“Lucille? She was? I—I haven’t spoken with her.”
The mayor turned on her heels and began to walk away. “I’ll see you for the vote, sugar.”
Dan leaned back on his office door but couldn’t bring himself to reach for the handle.
Leo Wilder stared absently at the ancient crimson-and-gold fabric in the open display case at Peniel. Standing beside him in Bethel Hall, his mother focused her television camera on the garment. Peering through the viewfinder, she gave Leo explicit directions.
“Okay, gently close the glass door on the case….Now open it slowly. Good. Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m going in for the close-up.”
Deborah kept her eye plastered to the viewfinder, barely breathing. She was all business. Deb was a perfectionist who insisted on shooting and editing everything herself. Which explained why her TV show aired not only in Perilous Falls, but all over the country. Leo tapped the cast on his arm, seemingly trying to relieve an insistent itch.
“Mom, can we go yet?” Marin asked for the fifth time that hour, flopping her head side to side nearby. The little girl started spinning in a circle, as tired children are wont to do when they are bored.
“Marin, as soon as Mommy gets this shot, we can go. But I need you to be a good girl and read your book or look at the pretty things in the cases,” Deborah said, her eye still fixed on the viewfinder. “Just don’t touch anything, sweetie. Hands behind your back, okay?”
Marin placed her hands behind her back but continued to spin in a circle, bumping nearly every other case as she whirled about the Gothic hall. A pair of strong arms suddenly surrounded her. The girl gasped.
“If you’re not very careful, you could fall and hurt yourself. It’s important to listen to your mummy.” The owner of the defined biceps holding Marin was in his midtwenties and spoke in a high English accent. He had a breathy, soothing voice that calmed Marin instantly. Or perhaps it was his blue eyes and chiseled face that held her attention.
“I’m sorry. She didn’t touch anything.” Deborah Wilder crossed the room in an instant.
“No worries at all. We wouldn’t want your aunt Lucille to get angry with us,” the man said playfully, releasing Marin, who ran into Deborah’s arms. He wore a woolen tailored vest, gray pants, and an eggplant-colored tie. “I’m Valens Ricard. I’ve been working with Lucille and Bartimaeus for a few months. They told me you’d be coming. Shooting Elijah’s mantle, are you?”
Deborah found herself staring at his royal-blue eyes. “Yes, I’m shooting the mantle. For my show.”
Valens was already heading toward Leo and the open display case. “You’re a wonderful presenter. I watch Supernatural Secrets every week, Mrs. Wilder. And this must be Leo.” He mussed Leo’s brown hair, which the boy clearly detested, given his scowl. “Do you know about the mantle?”
Leo shook his head, huge eyes blinking behind his glasses.
“Well, in the Second Book of Kings—it’s in the Old Testament—there is a perfectly wonderful story about that very mantle. It was the prophet Elijah’s cloak. And when Elijah went up to heaven, another prophet, Elisha, picked up the cloak, folded it, and struck the River Jordan. What do you think happened?”
“The cloak got wet?” Leo answered.
“Very perceptive.” Valens looked over at Deborah with a jaunty smirk. “I’m sure it did get wet. But it also miraculously split the waters of the river and allowed Elisha to walk clear across. It has other powers too.”
Leo was now even more transfixed by the cloth. Marin and Deborah were transfixed by Valens.
“I’m very sorry to interrupt. I heard voices and thought I would come up and say hello. I do truly enjoy your show, Mrs. Wilder.” Valens extended a long hand, which Deborah happily accepted.
“What do you say to Mr. Valens, kids?”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” Leo said.
“You’re pretty,” Marin giggled.
“He’s handsome, Marin. Not pretty. I mean…you use the term ‘handsome’ with men. At least some men. The pretty ones.” Blushing, Deborah hurriedly returned to her camera. “Thank you for being so kind, and I’ll make sure Marin doesn’t break anything.”
“Till next time, then.” Valens gave a little bow and vanished into the entry hall just as Deborah’s cell phone rang. It was Aunt Lucille.
“Deborah, you haven’t heard from Will, have you?”
