The Grimm Legacy

by Polly Shulman

  He did. The two of us fiddled with it until we were satisfied we’d seen both settings. It could identify royalty or, in reverse, transform princes and princesses into figurines. But no matter what we did, we couldn’t make it transform figurines into princesses.

  “ ‘Shoddy thing! I knew I shouldn’t have cheaped out and bought the imported model,’” Jaya made Anjali say in Ms. Badwin’s voice.

  “You should be an actress, Jaya—you’re really good at that,” I said.

  Aaron rolled his eyes, but I could see he was amused. “Now what? Time to ask the mirror for help?” He pointed to the wall, where his blanket was still hanging.

  I shuddered. “Ugh, do we have to?”

  “What is this mirror, and what’s so terrible about it?” asked Jaya.

  “It’s Snow White’s stepmother’s. It’s evil. It manipulates people, and it gloats,” I said.

  “How bad can that be? I’m used to dealing with people like that,” said Jaya. She pulled the blanket off the mirror.

  It reflected a fairly normal version of me and Aaron—maybe a little meaner-looking than usual—but it showed Anjali as a human girl, puppet size.

  “Hey, look at Anjali!” said Jaya. “How can it do that? It’s a mirror! Doesn’t it have to reflect things the way they are?”

  “It can’t just make things up,” I said, “but it reflects the truth as it sees it, so it must know Anjali is really a person. But it has a horrible vision of the world. Like I said, it gloats. And you have to talk to it in rhyme, and it never gives you a straight answer.” I fished out the little brass figurine that was Marc and put it down next to me. The mirror reflected it as a tiny human Marc.

  I told the mirror:

  “Our friends Marc and Anjali—

  Tell us how to set them free

  And how to use the Golden Key.”

  Anjali’s reflection in the mirror answered:

  “You found the key, now find the lock.

  You found the royals, now find Doc.”

  Marc’s reflection continued:

  “You lost the vessel. Get it back.

  Get your feet on the right track.

  First go nowhere, then go home.

  Return the mirror and the comb.

  Elizabeth will lead you there—

  And say good-bye to pretty hair.”

  “What does that mean?” I cried. “Where do we look for Dr. Rust? Where do we look for the lock? How can I lead anyone anywhere without my sense of direction? What are you talking about, you maddening mirror?”

  It didn’t answer. Of course not: I hadn’t rhymed.

  “And why should you care about my hair?” I added.

  “Your hair, though fair, is not that rare.

  Without the comb it can’t compare,” explained Aaron’s reflection in the mirror.

  “I don’t know why it’s talking about your hair, but the lost vessel has to be the kuduo,” said the real Aaron. “We need to get it back from Mr. Stone. It has your sense of direction. Not to mention my firstborn and everything else. Maybe something in there can turn Anjali back into a girl.”

  “Even if we do get it back, I still can’t use my sense of direction. Something went wrong with the . . . with the object I borrowed from the Grimm Collection, the one my sense of direction was a deposit for. I think maybe Mr. Stone stole the . . . the real object.”

  “You mean the mermaid comb? The one that makes you pretty?” said Jaya.

  “Yeah,” I said, blushing. I longed to kick her.

  “You traded your sense of direction for something to make you pretty? Is that what the mirror is raving about? That was so not necessary,” said Aaron.

  “Thanks, Aaron, that makes me feel a lot better,” I said.

  The reflections in the mirror were laughing at us. My reflection was batting her eyelashes and fluffing her hair; Aaron’s was swooning at her. I wanted to kick them too.

  “So if Mr. Stone has the real mermaid comb,” said Jaya, “when we get it back, you’ll get your sense of direction back too.”

  “Maybe. We definitely need the kuduo, but I don’t see how we’re going to get it. Nobody can take it except its rightful owner, remember? Dr. Rust said it’s on loan from Marc’s family. That means only Marc can steal it, and he’s not in any shape to steal anything right now. He’s a brass weight,” I said.

  “That’s not true—Marc’s not the only member of his family! What about his brother?” said Jaya.

  “Who, Andre? No way—it’s too dangerous! He’s only three.”

