Gods of Manhattan

by Scott Mebus

  “On to other matters,” the Mayor said. “We need to fill Astor’s place on the council. Tobias, you had a candidate?”

  The round banker nodded.

  “A fine one, I think,” he said. “Very sound. Yosef Minkvey, God of Working Pay Phones. I’m sure you’re all familiar with his work—”

  Before he could continue, a loud horn sounded in the next room. Startled, the council turned as one to see the doors to the chamber fly open to admit a man blowing hard into a trumpet.

  “Anthony, that’s enough,” came a voice familiar to them all from behind the Trumpeter, who lowered his horn. A steady tap tap tap of metal on the floor filled the silence as a man limped into view.

  “Peter!” the Mayor said, shocked. Peter Stuyvesant nodded to the Trumpeter, who retired to the corner to eat his blueberry pie. Stuyvesant then turned his attention to the council.

  “I hear there is a seat available on the council,” he said, balancing on his peg leg with ease. “I thought I might stand for it.”

  “We haven’t seen your face in two centuries,” the Mayor replied. “These matters no longer concern you, Peter.”

  “I’ve let things go, Alexander,” Peter replied. “I’ve let them go for far too long. Dark times are coming, and I must take up my sword again before we lose everything dear to us. I must make a stand for my city now, or I can never consider myself a true god again. So I repeat, I will stand for this seat.”

  “Mr. Minkvey is more than qualified—” Tobias began, but another voice cut him off.

  “I’ll second it,” Caesar Prince said from his customary seat. No one had seen him enter, but suddenly there he was. “Sorry I’m a mite late; the trains were behind.”

  Tobias definitely did not look happy. Whitman pressed the advantage.

  “Let’s put it to a vote,” he said, standing. “By a show of hands, who is for Mr. Stuyvesant?”

  Five hands rose, with Dorothy Parker; James Bennett; Zelda Fitzgerald, the Goddess of Trends; Caesar Prince; and Walt Whitman all for Stuyvesant. Hamilton Fish simply stared off into space, not responding to anyone, while Babe Ruth looked paralyzed with indecision. The Mayor smirked, about to dismiss Stuyvesant, when a sixth tie-breaking hand rose up. The Mayor’s lips grew tight with anger.

  “Mr. Randel? What are you doing?”

  The newest member of the council had his hand in the air, though it was shaking so bad it was hard to see. Frightened Johnny Randel Jr., God of Street Construction, did not look happy under the Mayor’s angry eyes, but he kept his arm aloft.

  “Mr. Stuyvesant is older than us all,” Randel said, his voice quivering. “And he has more of a right to be here than at least I do. So this is my vote.”

  The Mayor turned to face Stuyvesant, who stared back unblinking. Finally, through clenched teeth, he spoke.

  “Peter Stuyvesant, welcome to our council.”

  Stuyvesant smiled grimly and took his seat. The Mayor’s eyes burned into him, but there was nothing he could do. Stuyvesant leaned back in his chair, propping his peg leg up on the table.

  “I think there will be some changes,” he said, and Whitman smiled quietly to himself. Across the table, he caught Prince doing the same. The old god winked and settled back for a long, heated discussion.

  Night was falling as Rory and Bridget made their way up 218th Street. Bridget carried her package with both hands and refused Rory’s offers of help. He hoped he didn’t regret agreeing to let her have it. One of his own hands was full, as well, wrapped carefully around a small object that was now one of the most valuable things he owned. It looked like something one would use on New Year’s Eve, a short stick with a handle that, when swung around, made a loud clacking sound. A toy, one would think, but Rory now knew better. It was a rattle, and nothing made him prouder than to hold it. He thought back on Nicholas and the rest of the Rattle Watch standing before him and Bridget as they bid their good-byes.

  “These are for you,” Nicholas had said as Alexa handed a rattle to each of them. “They were used by the original Rattle Watch three hundred and fifty years ago to warn the people of New Amsterdam when danger approached. We don’t use it for that, because people find it really annoying. It’s more ceremonial than anything. But if either of you were to spin this rattle, any of us who heard would come running.”

  Rory had felt tears come, but he’d refused to cry. Bridget didn’t care about her dignity, and she had bawled next to him like a baby. Nicholas shook each of their hands.

  “You are members of the Rattle Watch now,” he had said solemnly. “You’ve saved us, both of you, and you are as brothers and sisters to us. Welcome.”

  This time, a tear did fall down Rory’s cheek. He’d never been part of anything but Team Hennessy in his life. And now his family had just grown larger. It felt surprisingly good to let people in. Alexa had given them each a hug, murmuring welcome in their ears, followed by Simon and Lincoln and all of them. His heart had almost burst as they welcomed him. Finally, they had bid their farewells, leaving them with Fritz and Liv to lead them home.

  They had parted with the two cockroaches at Dyckman Street.

  “I’m proud of both of you,” Fritz had said, beaming at them from atop Clarence. “I have to face the clan leaders now for disobeying their orders, but I’m sure they’ll understand. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  He didn’t seem worried, but Liv’s face was dark and troubled. She had nodded farewell, and the two of them rode their rats into the distance. That had been ten blocks ago, and now the two Hennessy children reached their door. Rory glanced over at the park and gave his sister a quick hug.