“No. Is something wrong?”
“With the tragedies on the river, I just want to make sure he’s safe.”
“Have you called Mr. Shen at the church?”
Aunt Lucille hesitated. “Tobias was…detained. He was way downriver. I’m in the boat just now. After I make a quick drop-off, I’ll go check on Will. I’m sure he’s still planting trees at the church.”
“Let me know when you get there. I’m taking my last shots of the mantle, and then we’ll come meet you at St. Thomas.”
“Perfect, dear. I’ll call you soon.”
Deborah clicked off the cell phone, adjusted her camera lens, and worriedly tried to capture the last shots she needed for her story. Leo pressed his face against the side of the open glass case, his big blue eyes studying every weave of the miraculous ancient cloth within.
In the Undercroft, Andrew leapt onto the solid unmarked stone. But Simon lingered on the block marked 2. A rush of water now covered his feet.
“Aaah!” Simon screamed as he and the stone were ejected from the wall. The block splashed into the pool below, leaving a second gaping hole in the incline. Simon was thrown out into the middle of the chamber, and then, because of the rope tied around his chest, he swung toward the wall directly below Will. Drenched and petrified, Simon dangled like a dazed spider from the cord in Will’s hands.
“Owwwww. That hurt!” Simon screeched. “My shoulder is aching. I’ll feel that one in the morning.”
“Andrew, you’re going to have to come up here and help me pull Simon in,” Will calmly ordered, struggling with the rope.
Andrew crouched on an unmarked block, his back against the rough tan wall. “If I come to you, the next stone—number three—will go flying and might hit the other end of your yo-yo.” He brushed his wet red hair away from his eyes.
“That could be a problem,” Will muttered to himself.
From below, Simon’s shrill voice rose up. “There is something moving in the water. And in case you don’t realize it, the water is rising. Pull me up now! Pull me up!” Simon reached into his backpack as he spoke. Past the green notebook he found an inhaler, which he pressed to his mouth and dragged on for several seconds.
Andrew began to stand on the stone block. He told Will to back up. As a linebacker on his football team, he had rushed the line since he was ten. This time he planned on rushing the opening at the top of the incline—without touching the number 3 block. He assumed a three-pointed crouch. With water peppering the side of his face and cascading down the stones in front of him, Andrew focused all his attention on the opening ahead.
“Keep your head down, moron,” Simon directed from below. “If you lose that pea brain of yours, I am not going diving for it.”
“Shut it, Simon.” With that, Andrew lunged for the brightly lit opening before him.
Andrew Stout’s dive toward the opening atop the incline was off by a few inches. He cleared the number 3 stone. Unfortunately, his size nine and a half shoe did not.
“Will!” Andrew screamed as his foot slipped on the wet stones. Flat on his face, he slid backward down the slick surface. Fearing that he’d fall off the incline completely, he pressed the balls of his feet into the stone—any stone—trying to get some traction. His foot finally found it on the number 3 block.
“Oh no. I didn’t mean to do that,” Andrew said in a panic, feeling the stone trembling beneath his arched toes. He desperately dug his fingers into the space between the blocks in front of him, clawing his way forward. As water shot from the wall, the numbered stone flew behind him. Andrew grabbed the on
ly sure thing within reach: the taut rope holding Simon.
“You’re going to drag us both into the water, big boy,” Simon screamed from below, the number 3 stone whizzing by his head.
Ignoring Simon’s bleatings, Andrew shinnied up the rope and joined Will, climbing into the bright entryway of the second chamber.
“Glad you avoided that last stone,” Will said sarcastically, still holding the rope with two hands.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Andrew said, grasping the line, “I got enough criticism from the mouth at the end of this string without you chiming in.” He irritably yanked on the rope.
Within minutes the two boys had hoisted a rattled Simon into the second chamber.
“See, we all made it. Not bad, guys,” Will said, clapping his damp friends on the back. His excitement was not contagious.
“My shoulder is aching, and I know I have rope burns under my arms,” Simon groaned, massaging his armpits.
“How many more of these chambers do we have to pass through?” Andrew asked, untying the rope from the statue’s leg.
