Star of Stone

by Pierdomenico Baccalario

  “I’m going with you,” Elettra decides.

  The guide raises his hands in the air, relieved. “At last!”

  The little group exchanges a quick hug and the two girls begin to retrace their steps.

  “Run!” Quilleran orders them.

  The Indian man, Harvey and Sheng dart off in the opposite direction, leaving the guide there in the middle, stunned. “Hey!” the man protests feebly. “You can’t just—”

  The lights in the aisle switch on again.

  “Quick!” Elettra shouts at him. “Get us out of here!”

  The man with bleached hair doesn’t wait to be asked twice.

  Harvey, Sheng and Quilleran move quickly in the opposite direction. They go down one more level.

  “Nineteen,” Harvey reads as he turns down an aisle. He can’t see any other lights on behind him. And then, “Seventeen.”

  They continue along, running. Quilleran turns around only when he hears footsteps behind them. Each time he stops, he breaks the neon ceiling light with his shoe. Sheng takes advantage of the brief pauses to catch his breath. The sound of his panting. Footsteps coming down the stairs. Heels. Egon Nose’s women.

  “We’d better move it!” Harvey says, urging them on as he checks the aisle in front of him. “We’re almost there.”

  The footsteps are descending a stairway they just came down themselves a moment ago. Then they stop. A woman’s ravenous eyes peer into the darkness, unable to see anything. Slowly, they make their way back up the steps. One, two, three, five steps. Then they fade away.

  “Let’s go,” Quilleran whispers. They start running again.

  Aisle thirteen.

  Aisle seven.

  Another noise behind them. The chase is on again.

  Aisle five.

  They hear a third gunshot far, far away. It’s little more than a faint pop. But a moment later, all the neon tubes are lit up in a blinding flash of white light. The lights all go on at the same time and then burst into a cascade of tiny glass shards. A shower of them rains down all over the aisle.

  “Elettra,” Harvey guesses, shielding his eyes. “Something happened to Elettra!” He turns to go back, but Quilleran and Sheng stop him.

  “You can’t give up now, Harvey. We’re almost there.”

  The boy tries to pull himself free, but Quilleran’s grip is firm.

  Sheng begs him. “Come on! We split up so we’d have a chance to get down here,” he says. “And we’ve almost made it.”

  Harvey shakes his head. “We don’t even know what we’ve almost made it to….”

  Quilleran doesn’t loosen his grip.

  Four floors above, Elettra is standing still, her eyes closed, her hands raised up toward the ceiling. All the lights around her have exploded. When she finally opens her eyes, she sees Mistral lying on the ground, face up. Thousands of fragments of glass are in her hair, on her clothes, on the floor around her.

  “Mistral?”

  The girl coughs. Her hand moves. She’s alive. Elettra looks at the aisle in front of her. It’s pitch-dark, but her eyes are still glowing. She can make out the two women’s shadows not more than fifty yards away from them. They’re on the ground, groaning. They aren’t holding guns anymore. They’ve stopped shooting.

  Someone lets out a sob. It’s their guide. His hands are bloody. Tiny shards of glass are stuck in his fingers. Elettra leans over him. “Get us out of here, please,” she says. “Before they start chasing us again.”

  The guide’s eyes are like those of a child. In comparison, Elettra’s gaze is that of a woman who’s lived for centuries. “What happened?” he asks her.

  “They shot at us,” she says.

  “No, after that.”

  “I defended myself,” Elettra whispers, her face drained from the effort. She’s surrounded by flames. The books are burning. Then, suddenly, it starts to snow.

  “It must’ve set off a dry sprinkler system,” says Sheng, four floors farther down, staring at the thin flakes of fire-resistant material that are falling all around them. “It’s a good idea, in a library. No water.”

  Everything’s dark. It’s getting more and more cramped. They’re venturing farther and farther down.

  Aisle number three.

