by N. D. Wilson
She felt the floor moving beneath her, and her hand found the back of a small door. She pushed, and the door swung open. Golden heat struck her in the face as she squinted out over hundreds of men scrambling across the deck of a heaving ship. Some were armed with swords or bows, and others were stripped down to loincloths, wearing blood and sweat while they crawled around huge-timbered catapults. While she watched, frozen in shock, a storm of arrows ripped through the crowd of men. A crash like subterranean thunder shook the ship, and the deck roiled and lurched. A huge galley, spined with oar blades and twice the height of the deck in front of her, ground its way through the prow, first rolling the smaller ship almost on its side, and then plowing its bow beneath the water. The ship dove, levered forward beneath the weight of the galley, and Henrietta bounced and slid head and shoulders out of the little door. Splaying her legs, she wedged her arms against the cupboard walls. She could feel the deck writhing beneath her and the crackling of enormous beams, twisted to explosion. She had to squirm backward, back up the increasing incline. Back to Kansas. Back to now.
A man, glistening in his bloody skin, landed on his stomach in front of her, a broken arrow sprouting from his neck. He clawed at the deck as he began to slide, and his fingers grazed her face. Then, with the last strength of the dying, they closed around her hair.
Henrietta grabbed at his wrist, but the man's weight had already done its work. Her feet slipped free, and together, the two slid down across the slimy deck, down to the hungry water.
collided with something solid, and she gasped for air. She was hanging on to the beamed base of a catapult fastened to the tilting deck. Her legs were underwater. Her hair was free, and the man who'd dragged her into this world had disappeared. Drums were beating, men were groaning, and the wood beneath her still crackled in its contortion. The huge galley's five rows of oars were backing water, leaving the smaller ship to find the bottom.
Looking up the inclined deck, Henrietta could see where she'd come from. A small door hung open in the housing of another catapult on the other side of the shattered mast. That's where she needed to be, before she was shot, stabbed, or the entire ship sank beneath her.
The deck was mostly clear. The unwounded living had taken to the sea, and Henrietta could hear them praying and cursing behind her in the waves. She refused to look in the water around her, or to think about what was bumping against her back.
The big galley pulled its ram free, and Henrietta felt herself, felt the entire ship, sink farther into the water. The wreck was becoming more vertical by the second.
She couldn't grip the deck with her hands, and her feet slid all over the planks. Henrietta turned, unwillingly, and looked at the bodies in the water around her. Most wore very little, but one man, floating facedown, had a knife handle sticking out of a belt in the small of his back.
Henrietta hooked the corpse with her toe. She tugged the little bronze-colored knife free and gripped it tight.
The water was at her ribs.
She drove the knife between two planks, as high above her head as she could reach. Then, scrambling her wet shoes over the deck surface, she managed to get most of the way out of the water. She found a splinter with her left foot and pushed higher, ignoring the pain as the deck shard dug through the sole of her shoe and into the ball of her foot. Working the knife loose, she reinserted it above her and pulled up again, kneeling on the steep deck before finding another painful foothold. She was climbing. She could do this. Her arms were shaking, and she might puncture her foot any second, but she could do this. She was closer to home.
The open door she had fallen through looked surprisingly small. Too small. But she refused to think about it. She had come in, so she could go back.
Halfway there, with another fifteen feet to climb, she stopped, relaxed her body against the still-crackling deck, wrapped her arms around the base of the mast, and panted. Looking out over the sea behind her, she realized that the ship wasn't in the open ocean. Islands dotted the horizon, and hundreds of ships were moving around them, crawling like centipedes on their oars.
The water had climbed with her, lapping at the deck beneath her feet. And it hadn't taken any rest. Again it reached her shoes. She gathered herself for another push, and as she did, the ship sighed beneath her. Something had changed. The ship was surrendering, sinking faster, diving below the waves.
