“Which would be …?”
“The objects are the offerings to reawaken the Sea Dragon, which, when ridden by the four young Sages, will show the location of Penglang Island or whatever the heck it’s called.”
“Yeah, it’s simple,” Sheng jokes. “It’s just a shame we don’t know what the Sea Dragon is or how it can point out the route to an island we aren’t even sure exists. And on top of that, we don’t know what’s on the island or why we should even go there in the first place.”
But I do know, Sheng thinks. Because he’s been dreaming about it for a year now: he dreams of him and his friends struggling to get out of a jungle and diving into the sea. Swimming over to the island. And, once on the beach, being greeted by a woman whose face is hidden behind a veil.
“The chance to reach it comes only once every hundred years,” Ermete says, “and you’re the one who has to take them there.”
“Huh?”
“In the Jesuit’s drawing, Harvey is sitting on the dragon’s tail, holding the Star of Stone. Then come Elettra and Mistral. While you … you have the dragon’s reins in your hands! Whatever the dragon is, you’re holding the reins now.”
“Why does it have to be so complicated?” Sheng grumbles, exasperated. “I—I don’t understand anything anymore.”
“Let’s try going over everything we’ve discovered, then.”
“The map of the Chaldeans,” Sheng begins.
“A map handed down from Marco Polo to Christopher Columbus, which was designed to help mankind make decisions, and which at this point is supposed to help you solve the mystery.”
“And who are we?”
“The four chosen ones.”
“Chosen by who?”
“By the four Sages who came before you. The ones who used to have the tops and tried using them the last time the island rose out of the water, but failed.”
“How many tops are there in all?”
“We’ve had six of them. The tops mimic the stars spinning through the universe. The map is a representation of our world. Each top contains a question, and whenever one of them is cast, it makes a prophesy.”
“Why did it all begin in Rome?”
“We don’t know. Zoe was the one who chose it. Maybe because they had to start with fire.”
“Fire: Elettra, Mithra, Prometheus and the Ring of Fire,” Sheng says.
“Elettra uses the energy surrounding her. Mithra is a divinity of Chaldean origins, rediscovered in Rome as a sun god. His priests kept well-guarded secrets.”
“Like the cult of the goddess Isis, in Paris.”
“Isis shares the same origins as Mithra, even though she’s an Egyptian divinity. If he was the sun, she’s the moon, which always has a dark side. In fact, she’s also the goddess of Nature, who loves to hide.”
“The stars: Ursa Major, the North Star, the Star of Isis, Draco,” Sheng continues.
“That’s easy. The sun, the moon … and finally the stars. As they spin through the universe, they mark the passing of time and orientation. They’re directions for those who know how to read them.”
“And the Star of Stone?”
“It was a meteorite. A falling star.”
“And the Dendera calendar at the Louvre museum?”
“A sign of the connection among the ancient religions, the cult of nature and the notion that mankind is bound by a pact. If we keep asking questions, nature will give us the answers … as long as we understand their meaning.”
“Do you think there actually is a meaning?”
“You can bet there is. And I think it’s … feeling like we’re part of a master plan.”
“So what’s the Pact, then?”
“It’s a possibility, I think. It’s the moment when you can reach something it would be impossible to reach at other moments. Maybe it’s an island that pops up out of the waves once every hundred years.”
“And why is it so important?”
This time, Ermete is silent. Then he says, “For the same reason Heremit Devil wants to get there before us.”
The two are standing on a path in Century Park, talking in the rain, which shows no sign of letting up. Then they walk toward the center of the park, looking for Sheng’s mysterious friend.
Sheng grabs Ermete’s arm.
“It’s him.”
“Him who?”
“The boy.”
Under the blanket of rain, at the edge of the man-made lake, is the boy in the number 89 jersey. His wet hair sticks to his forehead. His face is pale, his eyes big and dark.
“You can’t see him, can you?”
Ermete sees an old woman dressed in red who’s walking a dog that sports a little sweater in the same color, a jogging fanatic who’s running down the paved path, splashing up puddles, and no one else.