“Just two more,” Will said. “This second chamber and the third. Then we reach the Keep with the relic.” Gazing beyond his friends, Will’s eyes sparkled. “Look at this chamber!”
The wall of fire on the other side of the enormous cavern warmed the boys, who were amazed by the sheer size and opulence of the place. Will thought it looked like some sort of shrine. He now realized that the floor was tiled with mosaic images of saints—some showing only their faces, others featuring their heads and shoulders. Bits of brightly colored glass and gemstones embedded in the tiles shimmered in the firelight. To the right and the left, twelve large statues of dreary saints, many wearing veils and hoods, faced each other: six statues on one side of the room, six on the other.
“Whoever they are, they’re not a happy bunch,” Andrew commented, ogling the statues. “Did their friends just croak or something? Your great-grandfather probably calls this one the Chamber of Sad Sacks.”
High overhead, a thick stone balcony encircled the room about ten feet beneath the ceiling. Will studied the chamber intently, his fingers intertwined behind his back. He noticed that the balconies above the right and left sides of the room were missing a few stones. Those ledges look like the mouth of a kid waiting for the tooth fairy, Will thought.
“Adventure calls, gentlemen. Another chamber, another challenge,” he announced.
“I’m kind of challenged out,” Andrew said, wringing the water from his pant leg.
“I refuse to proceed unless I go first,” Simon demanded. “I will not be left swinging from a rope again, victim to your foolishness, Will—or to that big galoot’s incompetence!”
Paying no attention to Simon’s blizzard of complaints, Will calmly walked behind the chattering boy, unzipped his backpack, and retrieved the ziplock bag containing Jacob Wilder’s green notebook. Turning to the appropriate page, Will tried to read the instructions. “If you can stop griping for a minute, here’s our next clue.”
TRIAL OF THE SAINTS
We stand on the shoulders of the saints
to escape the consuming flame.
For by fire will the Lord render judgment,
and many shall be slain.
Enter by the narrow gate,
for the wide gate brings death and pain.
“There’s only one gate, and that’s the one in the middle of the fire wall. We have to walk toward it.” Simon pointed to the flame-free, wide black metal door straight ahead. “Look at the tiles on the floor. What does it say about the saints?”
“ ‘We stand on the shoulders of the saints to escape the consuming flame,’ ” Will read.
“Easy. I’ve got it. We can only step on the tiles that show the shoulders of the saints.”
Will patted Simon on the back. “Pretty good thinking. So what are you waiting for? I thought you wanted to go first.”
Simon tugged at the rope still tied round his torso. “Hold this, just in case my calculations are off.” He tossed the end of the rope to Will.
Simon checked the strap on his sports goggles and tentatively extended his foot to touch the nearest tile featuring a saint’s head and shoulders. When nothing bad happened, Simon shifted his whole weight onto the first tile. So far, so good. With all the flair of a goose waddling on hot asphalt, Simon hopscotched from saint’s shoulder to saint’s shoulder, closing in on the black metal door.
Andrew, leaning on one of the big statues along the wall, seemed perplexed. “You know, that door is kinda wide, isn’t it? What’s the book say about the gate?”
Simon had already made his way halfway across the floor. He shot a hateful look in Andrew’s direction.
“It says, ‘Enter by the narrow gate, for the wide gate brings death and pain,’ ” Will read from the green notebook. “But it’s the only gate!”
“I’m just sayin’ it looks wide to me.” Andrew shrugged his broad shoulders. “But if he wants to keep hoppin’ around, let him hop to the wide gate. What do I care?”
Simon spun to face Andrew. “Forgive us, Dr. Jones, but if we rely on your genius to crack the code of the Undercroft, we’ll be down here permanentl—” The tile beneath him suddenly broke in two, dropping Simon through the floor. Will grasped the rope just as Simon’s head slipped out of sight.
“Hold on, Simon!” Will shouted.
Andrew scrambled to get hold of the wriggling rope as well. Together, the boys hauled Simon back up through the broken tile floor.