  “So what?” said Jaya. “Why can’t a three-year-old be a hero? Andre has a right to help rescue his brother.”

  “I think she’s right,” said Aaron. “It’s like that Akan proverb the librarians like to quote: ‘We send the wise child on the errand, not the one with the long feet.’ Besides, we need him. We just have to be really careful and make sure he doesn’t get stolen.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” I said, “but he does need us. Marc said his friend’s mother was dropping him off at the repository—right around now. We can’t just leave him there. We’d better go get him.”

  Aaron and Jaya waited outside when we got to the repository while I went in for Andre.

  He was sitting at the front desk with Sarah, playing with the rubber date stamps. He had ink on his hands. “Hi, Libbet!” he said.

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” said Sarah, looking up. “Are you going upstairs? Can you tell Marc his brother’s here?”

  “Marc left a little early, actually,” I said. “I’m here to pick up Andre for him. He says thanks for looking after Andre.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Come on, Andre,” I said, “let’s go find your brother.” I buttoned him into his coat.

  Jaya and Aaron were waiting on the steps. “Good, let’s go get the kuduo,” said Aaron.

  “Wait,” I said. “We need to explain to Andre and see if he agrees.” I squatted down and put my hands on the little boy’s shoulders. “Andre,” I said, “a bad person turned your brother into a toy. Now we’re trying to turn him back into a boy. We need to get something from the bad person’s friend. Do you want to come with us and help?”

  “My butter’s in trouble?” asked Andre.

  “Yes. Can you help us help him?”

  Andre nodded. “Yes. I wanna help.”

  “Great,” said Jaya. “But first you all need knots of protection.” She took some yarn out of her bag and started weaving it around Andre’s wrist. At least this time it was yellow.

  I found the door stick in Marc’s backpack and used it to get into Mr. Stone’s loft. The sun had set; it was dark inside. The only light came from a streetlight that cast shadows through the long row of windows. Dim shapes loomed, and the place reeked of magic. Andre held my hand tight.

  Jaya found the light switch and flipped it on.

  “My butter’s boots,” remarked Andre, pointing.

  “Hey, he’s right!” said Aaron.

  I picked them up and sniffed. Carrots—no, sheep—no, blueberries you pick for yourself on a mountaintop after hiking all afternoon. “They smell magic. I wonder if they’re the real ones or just temporary copies?” I kicked off my shoes and slipped my feet into the boots.

  “What are you doing?” said Aaron. “We have to find the kuduo and get out of here.”

  I finished tying the boot laces and took the tiniest of itsybitsy baby steps. “Yow!” I’d shot across the room and smashed my shoulder against a window, shattering the glass. I was lucky I didn’t fall out.

  Aaron ran over, kicking through broken glass. “Are you okay, Elizabeth?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I guess it wasn’t such a great idea trying to walk around in these things, especially without my sense of direction,” I said, starting to unlace them. It was cold by the broken window, with the winter air blowing in.

  “Is that the kuduo?” asked Jaya, pointing to an ornate marble casket.

  “No, the kuduo’s brass,” I said
, pulling off a boot. “It’s round and it has a puff adder and a hornbill on the lid.”

  “A what and a what?”

  “A snake and a bird.”

  “Hey, Elizabeth,” said Aaron, “come over here quick.” He was looking into a crystal ball on a tall iron tripod.

  I hopped over on my stocking foot to take a closer look, careful to avoid the broken glass. Inside the ball was a small figure, groping around as if blind. It looked like Dr. Rust. Stars of light drifted across the surface of the ball. “Oh my gosh! Dr. Rust is in there!”

  “You mean the librarian?” said Jaya, coming over. “Trapped in a crystal ball?”

  “It looks that way,” I said.

  The three of us peered at the ball. Andre came over to see what we were looking at, and I picked him up.

  “Do you think if we smash it, we can free Doc?” I asked.

  “Let’s try,” said Jaya.

  Aaron grabbed her arms. “No!” he said. “You don’t know what’ll happen. Maybe if you smash the ball, you’ll smash Doc.”

  “Pretty ball,” said Andre. He reached up and touched one of the drifting stars.

