by Mac Barnett
He didn’t need to worry. No sooner had the sign for Railroad Avenue become legible than a bell began clanging. A red and white barrier lowered and blocked the road.
Rick braked and swore. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The engine’s whistle rattled the truck, and the train rolled slowly through the intersection. Car after shiny car, the sides lined like sneakers with red, white, and blue stripes, passed in front of them. For a while nobody said anything. They just sat and watched.
“We missed the train,” Dana said.
The flashing red of Rick’s roof-mounted portable police light was reflected in the cars’ shiny metal exterior.
“What do we do now?” Rick said.
“Well,” said Steve, “you’ve got that nifty siren. Why don’t you just pull the train over?”
CHAPTER XII
A CURIOUS OCCURRENCE
FOUR HOURS LATER Steve, Dana, and Rick stood on platform 2 of Santa Lucia Station, waiting to board the next train for San Diego. Over a tense lunch at a nearby taquería, Rick had announced his new plan: They would meet up with the class tonight at the hotel and have a full day of Model UN tomorrow just like everyone else, so really it didn’t matter that they’d missed the train, and in fact this new plan was probably even a better plan, because why were they booked on such an early train in the first place?
It was fun seeing Rick fret, and now they’d get to ride down without Other Dana, so Steve was in good spirits as the train pulled up to the station.
Their train stopped at the platform and waited, emitting a dull diesel hum, but the doors stayed closed.
“When do we get on?” Dana asked.
“I don’t know,” Rick said. “I don’t really ride trains.”
“Probably the stationmaster has to say ‘all aboard’ first,” Steve said, looking around for a stationmaster. He didn’t see one, or anyone who looked like they worked for the railroad, on the platform. (And really, the man who’d sold them their tickets at the station, a man who obviously worked for the railroad, hadn’t really looked like he worked for the railroad: He wore no cap or coat, just khakis and a mustard-stained short-sleeved shirt.)
A faint female voice came from a megaphone mounted on the roof of the platform’s shelter: “Passengers for the twelve forty-five Sunset Coastliner for San Diego are requested to please wait at the platform for a brief ten-minute delay. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Oh, you’re kidding,” Rick said.
Steve put down his suitcase.
“What do you think is happening?” Dana asked.
Nobody answered.
Steve watched as three cops in uniform emerged from the station and crossed to the platform. One hopped up into the engine. A few seconds later the door on the first car opened, and another officer entered the train. The third stood on the platform and watched the assembled passengers waiting to board.
Rick followed Steve’s eye line and saw the cops. “Good,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll figure out what’s going on.” He strode over to the officer. After they exchanged a few sentences and shook hands, Rick returned to where the boys were standing. He nodded confidently. “He said it will only be about ten minutes.”
“Well, we learned that from the megaphone,” Steve said, pointing to the ceiling.
“Did he say why the police were here?” Dana asked.
Rick shrugged sharply. “Routine. Just … routine.”
“Seems weird,” Dana said, and looked at Steve skeptically.
A familiar tingle spread in Steve’s stomach. There was something going on here. He looked down at the policeman waiting by the engine. The officer was wary, watchful. He was looking for something or someone. There was a mystery in progress right over there. Steve was sure of it. His brain began whirring. Steve shuddered. No. He was done sleuthing. Retired. Out of the game for good.
Steve needed to distract himself, to quiet his mind. He turned and started walking—away from the front of the train, away from whatever was going on with the police.
But if Steve wanted to walk away from danger, he was walking in the wrong direction.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PHANTOM CAR
THE SUNSET COASTLINER had an engine and seven cars, and each car’s side bore the name of a California landmark. The one in front of Steve was SAN SIMEON BAY, its name painted on the metal in deep blue. Steve decided to distract himself by seeing whether any of the cars was named after Ocean Park.
