“Hate to interrupt you, but can I get a word in here?” Cami asked. “Thanks. I have to tell you about Max’s dreams because they’ve been eerily accurate.”
Cami told the table the details of Max’s first dream, his vision of the sparkly gold treasure taken from a gray castle by the bad one—the Sinestri.
Will swallowed hard as he listened, thinking only of the prophecy: “…in those days of tribulation and darkness, I shall pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; sons and daughters shall dream vivid dreams and sing angelic songs…”
“If nothing had happened, I would have just ignored it. But I think Max sees things before they happen. How could he have known about the relic? And I don’t know who the bad one or the Sinestri are, but at least he got part of it right. Anyway, a few days ago during that horrible storm, Max was really upset,” Cami continued, her slender hands painting pictures as she spoke. “He told me about a nightmare he’d had. He’s been having it every night since.”
Andrew finished off the fries as if watching a movie. Simon was so engrossed he reached for a second muffin without even looking down.
“Max keeps saying that a raven is circling Perilous Falls. ‘A dark, black raven is coming,’ he says. It brings blood. He says the blood is everywhere. Does any of that make sense to you?”
“Nope,” Will said, feeling a slight chill.
Cami’s green eyes cut through Will, watching him intently. “Do you know anything about an ugly monster? Max said the bad one, the Sinestri, was ‘an ugly monster with many faces.’ Have you seen anything like that?”
Will went as white as the milk before him. He involuntarily shoved his lips to the side, trying to think of something to say. He couldn’t talk about the Sinestri or Leviathan without discussing his gift—which he had promised to keep to himself. His mind was racing.
“Well?” Cami asked.
Just as Will opened his mouth to speak, Simon began wildly waving his half-eaten muffin at them. He was trembling and turning red.
“Wrong muffin. Wrong muffin,” he choked. “I ate the wrong—EpiPen! Get the EpiPen!” Only air and rasp escaped his mouth. His eyes flipped backward.
Will ripped open Simon’s backpack, joined by Andrew.
“I’ll have Rhonda call an ambulance,” Will said, handing the found EpiPen to Andrew. “I’ve got to run anyway—”
Cami fanned Simon but stayed on point. “Before you go, Will—answer my question. What about this monster with many heads?”
“What about it? We’re in the middle of an emergency, Cami,” Will said, throwing on his pith helmet. “See you guys later. Feel better, Simon—we need you in tip-top shape for the Florida trip next week!”
Andrew was already jamming the EpiPen into his friend’s thigh before Will had disappeared down the hall.
“Thanks, moro—Andrew,” Simon sighed gratefully.
Will had to keep his promise to Tobias Shen. With all the troubles he had caused at St. Thomas, Will figured it was the least he could do. Rolling up to the yard on his red scooter, he ran into Father Ulan Cash exiting a taxi.
“Billy,” the chubby priest bellowed. He wore an extra-large teal Hawaiian shirt and a fishing hat that matched nothing. “I go out of town for a few days and all hell breaks loose. Bad storm, huh?”
“Yep.” Will nodded, a frozen smile plastered on his face.
“How’s the planting coming?”
“We’re getting there, Father.” He forced a laugh that Father Cash returned for no reason whatsoever.
“Less laughter, more planting,” Tobias Shen blurted, appearing at the edge of the yard with a shovel in hand. “Good to have you back, Father. Mr. Wilder, the trees’ toes yearn for warm earth. Dig, dig, dig.”
“That’s our Tobias. Always on the job,” Father Cash announced. He yawned and shuffled up to the rectory for what he called “a vacation-recovery nap.”
Before Will could start digging a hole, Mr. Shen led Will toward one of the few things he had actually planted in the yard.
“Did you see how your tree is faring?” Tobias stood over the visible half of the walking stick poking from the ground, as if it were something precious.
Getting closer, Will could not believe his eyes. Along the shaft of the stick, seven small green buds had sprouted on the wood. The bud near the top had even released a spray of tender white blossoms.
“It is small, as all things are at first. But he who is faithful in small things is great, Mr. Wilder.” A wide smile broke over Shen’s face, age lines spreading in all directions. “Go on, touch, touch. It is your tree.”
Will laid an unsure hand on the ridged top of the stick. A second later the swollen buds on the rod expelled more white blossoms. Ripe almonds soon hung amid the clusters of petals. A wondrous, awe-filled look covered Will’s face. “Did you see?…Did you see it bloom when I…? I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” Tobias Shen plucked two of the almonds from the plant, snapping the shells open for Will. “Here, take and eat the fruit of obedience.”
The sweetness of the almonds erupted in Will’s mouth. He had never tasted anything so satisfying. They were like treats—candy corn, Will thought.