“Sheng,” he says. “Your eyes …”
The boy motions for him to be quiet. “I know, I know.… They’ve turned yellow.” He takes a step toward the lake. The boy is stock-still at the water’s edge, staring at him.
Sheng raises his hand in a greeting.
The boy raises his own.
“Stay here,” Sheng tells Ermete.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to talk to him.”
The engineer shakes his head.
Sheng slowly walks toward the lake. He even tries to smile, although his heart’s pounding like crazy.
Be brave. Be brave.
He’s afraid the other boy is going to get scared and run away, like he did last night.
It takes him four long minutes to reach the lake. Then he steps off the path, crosses over the wet lawn and stops in front of him.
The boy is soaking wet, but it’s as if the rain was passing through him.
“Hi,” Sheng says.
“Hi.”
“Sorry about yesterday.”
“Me too. I was scared.…”
“I just wanted to talk to you. My name’s Sheng.”
“I know,” the boy says.
“But how?”
“I was looking for you for a long time.”
“Looking for me? Following me is more like it.”
“I didn’t know how else to … help you.”
“You want to help me?”
The boy nods. The rain is pouring down around them, slow and warm. It makes ripples in the water. Intersecting lines. Unpredictable paths, like the ones carved on the map of the Chaldeans.
“What is it you want to help me do?” Sheng asks.
“I know what you’re looking for. You want the Pearl of the Sea Dragon.”
“The Pearl of the Sea Dragon …,” Sheng repeats. “Yeah … that’s what I’m looking for.”
“I know where it is,” says the boy in the number 89 jersey. He points at the center of Century Park’s man-made lake.
“In the lake?”
The boy shakes his head. Tiny raindrops fall all around him. His hair is fine, sparse and fragile.
“It’s dark down there. But there’s a way in. You need to hold your breath. For a really long time. And you can make it.”
Sheng nods. “But I can’t swim.”
“You don’t need to swim. You just need to follow me.”
Sheng feels like his heart is about to leap out of his chest. He wades a few steps into the lake. The water is the same color as the gray sky and his feet seem to disappear below it. It isn’t deep. It’s just murky.
“Wait,” Sheng adds. He points at Ermete, who’s standing at the top of the rise, the backpack on his back. “So what do we need the coins for, or the tile with the knives … and the other things we found?”
“Oh, I don’t know about those,” the boy answers. “All I know is where to find the Pearl of the Sea Dragon. And the dragon, of course.”
“But how do you know that?”
“I used to dream about it every night.”
“I have the same dream every night, too.”
“I know, Sheng.
You dream about the island.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I dreamed about it, too. But only a few times. I wasn’t … powerful enough.” The boy touches Sheng’s forehead with his fingertip. “That’s why you can see me. Because you see dreams, like I do.”
“Are you a dream?”
“I’m Hi-Nau.”
From the top of the rise, Ermete watches Sheng walk toward the lake, stop for a few seconds and point in his direction. Then the Chinese boy moves a few steps closer to the water.
“Hey!” the engineer exclaims. “What are you doing?” He takes a few steps forward. Sheng is still standing at the edge of the lake, as if deciding whether or not to dive in.
“No way. He wouldn’t actually—”
Sheng dives into the lake.
“Oh, man, no!” the engineer shouts. “He’s lost his mind!”
He starts running toward the lake, slips on the slick asphalt and scrambles back up. “Sheng! Sheng!” he shouts. “Get out of there right now!”
It’s raining harder and harder. Just then, a helicopter roars over the park.
Ermete waves his arms. “Help! Help! Come back! He fell into the lake! Sheng fell into the lake!”
But the helicopter zooms away, heading toward the dark outline of Heremit Devil’s skyscraper.
Ermete reaches the lake. He looks down at the gray water speckled with rain. He dumps the backpack on the ground, rips off one shoe and then the other one, then his plastic raincoat. He leaves everything on the shore and grumbles, “You and your imaginary friend … You’ll pay for this! As sure as my name’s Ermete De—”
The words die in his throat when Sheng pops out of the water a few meters away from him, dripping wet.