  “I have to do something quick, Bridget,” he said. “I’ll be up in a second.”

  “You better be!” Bridget replied, making a face. “You have to make me dinner!”

  She trudged up the steps as Rory ran down the road toward the park. As he reached the forest, a shadow detached from a nearby tree and glided over to him.

  “Hello, Rory,” Wampage said.

  Rory hung his head.

  “I almost did it. I almost turned the key.”

  “But you didn’t,” Wampage said gently. “And now we can begin the search for the way to heal those wounds. Then you can finally turn that key. And we can sit side by side in the sweat lodge together, as brothers.”

  Those words sparked a memory in Rory.

  “Sooleawa! I saw her!”

  He relayed his meeting with the Munsee woman.

  “She is a great medicine woman; you would do well to listen to her,” Wampage said. “We will face this together, Rory. I will not let you come to harm.”

  He placed his hand on Rory’s shoulder, and Rory felt a wave of warmth run through him. This must be what having a father feels like, he thought, his heart full. A thought occurred to him.

  “Somebody told me that being a Light meant I had Munsee blood,” he said. “So maybe you’re my ancestor!”

  “I would like to think that I am,” Wampage said, smiling. “You certainly have my knack for getting into trouble.”

  Rory laughed. He held out the white belt.

  “Could you take this, Wampage?” he asked. Wampage’s eyes grew wide.

  “That is the sachem’s belt!”

  “I’m afraid they’ll find it if I try to hide it under my bed or something. But I trust you. Will you hold it for me?”

  “When you need this, I will bring it to you,” Wampage said, taking the white belt from Rory. “This I swear. I also have something for you.”

  He whistled, and a small form bounded out of the trees. It was one of his dogs, a smaller one with a golden coat and a briskly moving tail.

  “This is Tucket,” Wampage said. “He is going with you.”

  Rory dropped down to his knees and petted the dog, who licked his hand eagerly.

  “But my mom won’t let me have a dog,” he said sorrowfully.

  “She will not see him,” Wampage answered. “Tucket is not mortal, and he will only b
e seen by those you wish. He will protect you and be your guide.”

  Rory’s eyes welled with tears.

  “Thank you, Wampage,” he pushed out finally.

  Wampage smiled. “One day I will be thanking you. This I know.”

  Wampage bowed slightly before turning to disappear into the trees, leaving Rory to revel in his new friend.

  The man with the black eyes strode along the outskirts of the Portrait Room, not sure how to feel about the council meeting he’d just eavesdropped on. Certainly, it could have gone worse. All things considered, he had escaped unscathed. His loose ends had been taken care of and suspicions put to rest for now. He would miss his knife, but its usefulness would have come to an end someday. His next weapon was close to completion, and this one would be far harder to stop. It didn’t matter if some suspected, so long as they did nothing about it. Soon, it would be too late.

  But there was a Light out there in the world, and this disturbed him. Tobias reported that the strange paper boy had run off with the lock and, without that, the Light was powerless to hurt him. But how long before those pieces came together yet again? He needed to hunt him down and stomp out this new threat. The Rattle Watch also preyed on his mind. He thought he’d taken care of them but now they seemed stronger than ever. People were starting to listen to them. Something had to be done—

  He stopped suddenly, something out of place catching his eye. Confused, he leaned in closely to a certain portrait. JEAN PIERRE LE GRAND, it read underneath, GOD OF THE GOOD CHINA. To his knowledge, this god was alive and well. But the eyes…the eyes were blank, dead paint. Albert must have killed him; that was the only explanation. But this didn’t make sense. Peter spoke of destroying two lockets, which he’d assumed were Jenny Fingers’s and Hiram Greenbaum’s, and Adriaen’s locket was safely hidden away.

  Three lockets and four dead gods did not add up. Where was the last locket? A thought occurred to him. Someone in the Rattle Watch, perhaps Nicholas himself, must have it. Did he or she know what they’d come into possession of? Did they know the power the lockets held? He certainly hoped so. Nothing could please him more than the thought of that power in his enemy’s hands. Because sooner or later, it would tear them apart. The man with the black eyes stood there staring at the dead painting of Jean Pierre Le Grand, an evil smile slowly overtaking his face. Things were going quite well, after all.

  The lock on the door clicked, and Mrs. Hennessy staggered through the door.

  “Hey, Mom!”

  Bridget ran in from her bedroom and gave her a huge hug. Surprised, Mrs. Hennessy patted her head.

  “Hey, yourself. Hi, Rory. I see you two are home.”

  Rory waved from Bridget’s bed, where he’d been playing Malibu Death Barbie with his sister.

  “Yep,” he said.

  “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “Nah,” he said. “We decided to wait for you.”

  Mrs. Hennessy felt a lump in her throat. She disentangled Bridget, who didn’t seem to want to let go.

  “I’ll make something quick,” Mrs. Hennessy said. “Mac and cheese sound good?”

  “Great!” Bridget shouted.

  “Keep it down, Bridget. People could be sleeping,” her mother said. “You’re a little girl, not a bullhorn.”