  A blinding light flashed from the surface of the ball. Jaya yelled, and I pulled back, with Andre in my arms. Across the room, a huge, dark shape loomed in the broken window. I saw wings silhouetted against the orange sky and choked back a scream.

  A vast bird with a crush-and-tear beak and talons like kitchen knives leapt from the windowsill and flew straight for Andre.

  The bird! The bird from Anjali’s window—the bird from the park!

  I hugged Andre close, huddling my body around him and waiting for the talons to slice through me. What could I do to save him? What could I do to save myself?

  Then I remembered the feather Mr. Mauskopf had given me when I told him about the bird. “When your need is great, give it to the wind,” he had said. I fumbled in my pocket, felt the soft feather, and pulled it out. The wind of the bird’s wings swept it away.

  Well, that was useless. I felt the talons grasp my coat.

  Then another dark shape loomed in the window and launched itself at the bird, grabbing it by the throat. The new shape wasn’t a bird, but an enormous dog—an enormous dog with wings. I stared at it, recognition dawning. It was Griffin—Mr. Mauskopf’s dog, the Beast, as the librarians all called him. Griffin had wings!

  “It’s Griffin,” I yelled. “My teacher’s dog!”

  Mr. Stone’s loft was large by New York standards but nowhere near large enough for a fight between a lion-sized winged dog and a condor-sized bird. They smashed through the air, knocking over lamps and toppling statues. Drops of blood spattered the walls. Griffin held on to the bird’s throat while the bird slashed and clawed at whatever it could reach.

  The fight didn’t last long. The bird caught the tip of Griffin’s tail in its beak, but Griffin gave a twist and shook it by the throat. It gurgled and stopped struggling. Griffin dropped it and it fell like a baseball mitt and lay flopping on the floor, with blood streaking its neck and one wing lying at an impossible angle.

  “Way to go, Griff!” I yelled.

  Griffin gave a short, pleased bark. He hooked his tail around something and flung it across the floor toward me.

  “The kuduo! You found it!” I knelt so Andre could reach it without leaving my arms. “Get that box for me, sweetie?” I said.

  He clutched the kuduo in his little arms. “Okay, Libbet, I got the box,” he said.

  The bird squawked. I looked up. Mr. Stone was standing in the doorway.

  “Miss Rew, Miss Rao. I knew you’d be back. But what have you done to my bird? This is really too bad.” He strode over to the bird. It lifted its head and snapped at him. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  He lifted his hand and threw a blast of light at Jaya.

  It bounced off, but her outline wavered. “Stop that! I hate that!” she said, shaking herself.

  He lifted his hand again.

  “Run, Elizabeth! Get the kuduo away! I’ll hold him off,” shouted Aaron, picking up a nearby object and throwing it uselessly. He was brave, I thought, but he had terrible aim.

  “But I’m only wearing one boot!”

  “Just go!”

  “My seven leaguers! You took my seven leaguers? You irritating children! Where’s the other one?” said Mr. Stone, looking around. “Oh, there.” He strode to the window.

  I ran to stop him, but I must have used the wrong foot, because I found myself hurtling through the air, cold darkness whipping past.

  I ran with Andre in my arms.

  For a second I was confused; then a rush of exhilaration swept over me. The speed, the air! Was this how Marc felt when he leapt for the ball and spun above the basket?

  I landed on my socked foot and glanced around. Tall brick buildings. The Bronx, perhaps? Queens?

  Before I could get my bearings, Mr. Stone appeared behind me. He was wearing the other boot. “Stop, Elizabeth, it’s pointless to run,” he said.

  Pointless or not, I ran. The air, the speed, the motion—forward! forward!—the world melting to background, ice to my one-footed gliding as I threw myself into the thrill of speed. My mismatched footwear gave me a syncopated rhythm: a step and a leap, a step and a leap. I had no idea where I was going. I followed my feet. At every other step the world reassembled: a town square, a highway, a front yard, a frozen lake, a forest, a parking lot. Mr. Stone was always there, a step behind me.

  “You won’t get away,” he called. “I have the other boot.”

  I didn’t care. I was in love with motion. The pneum ride had made me sick with its headlong helplessness, but this was different—I was in control.

