Elettra interjects. “And I’m tired.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  The subway leaves them a few blocks from Indian Road, at the northern tip of Manhattan. The only illumination is coming from the line of streetlights, which are slicing through the night. Inwood Hill Park is a patch of wooded blackness under the starry sky.

  Quilleran shows the kids a path.

  “The man in the subway. Is he dead?” Elettra asks as they start walking.

  The city lights are swallowed up by the tangle of trees. The sounds of civilization are drowned out by the unpredictable ones of nature.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why did he want our tops?”

  “I don’t know what he wanted,” replies Quilleran, who’s walking ahead of them. “I’m not even sure he knows.”

  “You said you’d been waiting for me …,” Harvey says insistently, twigs snapping beneath his feet in the darkness.

  “That’s right.”

  “So how’d you know I’d arrived?”

  “I saw the signs.”

  “What signs?”

  “The garden at your house,” Quilleran replies, stopping for a moment.

  “What does my garden have to do with it?”

  “It’s the only one in the city that’s blossoming.” Quilleran smiles. “You have the gift of speaking with the Earth and healing it.”

  The little group makes its way up a hill in silence, snapping twigs and rustling grass the only sounds to be heard. No one asks any more questions. They’re all lost in thought.

  Around a bend, they spot a number of torches glowing in the darkness. Quilleran heads toward the lights and soon reaches them. Sitting in a circle in a clearing are eleven Native Americans, their torches planted into the ground behind them. The flames rise up, tall and crackling in the night.

  “Who are they?” Harvey asks.

  “The last of the Seneca,” Quilleran answers.

  “Why are they here?”

  “To drive away the enemy.”

  When Quilleran and the kids arrive, the Seneca stand up and greet them one by one.

  “Washington?” Elettra asks one of them, recognizing the guide from Ellis Island.

  “Welcome,” he replies with a smile.

  “Would you mind telling us what’s going on?” Harvey snaps, growing more and more nervous.

  Quilleran calmly shows them a large stone with a metal plaque on it. “I wish I could have brought you here later on, by day, perhaps … but that wasn’t possible. Things are happening quickly, and we need to act quickly, too. This is the place where a Dutch man purchased the territory of New York from the Lenape, who were our ancestors’ enemies at the time, but who shared our desire to protect the Earth,” he explains. “The stone you see here marks the exact spot where the tree that was to protect the city was planted.”

  “So where’s the tree?” asks Sheng.

  “It died. It was two hundred and eighty years old, and it was very tired. Its death was one of the first signs. Each city should have a tree that watches over it, just as a man must have strong roots. When this tree died, we sought the old Star of Stone, but he told us he could no longer do anything to save it and that we needed to await his successor … who has come at last.”

  The Seneca slowly pick up their torches from the ground.

  “What are you planning on doing?” asks Harvey.

  “We’d like to hope that things can continue. That another tree will grow and take the old one’s place. That life will go on. For that to happen, we need to dance.”

  “I don’t understand….”

  “Understanding isn’t important. There are dances connecting to the earth and dances connecting to the sky. We’d like to dance for you, Star of Stone, and for your friends.”

  Harvey shakes his head, but his eyes are growing bright. “I don’t understand …,” he insists.

  “Stop wanting to understand and accept your gift. Speak with it.”

  “I … I can’t.”

  “You can hear it. You can speak to it whenever you like. And the Earth will speak to you.”

  “I don’t want to,” Harvey protests again. But actually, deep down in his heart, he can feel something beating. He doesn’t know what to call it. It’s his gift. It’s like a drum that can awaken unexpected strength. It’s ancient, powerful, relentless.

  “It’s too soon. But for us, it’s already late. Spring is only two days away,” Quilleran continues, picking up a torch. “Allow the Seneca to do their last dance for you. Let us dance for reborn life, for the tree that needs to sprout again. Let us dance for our friends who are gone and for those who are still holding our hands. Let us dance to drive away the enemy.”

  “We’ll dance, then,” Harvey says, listening to the drum.

  He slips his hand into Elettra’s. Sheng takes Mistral’s and then, all together, they step into the center of the ring of burning torches. Then they stop, standing before the rock, at the very place where New York’s first tree used to rise.