Henrietta dropped the knife. As the water swallowed her shins, she pushed herself up and lunged for another hold. She caught it, splayed her feet, and lunged again. Each time, the water caught up to her as the ship dropped, and each time, she clawed her way above the surface, until finally, clenching her teeth and with the sea up to her thighs, her fingers caught the inside of the small doorway.
It was much too small for her.
Henrietta closed her eyes and forced her rubber arms to pull once more, forced her legs to drive her forward while her feet slipped on the wet planks. Her grandfather's room was just above her. She could get there. She kicked up, and her head was inside. The water was frothing around her waist. Her hands found the edge of the cupboard on the other side, and her fingertips felt carpet. One last surge, a groaning, vein-throbbing pull, and she spilled through onto Grandfather's floor.
Exhausted but panicked, she picked herself up and ran out of the room and up the attic stairs, leaving Grandfather's door open behind her. Staggering into Henry's room, she fell against the cupboard wall and, with one hand, spun the compass knobs, not caring where they stopped. Then, with quivering legs, she hurried back down to the landing and, leaning on the rail, returned to Grandfather's room.
Inside, the carpet was a swamp, and water still dripped from the cupboard. She hoped it wouldn't drain through the ceiling in the living room, but who really cared if it did? She wasn't drowning in it. She wasn't floating through the middle of some bizarre sea battle with no hope of ever coming home. She shut the door and turned to the bathroom.
“Henrietta?” Penelope yelled. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Henrietta managed, and her throat clamped shut. “I'm,” she said, and swallowed, “just gonna take a shower.”
“Zeke came over!” Anastasia yelled. “Come down and tell him about Henry.”
“In a minute,” Henrietta said. She walked into the bathroom, locked the door behind her, and leaned against the sink. Her clothes were ripped and coated with grime from the deck—oil and blood and salt water. On her face, finger tracks, painted in blood, striped down her forehead and cheek where the man had touched her before he fell. She felt a sob in her chest, but she swallowed it down. Instead, she turned on the shower, and, shivering, she stepped in.
She stood in the shower and watched the filth run off her clothes and off her shoes and swirl around the drain. Then, hesitating, she put her hand to her face and rubbed away the blood. Cold fear and relief surged through her. Her legs shook, finally refusing to hold her up. Kicking off her shoes, she huddled in the tub.
Grandfather's key was in her pocket. Digging into her leg.
Henry lay perfectly still. He didn't know if he was awake or asleep, but he knew that he was listening. And he wanted to keep listening. So he didn't move.
A woman was talking. “The sedation we gave him will have worn off by the time he wakes up. I'd rather not redose him, but we can if you need us to.”
“We'll be fine,” Frank said.
“We don't know that.” Dotty sounded nervous. “We don't know how he'll be tonight.”
“I'll give you something just in case,” the woman said. “You don't have to use it, but you may want to. Panic, in this case, is not a symptom, it's the cause.”
“You really think it's all in his head?” Dotty asked. “His eyes looked so awful, and that burn on his hand?”
Henry heard the woman shifting. She was tapping something, and her feet squeaked. “We ran every scan that we can. His brain is clear of abnormalities, and he has no discernible nerve damage. The glucose levels in his urine were a little hi
gh, but his blood tested fine. His eyes weren't actually that bad, either. The swelling went right down, and they react perfectly normally to light. If his eyesight had been damaged by a lightning strike, swollen eyelids would be an unrelated symptom. Quite honestly, my bet is that he had a mild allergic incident that triggered massive anxiety. A panic attack. He believed himself to have been struck by lightning, and, after the swelling, he believed himself into blindness. If he doesn't regain his sight soon, I think you should start by taking him to a therapist.”
“The burn,” Frank said.
“Excuse me?”
“What about the burn?”
“Well,” the woman said, “I can't explain the burn, but I can tell you that it is not like any lightning injury that I've ever seen, and it's certainly not serious. It looks ugly, but it's rather shallow. It's not infected, and it's already healing over. It may play a role in his panic, but it is unrelated to his other symptoms.”