  “Sorry,” Bridget replied, not looking sorry at all. Mrs. Hennessy turned around and headed back to the kitchen to make dinner.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Bridget turned to Rory.

  “Wow, she really didn’t see Tucket!” she whispered. The dog was sitting at their feet, gnawing on Rory’s pants leg.

  “He’s our secret.”

  “What about the rest? Should we tell her?”

  “Don’t be silly. All that matters is that we’re home,” Rory said. “Aren’t you happy to be home?”

  “I’m happy we’re both home!” she replied. “And I’m happy we’re having mac and cheese!”

  She ran out of the room and into the kitchen, leaving Rory to listen to his mother and sister talk and laugh as they threw together a late meal. He scratched Tucket’s ears as he thought about how different his life had become. Would things ever be the same again? Probably not. But right then, hearing his sister’s giggles drifting in from the kitchen, he could believe that maybe they were a little bit better. His mother called his name and he hopped up to join them, already smiling by the time he reached the kitchen counter, happy to be home at last.

  EPILOGUE

  The closet door beckoned to her as she lay in bed. She found it hard to sleep with it calling to her. Hopping down out of bed, her pajama bottoms scraped the floor as she crept across her room. The closet door begged to be opened. She reached the knob and placed one small hand on the brass, standing there, lost in indecision. She glanced back at her bed, so uninviting, promising nothing but stupid sleep. Her wrist flicked, almost without her realizing. When she turned back to the closet door, she found it swinging open, welcoming her in. Before she could think, she’d stepped inside.

  Her clothes hung on each side, swinging against her face as she made her way through the hangers and around the shoe boxes. What was the harm? It wasn’t forever, right? Just an hour or two wouldn’t kill her. The clothes seemed to go on and on like something out of a children’s book, though she could still see by the light of her night-light, a glowing knight watching over her from her dresser. Finally, she brushed the last sweater aside to reveal her prize.

  It lay propped up against the back wall like a marionette with cut strings. The face was blank, though she knew it wouldn’t stay that way. The face could do whatever she wanted it to. Rory let her keep it under the condition that she would never use it. He thought it might be useful to have as a stand-in when they needed to fool their mom. But she must never use it, he said. And she promised. She reached out to brush her finger along the rough paper cheek. But what was the harm? It was only for an hour or so. Maybe she could slip out her window and down onto the street, just to take a walk. Maybe she could explore down Broadway, secure from harm within her magic armor. She could do anything, just for a little while, and then she’d sneak back in and return to her real body. Again, where was the harm? It was just for a little while. Just a moment of being strong again. She wouldn’t be hurting anyone.

  She reached out and pulled down the body’s jaw, opening its mouth. She felt nervous, like a jewel thief pulling off a daring heist. She liked it. It was exciting. Slowly, she leaned over and exhaled….

  The familiar emptiness welcomed her back. The rough paper eyelids fluttered briefly before opening wide as Bridget stared with her new eyes. Soon she was moving past her slumped body, through the closet door and her open bedroom window, and out into the waiting city.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  NEW YORK is a city of forgotten secrets.

  Perhaps it began ten thousand years ago, when a glacier buried an entire forest alive beneath what is now the Upper West Side. Ten centuries later, workmen digging a new subway tunnel came across all those lost trees deep underground, frozen in time. They had to cut through them with chain saws just to keep digging.

  The Indians’ secrets have been lost as well. Very little remains of their lives and stories, besides a few mentions in the European diaries of the day. For a long time, the only reminder of their long years of habitation was mysterious piles of shells found all over the area. One such “shell pit” was discovered in Inwood, deep inside the ancient forest. What were these heaps of shells for? We can speculate but may never know for certain.

  Then came the Europeans with their own secrets. Did you know that the famous pirate Captain Kidd made New York City his base of operations? He died without giving up the location of his treasure, but many believe his pirate loot still waits hidden somewhere under the Manhattan streets. Or maybe you’d be interested to find that an African burial ground was only recently discovered in the Financial District. People had unknowingly been trodding over its sacred ground for centuries. What about
the hundreds of tunnels beneath the city, much like the one Rory and Fritz found themselves floating through? Abandoned subway tunnels over a century old (complete with desolate subway stations long since boarded up), forgotten sewers, and sections of the nineteenth-century Croton Aqueduct that had at one time carried water through large pipes from the reservoir to homes throughout the city: they still remain, water coursing through them like little rivers to nowhere, deep below the asphalt. Artifacts, houses, even entire ships have been found buried underneath the city. What else waits in the shadows, walled up behind the long-forgotten doors, hidden in the basements and attics, alleys and sewers of the greatest city in the world?

  Revolutionaries, patriots, gang members, inventors, tycoons, murderers, presidents, urchins, ball players, and pirates: they all lived and died on this one small island. They left behind clues to their lives that we are still unearthing, hints to the secrets that lie just below the surface, waiting to be discovered. To find out more about these clues to the past, go to www.godsofmanhattan.com. Maybe you’ll be the one to put the pieces together and rediscover something long forgotten.

  Maybe you’ll be the one who can see the truth.