  They walk along, the flakes still falling like snow. Shards of glass crunch beneath their shoes. Far, far off in the distance, shrieking sirens are slicing through the silence. Still, they keep going down. They turn another corner. They make their way down to aisle number one.

  The last aisle.

  They stop before a closed door, at the end of it all. Or perhaps at the beginning. Harvey touches the door, leans against it, looks for a handle, a lock. There isn’t one. He can’t see anything. Everything’s as dark as night.

  “It’s over,” he says. “The labyrinth ends here.”

  Sheng slides up next to him. “It’s a wall.”

  “But it can’t be,” Harvey groans. “There’s got to be a door….”

  “The door isn’t a magic rectangle,” the Chinese boy recites.

  “There are nine squares here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Use your hands, says a voice in Harvey’s head.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Sheng replies.

  “Why’d you tell me to use my hands?” Harvey insists.

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t say anything!”

  Harvey shakes his head and rests the palms of his hands against the wall. He moves them up and down, searching for something. Anything. The wall isn’t smooth. “There are some designs,” he murmurs, groping around the dark stone wall. “I can feel … grooves.”

  Move them, says the voice in his head.

  “How am I supposed to move them?”

  “Move what?” asks Sheng.

  Talk to me, thinks Harvey. Voices of the Earth. Spirits of places. Tutelary gods. Those who protect what must be protected. A voice he knows well.

  “Dwaine, is this what I’m supposed to move?” he whispers, slipping his fingers into the gaps. “These here?”

  Yes, the voice in his head answers.

  Whatever they are, Harvey moves them.

  Quilleran is standing behind the two boys. He turns back and peers into the darkness, worried. He hears something. Distant sirens. The rustling of the dry sprinkler flakes. Other noises coming from the underground levels. Something incomprehensible, unknown. Footsteps. Heels.

  The Indian crouches down, sniffs the air, shakes his head. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to Sheng. It’s a lighter.

  “Wh-what’s this for?” the boy stammers.

  Quilleran stares at him with his sharply featured, owl-like face. “It’s so you can see the door. But don’t light it yet! Wait thirty seconds. With the light from the flame, they’ll know where you are.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to try to stop them.” That’s the last thing he says. He slips into the darkness and disappears. He’s gone back to take on Egon Nose’s women.

  Sheng counts to thirty, waits a few more seconds and gives the lighter a flick. The flame wavers in the darkness, lighting up Harvey’s back and the wall at the end of the aisle. Actually, it isn’t just an ordinary wall. Set into the middle of it is a strange-looking grid made of tiles.

  Each tile has a number painted on it.

  Each of the tiles moves, sliding along the grid. That’s what Harvey’s doing. He’s sliding them around with his hands.

  The flame goes out and then flickers back on.

  “What are those?” Sheng asks his friend.

  “I don’t know,” Harvey replies, “but I know I need to move them.”

  The flame goes out and then flickers back on.

  “A grid of nine,” the Chinese boy remembers. He checks the tiles. There are nine of them, and they’re numbered from one to nine. “Nine. Three times three …,” he repeats, reciting more of the clues on
the four postcards.

  “They need to be moved,” Harvey insists.

  “In what order?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy admits.

  There’s a gunshot. A gunshot from very close by. Sheng puts out the lighter. They turn, breathless, their hearts in their throats. They listen. There are sounds of a scuffle. Bookshelves being broken. Quilleran has come face to face with their pursuers.

  “We’ve got to solve this freaking riddle!” Sheng groans, flicking on the lighter again.

  “But how?” Harvey wonders.

  Nine tiles.

  Three times three.

  Three times five.

  “It’s a magic square!” Sheng suddenly cries, remembering an old puzzle. He points at the tiles. “The order is … it’s got to be …”

  The flame goes out and then flickers back on.

  “I remember now!” the boy cheers. “You need to arrange them so that when you add up the numbers … in every row … and in every column … you always get the same total.”

  “But what total?”

  Three times three.

  Three times five.

  “Nine,” says Sheng, “or fifteen.”