“Hey, Ermete,” he says. “You don’t need to know how to swim.” He points at something below the surface. “Bring the backpack,” he says.
INSECTS, WIND, RAIN. SHARDS OF GLASS ON THE FLOOR WITH THE four continents painted on it. The roar of the helicopters. At the top of the black skyscraper, two shadows. One holding a violin.
“Go on! Walk!” Jacob Mahler shouts.
Heremit Devil bursts out laughing. “Walk, Jacob? To go where?”
Mahler points at the shattered picture windows with his bow. “Take your pick.…”
“Do you really believe you can force me to jump?”
“What better death could there be for someone who builds skyscrapers?”
Hesitant, Heremit backs up a step. Mosquitoes are everywhere and he has to shoo them away with both hands. “We can talk about this, Jacob.”
The violin lets out off-pitch chords. “Talk all you want. Meanwhile, walk!”
“I never gave orders for you to be killed.”
“Oh, no? Then how did Nose’s women find me?”
Heremit backs up even farther. Shards of glass crunch beneath his shoes. “It was the Italian. That Vinile … He wanted revenge for losing his man, Little Lynch. He said you were the one who killed him.”
“That’s not true!” Jacob Mahler shouts, making his bow dance across the violin. Little Lynch died when Professor Van Der Berger’s apartment building collapsed, crushed by the rubble and his own colossal weight.
Heremit Devil is less than a meter from the abyss now. His back is soaked with rain. “Do you really mean to do this to me, Jacob?” he asks, feeling his panic rising steadily.
He’s lost control.
He’s lost control of everything.
“I’m not doing anything,” the killer replies.
“Stop it!” Heremit shrieks. His stony face has suddenly turned into the face of a spoiled child whose parents have just denied him something.
“I can’t, Heremit,” Jacob Mahler replies, cradling his violin. “This isn’t a game anymore.”
He forces the man back another step.
“I’ll give you everything!” Heremit says, trying again. “Everything I discovered! I’ll let the kids go!”
“I’m not here for them.” Jacob Mahler raises his shiny metal bow. “I’m here for me.”
Then everything happens in a flash. Mahler perks up his ears and darts to the side as fast as a falcon. A knife whizzes right through the spot where his back was an instant ago, passes centimeters away from Heremit’s arm and flies out of the building, vanishing.
Heremit Devil falls to the ground. Jacob rolls over on the floor twice and leaps up.
Nik Knife is standing in the doorway.
And he isn’t alone.
“Put down the violin,” the knife thrower orders, holding Harvey in front of him, “and I will not cut his throat.”
Jacob Mahler slowly does as he says.
“Very good …” Nik Knife steps into the room. “Now let’s go call the girls, shall we?”
Jacob Mahler thinks, Base jump.
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO MAKE OUT ANYTHING THROUGH THE LAKE’S murky water. It’s like floating in grayness. You need to grope your way around.
A meter below the surface is the opening to a duct: a steel pipe just big enough to slip into. Once they’re inside of it, the gray water becomes black and they need to move quickly, pushing themselves forward with their hands and feet. There isn’t a current. It’s still, stagnant water.
It’s warm, the same tropical temperature as rainwater. Water that’s far from refreshing.
Sheng leads the way. Ermete follows close behind him. They move through the duct like two giant, awkward crabs, thrusting their feet against the inside of the pipe. In the dark.
You need to be really brave, Sheng thinks, to do something like this.
You need to be insane, Ermete thinks, trying not to think at all.
Because after the first thirty seconds in the darkness, the pipe narrows. While at first they could swim through it by moving their hands and arms, now they need to tuck them against their sides and push themselves along with only their tiptoes.
The backpack is in front of them, in the lead, like a figurehead. Or like one of those battering rams they once used to knock down castle doors.
Right after the bottleneck, the pipe begins to descend, and as the descent sharpens, so does the feeling they’re falling into a trap. They can’t turn around and they can’t go back. They can only continue along in the darkness, hoping they have enough breath.