“Madam?” came Richard's voice, nasal but bold. “Ahmm, yes, excuse me.”
The woman was laughing. “What can I do for you?”
“I'm afraid you are mistaken. I cannot believe that Henry York would falsify his blindness.”
Henry could have climbed out of bed and hugged him.
“Oh, his blindness is real. It's just that his anxiety is causing it.”
“Henry is not inclined to fear.”
Henry swallowed. This, unfortunately, he knew to be false, but Richard continued. “I have stood beside him in extreme peril. Only I was standing more behind him than not. He did not panic and imagine himself to be blind. He did what had to be done.”
“Richard, honey,” Dotty began, but Frank was chuckling.
Richard sniffed. “If I lay blind upon the bed, and you told me that the weakness of my mind had been the cause, I would believe you. Not Henry.” Richard kept talking, but his voice grew quieter, more distant. And then it stopped. They'd left the room.
Henry was embarrassed. Embarrassed because he knew Richard was wrong. He was entirely capable of a panic attack. But this wasn't one. He wasn't panicked. He opened one eye and squinted up at … nothing, where there should have been ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. He was blind, and that was that.
Worse than being blind was being blind and being told that he wasn't really. Worse than that was being blind and being taken home from the hospital, where his cousins would be told that he wasn't really, that his mind was only playing make-believe.
Penelope would pity him. She'd probably offer to read to him. Anastasia would ask him why he didn't just stop it and start seeing again. Henrietta would think he was weak. She already did. Henrietta would know she was right.
And Richard—loyal Richard would stand with his scrawny arms crossed and his thick lips pursed, and he would defend the honor of Henry York, knight of the realm. That would be the final touch. Richard's defense would make everyone want to believe Henry was nuts.
A pit grew in Henry's stomach as he finally realized the worst. His cousins would tell Zeke Johnson. Zeke, who had taught him to play baseball and never laughed at him, who had belted a witch and saved Henry's life. Zeke would finally look down on him. And all the guys at the ragged baseball diamond would wonder why Henry didn't play anymore.
Henry thinks he's blind.
All in a moment, Henry wished he was back in Boston. He wouldn't be sent to school if he was blind, and when he was lying on the couch in his mother's new apartment, there would only ever be one person there to think he was weak. The nanny would look at him and shake her head, but he wouldn't see and he wouldn't care. He wouldn't know her.
Or maybe it would be a man. Someone strong enough to control him when he had his regular panic attack.
When they came back, Henry was sitting up on the side of the bed, wondering what he looked like in his little gown.
No one asked if he could see.
Everyone left while he redressed himself, or he thought they did, and then Aunt Dotty took his arm and led him through the halls. He sat in a chair beside Uncle Frank while Dotty talked to someone about his parents' insurance.
“Couldn't get ahold of ‘em,” Frank said.
“Who?” Henry asked.
“Phil and Urs. We got all old numbers. Dots couldn't find that lawyer letter, or we would have called them.”
“You gave it to me,” Henry said. “And I threw it in the field before the storm.”
“Right,” Frank said. “Well, that's probably the best place for it. Could be useful out there.”
Henry sat up in his chair. “Uncle Frank,” he said. “Do you think there's nothing wrong with me?”
“Of course there's something wrong with you, Henry.” Henry listened to the sound of his uncle scratching a stubbled jaw. “Right now, I'd say your eyes are wrong. If lightning didn't do it, then something did. But I'm glad they're not busted. There's a difference between busted and just not working.”
“Do you think they'll start working?”
“I do,” Richard said. Henry had forgotten he was there.
“Don't know,” Frank said. “Have to wait and see, I guess.”
Henry sagged back down in his chair. “Or wait and not,” he muttered.
“All set!” Dotty said. Her hands picked up Henry's, and he stood, waiting to be guided. A smooth arm slid beneath his, and he was turned.