  The noises coming from behind them grow louder, but Harvey can’t hear anything. “Fifteen,” he says decisively. He starts sliding the tiles around again.

  The flame goes out and then flickers back on.

  He slides them along the grooves one at a time, trying to position them in the right places. Sheng helps him, pointing, calculating. Harvey moves them, moves them again, slides them over and changes them back. Quilleran is battling behind them. They hear a woman’s scream. Sirens in the distance.

  “The four! The four! The four goes in the top right-hand corner.”

  The magic square is finally finished. Horizontally and vertically, the numbers all add up to fifteen.

  Letting out a groan and a puff of dust, the wall pops open slightly.

  Harvey and Sheng push on it, opening it wide enough to pass through. Before slipping in, they turn and call Quilleran’s name.

  No one answers.

  They rest their hands on the other side of the wall and close it behind them.

  Sheng fidgets with the lighter, flicks it on again and keeps the flame, their only source of light, held up over their heads. They’re in a very narrow passageway. There are steps leading down. The ceiling is in mosaic tiling. There’s a large platform. A metal plaque at the end of the platform reads FIRST STATION.

  The little flame rises up, wavering. A vaulted tunnel disappears into the darkness. A train car is parked on the tracks.

  When they move closer with the light, the boys recognize it. It’s the same pneumatic train car as the model they found in the tower in the East Village. The one Vladimir told them was a model of the Beach Railroad, the secret pneumatic tunnel dug out beneath the city. Only this time, the train car is life-sized and real. And the tunnel they’re in isn’t the Beach Railroad but a secret, unknown tunnel. An ancient tunnel that seems to be expecting them.

  The train car is made of black iron with two big, round headlights. Its wheels are protected by mudguards, like the ones on old carriages. The seats are antique velvet armchairs. On its side is the symbol of a comet. Its door is open.

  Without saying a word, Harvey and Sheng step over to the train car and get inside. On the control panel is a metal ring with a red lever that has only two positions: FIRST STATION and LAST STATION.

  Harvey pushes on it, but it’s stuck. He shoves it impatiently. The gears grind with a noise that sounds like old bones breaking.

  Nothing happens. The train doesn’t move.

  Then they feel a rush of wind.

  A massive gust of air shoots out from behind the train car. The two friends are hurled back into the seats. Before the door can even close, the underground air-compression train is catapulted into the darkness. Toward the unknown.

  THIRD STASIMON

  “Irene … It’s me.”

  “Vladimir? What’s going on? Why are you calling me at this hour?”

  “They burned it down. My shop. It’s all cinders. Years of collection, research, beauty … all destroyed.”

  “And you? Were you hurt?”

  “They got me out in time. My Seneca friends.”

  “What about the children?”

  “Quilleran’s there to protect them. But they’re strong, Irene. Stronger than we thought. Our enemies know about Century. I’m sure of it now. They know everything. They even know where to look.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Below the stars in the station. I wanted to see them one last time. Everyone thinks these constellations were drawn backward, but instead … they’re the only ones that are right. The comet is coming. It’s on its way back!”

  “But the children are okay?”

  “I think so, but I have no way of knowing.”

  “They’re halfway there by now!”

  “Century is coming back. But it won’t be like it was a hundred years ago, Irene. This time, the Fox Star is going to bring a catastrophe. This time … it’s going to destroy us.”

  “I’m not giving up hope.”

  “Mankind has grown too wicked. No one keeps their word, respects pacts. If the Earth wants to wipe us out, it’ll only be to protect itself.”

  “No! We still keep our word. So do the children.”

  “But there are only two of us, Irene, and only four kids. Do you really think we’ll be enough … to save the world?”

  “You’re forgetting about our friends, Vladimir. You’re forgetting about our friends….”

  31

  THE FRIEND

  LOUNGING ON THE GIGANTIC BED IN THE HOTEL ROOM, LINDA Melodia is admiring her shopping bags from various boutiques. She’s arranged them around the bed like members of a royal court around the king’s throne. She’s holding a notebook, checking the list of the people she’s bought a souvenir for. Irene, Fernando, Elettra, Linda …

  Her own name appears seven times.