Next up was VENICE BEACH. Whatever was going on really wasn’t any of Steve’s business. BODEGA BAY. Although Steve’s mom was always saying that if a person got hurt in front of her, she had a responsibility to help them, because she was a nurse: She was always sort of on the job. MOUNT BALDY. But it was different for detectives, right? A detective didn’t have an obligation to solve every mystery that came his way. DEATH VALLEY. And anyway, Steve wasn’t a detective anymore. He was a kid. (An air conditioner hissed and startled him.) Yes, he wanted nothing to do with any of this.
Steve stopped at the last car.
It had no name.
That was weird. He looked at the preceding car. Next to the words DEATH VALLEY was a number: 8802. He ran back to MOUNT BALDY. 8008. BODEGA BAY WAS 8083. But when he walked back to the last car, the nameless car, Steve saw that its number was 724. Three digits. That was odd too. He took a step back. The car looked just like the other cars—silver and striped—but the windows that lined its side weren’t windows at all. They were metal, too, and when he examined one, he found his own confused face staring back at him.
Because he was looking at his reflection, Steve was able to see the man with the long scar come up behind him.
Steve felt the menacing gaze of the scar-faced man.
CHAPTER XIV
AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER
“SEE SOMETHING INTERESTING?”
Steve turned around and faced the man. The man’s face was long and thin, marred by the scar on his cheek and a nose that had been broken more than once. And though his face was fearsome, and he wore a sneer, his tone was sharp but not unkind.
Steve shrugged and started back toward Rick and Dana, who were watching him from down the platform.
“Hey!” the man shouted. “I asked you a question.”
His tone was now unkind.
Steve turned back around, even though he didn’t want to.
“I said,” the man said slowly, “see something interesting?” He pronounced every syllable of the last word.
Steve had no reason to lie to the man. He was just a kid looking at a train. “This car doesn’t have a name on it.”
“So?”
“Well, all the other cars have names.”
“So?”
“So that’s kind of interesting. You asked if I had seen anything interesting.”
“And why,” the man asked, “is that interesting?”
Steve was getting tired of this. “Look. I don’t know. It just seemed a little weird. You know, that the last car didn’t have a name. Or windows. That’s all.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Maybe that’s because it’s a caboose.”
Steve laughed. “Freight trains have cabooses. Not passenger trains.”
Now he squinted. “You some kind of train enthusiast?”
“No.”
“Just a snoop, then.” The man put his hands on his hips and looked Steve up and down. He took a long time doing it, making a big show, as if to demonstrate to Steve that he was taking everything in, and that he didn’t like what he saw. Steve took the opportunity to get a good look at the man, too. He was tall and reedy, wearing shabby gray pants and a brown tweed coat. His white shirt was wrinkled and a little bit yellowed. And then, underneath the man’s blazer, in the space created by the man’s akimbo arms, Steve saw something truly interesting: a holstered pistol.
CHAPTER XV
ALL ABOARD!
THE MAN NOTICED Steve notice the gun. He dropped his arms. His face was
uncertain.
A bell sounded pleasantly, and the doors on every car but the last whooshed open. The megaphone creaked: “Attention now boarding the twelve forty-five Sunset Coastliner to San Diego thank you for your patience now boarding the twelve forty-five Sunset Coastliner to San Diego all aboard.” That was it: “all aboard” attached unceremoniously to the end of a rushed announcement. No stationmaster. No whistle or bell. Steve wasn’t so alarmed by the man’s pistol that he didn’t have room to feel a little disappointed.
And really, the gun was none of his business. He nodded curtly to the man, ran to Rick and Dana, picked up his suitcase, and boarded the train. And even though Steve planned to mind his own business, he hoped the man with the gun stayed at the station.
CHAPTER XVI
AMBUSH AT TURRIS SENEX
ALTHOUGH STEVE HAD BEEN TRYING not to think about the Bailey Brothers books all week, he couldn’t get them out of his head as he boarded the train. In the Bailey Brothers books, trains were often hijacked, usually filled with criminals (or sometimes with defecting nuclear scientists), and, at least once, driven by a hypnotized engineer. But they were always elegant ways to travel. See, for example, their first trip down the rails in All Aboard for Danger:
“These sure are swell digs!” Shawn grinned, approvingly surveying their drawing room. Fresh towels lay folded next to the sink, three pairs of fluffy slippers sat on a fine rug, and a deck of playing cards lay on the reading table.