  “Faster, Libbet!” yelled Andre happily, banging on the kuduo lid with his fists. A step and a leap. A step and a leap. A mountainside, a snowy beach, a cabin, a frozen stream lit only by the moon.

  “Stop!” shouted Mr. Stone. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” I called back, running.

  A pale, moonlit wasteland all around us. I paused to catch my breath. Mr. Stone was panting hard, Andre laughing. In the moonlight the ground sparkled like stars or shattered glass. No houses, no trees, no roads—just the glittering ground and the moon.

  “Elizabeth,” said a gravelly voice. I spun on my bootless foot, feeling tiny pebbles through my sock, and saw a small woman dressed in layers of cloth. A familiar woman—the one I’d seen dozing in the Main Exam Room, the one I’d given my sneakers to long ago, it seemed, on the day Mr. Mauskopf assigned me the paper on the Brothers Grimm.

  “Where am I? Where is this?” I said.

  “Nowhere. Nowhere special,” she said. “Have you come for your sneakers?”

  Pale white light filled the air, like the moon shining behind a cloud, but there were no clouds. The sky blazed with zillions of stars, more and more dense wherever I looked. I recognized constellations from the freckles on Dr. Rust’s face: a triangle, a cartwheel, a butterfly. They seemed to be spinning slowly—or was I the one spinning? I couldn’t tell.

  “Put me down,” said Andre, scrambling out of my arms. He set the kuduo on the ground so he could draw pictures in the sparkling dust.

  Mr. Stone looked bewildered and rumpled. He lifted his arm and made a gesture as if throwing something at me, but nothing left his hand.

  “That won’t work here, Wallace,” said the homeless woman.

  “Grace!” said Mr. Stone. He made another threatening-looking gesture.

  “Neither will that. Give me the boot.”

  “And be stuck here? Not a chance!” Mr. Stone turned and ran, but the boot took him no farther than boots usually do. He tripped and landed in a heap.

  “The boot, Wallace,” said Grace, holding out her hand. Slowly, as if against his will, Mr. Stone unlaced the boot and handed it over.

  Grace turned to me. She had looked sad and tattered back home, but here she was clearly nobody to pity. She looked strong and calm and powerful. Even
her clothes hung straighter.

  “Your boot too, Elizabeth,” she said, holding out her hand to me. I pulled off my boot and handed it over. “Thank you. Here.” She held out my old sneakers, with my old tube socks, now clean, tucked neatly under their tongues.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Grace Farr. We’ve met before.”

  “Yes, but . . . Where—what is this place?”

  “I told you. Nowhere.”

  “But how did we get here?”

  “Ah, that’s simple enough. You’re missing your sense of direction, aren’t you? Nowhere’s about the only place you can go. Or could, without your sneakers. With them, I think you’ll find you have no trouble getting home.”

  “Why? Are they magic? Did you enchant them or something?”

  Grace smiled. “No. You did, by giving them to me.”

  “Libbet?” Andre was pulling at my sleeve. “Libbet!”

  “What is it, sweetie?”

  “Libbet, I gotta go.”

  “We’re going soon—oh! You mean go.” I turned to Grace. “Is it okay—?”

  “Of course.”

  “Go ahead, Andre,” I said, turning my back to give him some privacy.

  “And then you’d both better go. They need you at the repository.”

  “What about Mr. Stone?”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about him again.”

  “All right.” I hoped it was safe to believe her. “How do we get home?”

  “The same way you got here: just follow your feet. Your sneakers will take you—that’s their magic. Don’t forget your kuduo.”

  I turned back to Andre. “All done?”

  “I made a sun,” he said proudly, pointing to a wet circle in the dust.

  “Wow, I can see that,” I said.

  When I turned around again, Grace was gone. I could see Mr. Stone in the distance, growing dimmer.

  Andre picked up the kuduo and I picked up Andre. I put on my backpack and began to walk, choosing the direction at random.

  Chapter 25:

  The Garden of Seasons

  I walked for what seemed like hours. A strength of purpose flooded up through me from my sneakers. Andre fell asleep in my arms, hugging the kuduo. He felt as light as a paper doll. The stars seemed to be falling around us, like glittery specks of dust.