A minute has gone by.
And at that point, the pipe narrows a second time. Now the backpack is stuck and Sheng needs to push it through. For Ermete, who’s bringing up the rear, the slowdown is becoming terrible. Gripped with panic, he coughs.
Coughing, he inhales water.
Inhaling the water, he feels his panic rise. But he forces himself to calm down, because his head is throbbing and he knows his lungs are out of oxygen. Sheng has stopped, so he reaches out into the darkness, grabs what feels like Sheng’s foot and shoves it. His friend slips forward and Ermete tries to catch up with him. But he bangs into a metal wall. On all sides, there’s only metal. The duct has come to an end.
Ermete spins around like a screw and looks up. He sees a circle of gray light and in the circle he sees the shadow of a hand reaching down into the water.
The engineer grabs it.
And lets himself be pulled out.
* * *
Ermete sputters, coughing the water out of his lungs.
Beside him, Sheng is doubled over on his knees, exhausted.
The engineer rolls over on the ground, coughs a few more times and asks, “Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” Sheng answers, peering around. “It looks like a cave. But from what I know, there aren’t any caves here in Shanghai.…”
“We’re under the park,” Ermete murmurs, raising his arms to feel around for a ceiling. His hands brush against a smooth cement wall to the side of the pipe they just came out of. “This place is man-made.”
He takes a few uncertain steps, trying to figure out how big their surroundings are. The ground is covered with a few centimeters of flowing water. They hear
cascades up ahead, in the darkness.
“It seems like some kind of maintenance tunnel,” he says.
“There are pipes in the ceiling,” Sheng adds, “and water’s coming out of them, up there!”
“How do you know that?”
“I can see them,” the boy answers. “Let me go first.”
They make their way along, single file, and reach the corner of the cement wall. Now there are at least ten centimeters of water on the ground. Once they turn the corner, even Ermete starts to make out a dim glow. A shaft of light. Or a low-voltage fluorescent tube forgotten by whoever built the place. Now he can also see the pipes Sheng mentioned.
Water outlets along the cement walls spew rainwater, which pools together on the ground and flows over to the duct they came in through.
“It’s a rainwater reservoir that feeds into the lake,” Ermete realizes.
Sheng looks up. The passageway they’re walking through is at least four meters tall. “This place probably fills all the way up during the rainy season.”
“Oh, great! And when’s the rainy season?”
“Right now,” Sheng says in a quiet voice, wading through the water.
As they continue along in the only possible direction, the cement passageway grows chillier. And the water on the ground becomes freezing.
“Nothing better than a tropical cold,” Ermete grumbles, coughing. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“I don’t know, Ermete.”
“Don’t you have some imaginary friend you could ask?”
“Not funny.”
“You know what else isn’t funny? Walking down a rainwater drainpipe in the dark, and for no good reason.”
“You can go back, if you want.”
“Ooh, nice one! Did you go to the same stand-up comedy school as Harvey? Welcome to our planet: bitter youth.”
Ermete grumbles to himself for the next dozen steps.
Then he asks, “Now what?”
Sheng has halted in front of him.
“… what?… what?” a strange echo repeats.
“Don’t push,” Sheng whispers, letting Ermete see why he stopped.
“Oh, no!” the engineer exclaims.
“… no! … no!”
They’re on the edge of a large, round reservoir as wide as an Olympic swimming pool. The ceiling is twenty meters overhead, the grates of a dozen manholes positioned around it in a circle, like the hours on a clockface. The dim light is coming in through the manholes, along with streams of rainwater. On the reservoir’s gray cement walls are the openings of pipes in different sizes, marked with numbers written in black characters, and metal rings that look like they haven’t been touched for years. Water is flowing into the reservoir through the pipes’ dark mouths. Some of them only seep thin, yellowish sewage, while water spews copiously from others. The murky water in the reservoir below is rippling and churning from the constant intake coming from all directions.
Century #4: Dragon of Seas Page 16