“Anyone up for a game of Go Fish?” Kevin queried.
“Maybe after a nap,” mumbled Shawn, who was still knackered from the previous night’s stakeout of the old paint factory.
“And I’ m going to check out the dining car,” Ernest announced. “I hear they have a terrific charcoal-broiled sirloin steak with maître d’ hôtel butter. And a delicious chocolate sundae.”
“Just remember,” Kevin teased, winking at his stout chum, “there are other people on this train who need to eat, and the kitchen doesn’t restock until Cleveland!” The boys all laughed.
Shawn, who had the top bunk at the Bailey residence, yawned and lowered the pull-down bed.
Ba-ang! Shawn flew backward onto the floor. The smell of gunpowder overpowered the compartment.
“Nattering nanny goats! That was a close call!” Shawn exclaimed. He pointed to a sawed-off shotgun mounted high on the wall. “I triggered that booby trap when I lowered the bed!”
“Zounds!” cried Kevin. “You almost took more than a nap.”
“Well,” riposted Shawn, clambering up to bed, “the shotgun may be a bit unwelcoming, but the mattress sure is top-notch!
“The 12:45 Sunset Coastliner to San Diego was not top-notch.
The train in Steve’s mind was all brass and wood and wool; the train Steve was in was polyester and plastic and Naugahyde.
Where were the doors that slid open to spacious sleepers? Where was the club car? Where were the porters with their flat caps and brass buttons?
The car was just one open room filled with rows of seats—two on each side with an aisle running down the middle. The carpet was grease-stained and gumpocked. Most windows bore greasy palm prints.
“Don’t we have a compartment?” Steve asked, looking at his ticket.
Rick scoffed. “I don’t think they have compartments in these trains, Stevie. This isn’t one of your Bailey Boys books.”
“Bailey Brothers,” Steve said.
“Exactly,” said Rick. “Take a seat.”
Steve walked by a man reading a paperback and a bored-looking teenager. He passed a man and woman who had a small child and three half-eaten sandwiches on their laps. Their hands were all orange with Cheetos dust. Why weren’t these people eating in the dining car? Steve wondered. He followed Dana into a row. The worn fabric on their chairs was covered in blue, turquoise, and yellow rectangles—it looked like a pixelated photograph of the ocean, and Steve found the pattern unsettling. He considered asking Dana for the window seat, so he could look at the actual ocean, but his friend had been in a bad mood since they missed the train that morning.
Rick sat across the aisle from the boys. He put his duffel on the empty seat next to him and took out two knitting needles and some skeins of yarn.
“I’m making a pair of camping socks,” Rick said when he noticed Steve watching him.
“Cool,” Steve replied.
“It is cool,” Rick said, and started knitting. “If you think it’s weird for a guy to knit—”
“I didn’t say anything,” Steve said.
“—then you have been sleeping under a rock or something, because men’s knitting circles are all over the news.”
“The news?”
“Yes. The news.” Rick started knitting.
Meanwhile Dana had taken a thick book out of his backpack. Steve was horrified when he saw its cover:
Steve couldn’t believe anyone was comfortable holding that thing in public. Steve felt awkward just sitting next to it.
“Seriously?” Steve asked. “I’m bored. You’re just going to read?”
“Not the whole time. We’ve got a seven-hour trip. I just want to get past this part. It’s really good. Didn’t you bring a book?”
Steve’s face flushed. He didn’t answer. Steve and Dana used to hang out and read a lot—and Steve would always be reading the Bailey Brothers.
Dana opened to a bookmarked page. Steve looked over his friend’s shoulder:
VII
Transportation spells always nauseated Kallendar, but he tried to hide his queasiness from Brynwyllyn, who did not seem at all affected by their journey. She studied him for a moment, her cornflower-blue eyes quizzical and surprisingly wise, and Kallendar immediately realized the futility of hiding his condition from an elven healer.