  As she’s peeking inside the Banana Republic bag, the phone rings. It’s the reception desk.

  “Someone needs to deliver what to me? Flowers? Oh, all right then. Tell them to bring them up.”

  She looks around for her slippers, glances at her reflection in the mirror and opens the door, wondering who it is. Her mustachioed admirer again? Could it be that after their last dinner together he’s grown so bold as to bring her a bouquet of flowers? Or what if it’s just a deliveryman? Should she tip him?

  She makes a quick retreat to find some money, straightens her hair in front of the mirror and … through the open door, Linda can hear the elevator bell signaling that it’s stopped at her floor. She goes back to the doorway and peers out.

  She’s left gaping.

  It’s a short man dressed in velvet, his face hidden behind the flowers, his body bundled up in an oversized coat and a pair of horrible snakeskin shoes. He isn’t alone. He’s accompanied by two tall, thin young women wearing platinum-blond wigs and white artificial furs.

  “Hello, ma’am,” a hoarse voice says from behind the bouquet. “I have a surprise for you!”

  Suddenly, Linda is even more stunned, if that’s possible. Could that be a nose, a ghastly, gigantic nose, peeking out between the gerberas? And what he’s holding in his hand, isn’t that a …?

  “A gun?” she shrieks, bewildered, when she recognizes the ominous black shape.

  “May I come in?” Egon Nose hisses, revealing his ghastly face that was injured by the crows. “No scenes, please! Would you be so kind as to remain alive?”

  Elettra, Mistral and the guide reach the ground floor of the library. They rush out a door and into a swarm of security forces, firemen and policemen trained for terrorist attacks wearing uniforms and shiny helmets.

  They’re pulled off to the side, briefly interrogated and given a blanket. The guide is asked what’s going on in the underground levels. Everyone’s talking at once. E
veryone’s moving around. There are faces everywhere. The two girls don’t understand where they’re going. The metal detectors at the entrance have short-circuited. Three policemen have been injured.

  The voices come one after the other. “Who are they? What do they want? A group of burglars. Art collectors? Terrorists? They say there are three of them. Three women, all of them armed.”

  Elettra’s exhausted. She used up all her energy jamming the electrical system.

  Mistral’s thinking more clearly. “Let’s go,” she whispers. She hugs her friend and slowly leads her outside into the open air. No one pays any attention to them. They’re just two young girls.

  Outside, it’s a solid wall of rain sliced through by the emergency vehicles’ flashing lights. Thousands of faces are pressed up against the windows of the nearby buildings. Metal boom poles are holding up the reporters’ microphones. Talking heads are yapping away into television cameras with the breaking news. Special report: attack on the New York Public Library.

  “Where are we going?” Elettra asks, her eyes red and weary.

  “The hotel. Harvey and Sheng can meet up with us there.”

  Elettra nods. “We need to let my aunt know.”

  The cold rain is falling, running down her neck and into her hair.

  The two friends have shards of glass on their clothes. Curious onlookers are crowding around in the street. Mistral leads Elettra over to a taxi. They get in. “The Mandarin Oriental,” Mistral orders.

  Elettra takes out her cell phone. She tries to call Ermete.

  Then Harvey.

  Then Sheng.

  Then her aunt.

  No luck. News of the raid on the library must’ve tied up all the phone lines. Elettra makes one last call. This time, it starts ringing.

  In the hotel lobby, all the televisions are showing images of the public library. Elettra and Mistral stare at the screens as though hypnotized. The policemen have gone down to the lowest levels. They found the body of an unconscious woman. The girls pick up the keys to their rooms.

  “Elettra?” a female voice asks from behind them. “Everything okay?”

  Many floors above, a man with a horrible face is hissing to Linda Melodia, “If you don’t mind, you’ll need to give us those bags as well.”