Smelling his aunt, Henry listened to the world go by. The television faded behind him, and the automatic doors slid open. People passing, talking, and then the air crawling over his face and around his ears, his shoes on asphalt, cars starting, stopping, turning, and eventually, the squeal of the truck door opening, the sighing springs in the old seat, the smell of dust older than he was in the upholstery, the doors slamming, and the muffled thumping of Richard in the truck bed. Finally, the click of the key and the slow throbbing complaint of the engine before it exploded into life.
The explosions would pull them home.
Henrietta walked downstairs. She'd pulled her wet hair back into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing an old sweatshirt she'd stolen from her father months ago.
Zeke and her sisters were sitting around the table. They'd given him a glass of lemonade, but it was all ice now. He was leaning his lean frame back in his chair, passing an old baseball hat from hand to hand. A line in his short hair showed where he usually wore it.
“Hey, Henrietta,” he said.
She smiled and stood beside Penny's chair. Zeke knew everything about the old house and the attic cupboards. At least he knew as much as Anastasia and Penelope. He'd ruined his wooden bat on the witch's head. The blood spatters had burned Henry's jaw.
They were all looking at her. Her face had to be different. She'd just watched people die. She'd almost died with them. Her sisters never would have known what happened to her. But they would have known that she'd done something horribly stupid. How much water would have come through that door? Henry, Kansas, could have become a saltwater lake.
Penelope stood up and pointed to Zeke's glass. “Like some more lemonade?”
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.” And he handed it to her.
“Henrietta,” Anastasia said. “Tell him about Henry's eyes. Do you think he'll be—” Anastasia stopped.
Henrietta put her arms around Penny and squeezed her tight. She didn't know why it was embarrassing, hugging her sister, but it was. She didn't care. She could feel tears building up in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away. She wasn't going to do that again. Letting go of her sister, she stepped back, puffed out her cheeks, and looked at the three faces watching her.
Penny was smiling. Zeke didn't look surprised at all. Anastasia's mouth was open, and she stared blankly.
“Sorry,” Henrietta said. “I think I'm going to lie down. Henry's eyelids were swollen this morning, and he couldn't see. That's all I know. Did Mom and Dad call?”
“Just when they got there,” Penny said. “They didn't know anything yet.”
Anastas
ia leaned forward onto the table. “Do you think he was faking?”
“No,” Henrietta said. “He wasn't.”
Zeke set his hat on the back of his head. “But he wasn't struck by lightning?”
Henrietta shrugged. “Something messed him up pretty good.” She turned back toward the stairs. “I'm going to lie down,” she said again.
She stopped on the second-story landing and looked over at her bedroom door. Then she climbed the attic stairs.
In Henry's room, she dropped onto his bed and slid her hand under his pillow. She was not going through any more cupboards by herself. Ever. At least not until she had read through Grandfather's journal. And, depending on what was in it, maybe not then.
She'd read the first pages before, the apologies to Frank and Dotty, the admissions of deception and hypocrisy, and the stuff about her great-grandfather's notes. But she ran her eyes over it anyway, and slowed down when she hit something new. It didn't all make sense, but it didn't matter. She was going to read for the parts that did.
Henrietta sat up on the bed. She had been drifting off, but now her eyes were wide. She could have read this sooner, but what kind of a warning was it? You can drown in Actium? Moment of danger? Why not, “You'll crawl through onto a ship as it is crushed and sinks. Hang on or you'll be lost forever”? That would have been helpful. At least now she knew that her grandfather didn't exactly overstate things. And she knew she never wanted to find out what Topkapi was.
Still sitting up, she read on.
Henrietta had seen those halls. She had seen the dancing and heard the music. She had chased Eli, the short old man, out of Grandfather's bedroom and back to that place. Eli had called her grandfather a fool.
She wanted to set the knobs to FitzFaeren and go slither into the cupboard downstairs to watch the dancers. She wanted to look for her grandfather. Why had she let Eli leave? He could have explained all of this.
Downstairs, she heard loud voices. Her sisters'.