“Do you need a few minutes to rest, mage?” she asked blankly.
Her indifference stung him. “No,” he said, standing. As he rose, he cursed himself for taking his last cysurberry yesterday as treatment for the small headache the anifornum had caused him. If he was to make it to Nzorl-Ut, he reminded himself, he would have to use his magick rations more carefully. “Let us continue,” Kallendar said bravely. “We are running out of time.”
The two figures began down the pebbly shore in the misty dawn. Ahead of them stood a graying tower alone on the sea. Kallendar’s heart rose as he eyed the ancient stone structure. Turris Senex. Somewhere within slumbered the Book of Krunum-Krog.
An albatross circled and let out a mournful cry as they approached the tower. Snorri cawed loudly in response, and Kallendar reached to his left shoulder and ruffled his familiar’s inky feathers.
“I think Snorri has found love at first sight.” Brynwyllyn laughed. Her smile warmed Kallendar’s heart, and he fought to keep his mind on the task ahead.
The runes on the wall of Turris Senex were surprisingly easy to decipher. But when Kallendar and Brynwyllyn stepped through the portal in the smooth stone, the entrance closed, sealing them inside, in darkness. Kallendar incanted a simple illumination spell, but nothing happened. “Maybe we’re too close to the water,” he muttered unsurely. He pulled his athame from his baldric. The blade glowed light blue, faintly illuminating a twisting hall leading into the tower’s bowels.
“Well, at least we’ve got some light,” Brynwyllyn said. “Come on.” She started down the path.
The hallway wound upward, and soon Kallendar was consumed by doubts. What if he was wrong, and the Book was not here? After all, he was just a masterless apprentice who got magick-sickness from casting even a simple dissumulo enchantment. He considered returning home to the farm in Cristolin, tending to the goats, becoming Kallendar the Yeoman again. He imagined his Uncle Kaldrick’s sneer when he saw Kallendar walk up the garden path. No. He could never go back.
Kallendar stopped. His athame no longer glowed blue: It was red. “Brynwyllyn,” he whispered fiercely. “Danger.”
There was a low groan from deep within the tower.
Bryn
wyllyn sniffed the stale air. Her face grew grave with concern. “Balrogs.” Suddenly a chill descended in the hall. A shriek pierced the air. Kallendar turned to run and found that the way back was blocked by a wall of smooth black stone.
“We’re trapped!”
He spun around to find two shadow demons, their ghoulish faces surrounded by halos of icy blue flame. They pointed their bony fingers forward. Brynwyllyn recited a basic dryad protection spell that Kallendar knew would be futile against these grim foes. It was hopeless: They were barrow bound.
Kallendar tossed Brynwyllyn his athame. She was more adept with the blade anyway; she’d proven that at Tongullin Fields. Kallendar’s hand went instinctively to his father’s rusty blade. “Ouch!” The weapon’s pommel was searing hot. He unsheathed the sword—its edge glowed green. Could it be? Of course! The old broadsword he’d inherited—the one Kaldrick had sneeringly called junk—was Tyrfing, the dwarvish blade blessed with boggart magick, forged in the caverns of Longurdl by Untril the Red Smith, son of Brindi the Impossible, son of Arnuldr the Unfortunate, son of Karl the …”
“Oh, come on,” Steve said.
Dana looked up. “What?”
“This book is ridiculous. Those baldrics were about to attack—”
“Balrogs.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A baldric is a belt worn around a tunic. A balrog is a demon.”
“Whatever. The demons were attacking, and then all of a sudden the story turns into a sword’s family tree.”
“Once you get into it, the genealogy stuff is actually really exciting.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.” Steve looked out the window at the sunlight bouncing off the Pacific. “Let me ask you something. How big is this Brynwyllyn?”
“What?”
“The elf. Like, is she Keebler-sized, or human-sized?”