  The flames from the torches flicker in their eyes. Harvey’s heart is filled with pride, drinking in the light.

  Wind sweeps across the woods as if it were summoning its ancient spirits to guide the dance. Surrounded by the twelve Seneca, the circle of four friends closes in. They stand back to back, supporting each other. Around them, twelve torches begin to revolve. A single voice, guttural and ancient, utters unknown words. It’s the voice of the first month of spring.

  One by one, the twelve Indians sing of the twelve months of the year. As they do, they dance around the kids. It’s a circle of lights and shadows, a loop of flames, a vortex of glowing blazes. It’s a top spinning, a tiny light made of stars in the heart of Inwood. It’s an infinitesimal cogwheel that makes a thousand other, larger ones turn. Perhaps it’s the greatest machine of all, one without a name, without a center, without movement, taking a tiny step forward. It’s a song of life. It’s a dance for the spirits rising up among the stars.

  When the dance is over, it’s as though time no longer has any meaning. Ten minutes could have passed or ten hours. The woods are filled with a precious silence. The twelve Seneca men lower their torches and extinguish them against the ground. Harvey, Elettra, Mistral and Sheng unclasp their fingers, suddenly noticing they’re stiff and aching.

  Quilleran leads them back down the path.

  In a little clearing near Indian Road, he says, “The enemies might return. But there’s no need to be afraid of them. Follow the path you need to follow.”

  “I don’t know what path it is I need to follow,” Harvey says softly.

  “ ‘It’s time to understand the world. What difference does it make which road you follow as you seek the truth? Such a great secret is not to be reached by a single path,’ ” Quilleran recites, quoting Professor Van Der Berger.

  “How do you know those words?”

  “I learned them when I was waiting for you.”

  “Who from?”

  “From the Star of Stone who came before you.”

  “You mean Professor Van Der Berger?” the kids exclaim together. “He was the old Star of Stone?”


  “Yes.”

  “And you knew him?”

  “For a short time. Before he left the city.”

  “Did he … did he have Harvey’s gift, too?” asks Sheng.

  “Yes.”

  Harvey cradles his head in his hands. “I … I don’t understand anything anymore! How is that possible?”

  Quilleran slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out a rectangular object. “Before he left, the old Star of Stone left me something to give to you once I’d found you.”

  It’s an old postcard depicting the moment when Cleopatra’s Needle, the great obelisk, was erected in Central Park. The back of the postcard is filled with numbers.

  25, 6, 85, 42, 24, 79, 96, 73, 41, 18, 83, 119, 41, 170, 67, 102, 79, 56, 113, 90, 113, 53, 24, 79, 96, 165, 146, 124, 1, 119, 35, 113, 53, 41, 164, 16, 5, 119, 34, 67, 1, 98, 153, 119, 96, 161, 83, 143, 119, 105, 1, 98, 153, 96, 119, 1, 98, 153, 119, 96, 161, 83, 143, 119, 105, 53, 40, 149, 119. Star of Stone, 1 of 4.

  It’s addressed to Harvey Miller.

  28

  THE METEORITE

  AT THE BACK OF THE HOSPITAL ROOM ARE THREE PEOPLE: AN ASIAN boy with a pageboy haircut; a girl with long, black, curly hair; and another girl, standing at their side, with a ballerina’s graceful face.

  The moment he recognizes them, the man in the hospital bed flashes a little smile. It isn’t a pretty smile. His lips are marked with stitches. His leg is suspended in a white sling and he’s hooked up to strange machines by a series of tubes.

  “Hey,” he manages to whisper when the three walk up to him. “How’s it going?”

  “How are you?” Mistral asks, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. Elettra and Sheng kiss him, too. His chin is stubbly.

  “I’ve been in better shape,” Ermete says softly.

  “What do the doctors think?”

  “It’s not so clear,” he says, letting out a cough. “They wanted my insurance number, and once I gave it to them … well, I haven’t seen them since. I know my leg’s broken. And a rib or two, I think. They stitched up my lip and fixed a couple of teeth. But everything considered, I could’ve seen worse.”

 

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