“It stinks. There’s some kind of grease down there,” Simon squealed as he was dragged sideways across the mosaic tiles. His shorts and bird legs were covered in a slick brown substance. Leaning against the left-hand wall of the room, Will and Andrew pulled Simon all the way to their position.
One by one, the tiles near the break in the floor began crumbling away. The mosaics fell into what appeared to be a pool of brown oil, which grew larger by the moment.
Will ran toward the hooded statue farthest from the flaming wall. “You were on the wrong saint’s shoulders, Simon!” He began climbing the arms of the stone figure like a chimpanzee. “These are the saint’s shoulders we’re supposed to be on! Andrew, let Simon climb your back—onto this ugly guy next to me.”
The statue next to Will portrayed a short, chunky monk with a bald head and a gloomy countenance.
“Why do I get the ugliest statue here?” Simon huffed.
“Because you’re the ugliest kid here. Get up,” Andrew said, shoving Simon onto the statue.
By the time Simon mounted the stone arm of the fat monk, the mosaic tiles were furiously splatting into the oil pit below. Tile by tile, the floor collapsed.
Andrew immediately scaled the statue next to Simon’s.
Will hugged the stone head before him while reading from the green notebook. “ ‘We stand on the shoulders of the saints to escape the consuming flame. For by fire will the Lord render judgment.’ Why do I have a strange feeling it’s going to get hot in here?”
Vibrations shook the statues holding the boys. Will slipped the green notebook into his backpack. Simon began moaning in terror, frantically tying the rope attached to his waist around the fat monk’s carved head. Andrew found himself teetering atop a slender stone nun. After several awkward attempts to embrace her thin noggin, he opted to straddle her neck like a huge baby riding on its mother’s shoulders.
“Sister better hold up!” Andrew shouted.
All at once every statue in the room—those on the boys’ side and their companions across the way—began rising. They moved at the same steady speed, pushed upward by thick metal columns that shot up beneath each statue. The last tiles around the edges of the chamber floor tumbled into the lake of oil below. As the statues neared the ceiling, Will looked up, fearing that he and his saint would smash into the jutting ledge of the balcony above.
“We’re all going to die,” Simon wailed. “I’ll be pulverized on the ceiling, then drow
ned in oil, and finally burned to a crisp. My parents won’t even know where to find my torched remains.”
“You’re not going to be pulverized,” Will said. “Look up.” Above the statues were cutouts in the overhang, which would permit the stone shoulders to pass through freely.
“Let me adjust my statement,” Simon went on. “I’ll be drowned in oil and burned to a crisp, but not pulverized.”
“For the first time today, he might be right,” Andrew said, pointing below.
A thin stream of liquid spouted from the wall of fire. Within seconds the liquid ignited, becoming a flaming fountain headed straight toward the pool of oil.
The statues slowly passed through the missing blocks of the stone balcony. “C’mon, c’mon,” Andrew kept repeating as the statues finally came to a halt.
Will leapt off his hooded friar and helped Simon untangle himself from the fat monk’s stone head. “Get against the wall,” Will told the others. Simon began to complain. But Will placed his hand over the boy’s mouth. “Save it for after the cookout.” He pushed Simon against the chamber wall and positioned himself next to his friend. Andrew pressed his face against the wall, giving the room his back.
They heard a rumbling WHOOSH below.
“Don’t move,” Will said, a knowing smile on his face. “One ‘consuming flame’ coming up.” He used his pith helmet to protect his face from the inferno.
A sheet of raging fire appeared directly in front of the boys. Simon screamed, his hands shielding his face.
Though the fire was two feet away, Will could feel the intense heat not only on his neck and arms, but through his sneakers. The sizzling stone ledge beneath them was all that preserved the boys from the flame’s destructive touch. Within a few moments it was over. The fire hovered on the surface of the pool below but had lost its ability to reach the ceiling.
“My rump’s well done,” Andrew said, rubbing his backside.
“No matter how it’s cooked, it should be sent back to the kitchen immediately!” Simon said, lowering his hands from his face. Andrew and Will instantly began laughing at him. “What? What’s so funny?”
Will Wilder Page 12