“Keep watch over your tree. Nurture it, and it will nurture you. Protect it, and it will protect you,” Mr. Shen said. He turned his back to Will, facing the yard. “Now we have to plant bigger trees, but none more important than your tree.”
The pair spent much of the afternoon planting more saplings in a circular pattern around the St. Thomas churchyard. Throughout the day Will found himself gravitating to the flowering stick, marveling over what had happened. He even pinched off a few more almonds in between shoveling and tree lifts.
By the time twilight’s brilliant pink haze fell over the river, Will had said goodbye to Mr. Shen and watered his little “tree.” Even though it was out of his way, he rode his scooter to Peniel, having promised Aunt Lucille he would stop there before going home.
Approaching Peniel’s walled collection of structures, something within him stirred. The first sight of the main Gothic hall, with its steepled towers and attached buildings, made his heart race. Will thought it looked like a little village unto itself. As he got closer, the dome and the seven-story rectangular tower at the rear of the compound faded from view, blocked by the massive Bethel Hall. Hanging on the wrought-iron gates out front were a pair of banners advertising a new exhibit. They held images of a bearded old man wielding a staff. Will didn’t bother to read them.
He dodged a stream of exiting visitors and slipped beyond the outer library to the main hall. It was empty and shrouded in darkness.
“Aunt Lucille. Mr. Bart,” he called, but there was no response.
He proceeded past the antique case holding Elijah’s mantle. “She must have finally wrestled it from Leo,” Will said to himself.
At the rear of Bethel Hall he entered the arched central passageway and called his aunt’s name again. A guard sweeping out the last two stragglers directed Will to the Egyptian Gallery.
Oversized square stones and the pair of black dog statues guarding the corners made Will feel as if he had just entered a pyramid’s burial chamber. At the center of the room, a young man in a purple linen vest and yellow tie placed a rectangular piece of glass over a display case. Aunt Lucille and Bartimaeus gave him direction.
“Over to the left, Valens. There it is, dear. Perfection.”
“Let’s lock her down,” said Bartimaeus, handing Valens the keys to the four small locks on the exhibit.
Aunt Lucille introduced Will to Valens. “Very nice to meet you,” Valens said, offering a strong handshake. Will enjoyed the English accent and took an instant liking to Valens. “I know we’ll be seeing more of each other. Do tell your sister and brother and mother that I send my regards. Oh, love the hat.” He winked and was on his way.
Aunt Lucille brought her great-nephew close to the display case at the middle of the room.
“What do you think of the
new exhibit?” Aunt Lucille placed two hands atop the glass, gazing inside. “The Staff of Moses. Now, the exterior you see there is an ornamental covering—a loaner from the British Museum.”
A gold gem-studded staff lay on a black velvet cushion beneath the glass.
Will stared at the bent object. “The staff is inside that gold and jewel thing?”
“Correct. You can see the top of it there. The dark blue shiny knob poking out of the gold sleeve is the actual rod of Moses. We’ve always kept it in a simple bronze container. But for this exhibit I thought it needed a spectacular setting. The staff is over thirty-five hundred years old. Very powerful. And what a history…”
As she spoke, Will was distracted by Valens, who walked purposefully into the adjoining room, striding toward a sarcophagus—a stone casket—in the corner.
“Usually the staff is locked in the vault, but once this exhibit opens to kick off the Jacob Wilder Day celebration, it’ll be out here for a full year. Will, before it gets too late, Abbot Athanasius asked to meet with you…in the archabbey.”
Will wasn’t listening. He couldn’t take his eyes off Valens’s activities in the other room. The man casually stepped into the open stone sarcophagus and lay down.
“Hello. Hello!” Bartimaeus said, waving a hand at Will. “Your aunt’s talking and ya ain’t even looking at her.”
Will was waiting for Valens to rise out of the casket in the other room. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Uh, that Valens guy just got into the—the tomb thingy.” He was very concerned and padded to the doorway for a closer look.
“Here we go,” Bartimaeus said, advancing his crutches toward the main entryway. “I’ll be locking up Bethel Hall.”
“Come with me,” Aunt Lucille said, leading Will into the room that had riveted his attention. The gallery featured stone works: empty fountains, the tops of antique wells, and four sarcophagi.
Aunt Lucille neared the stone casket in the corner, the one etched with scenes of demons fleeing robed men with extended hands. “There are multiple ways to enter the archabbey. But this one’s more efficient than the others. Go ahead, look inside.”
Will leaned over the sarcophagus—the same one Valens had crawled into just moments before. There was no trace of the man.
“Where did he go?”
“To the abbey.”
“But how?”
“Sarcophagal peregrination. He traveled by sarcophagus. When we were your age, my brother Joseph—your grandfather—used to call it the sarcopha-bus.” She giggled. “Every sarcophagus in this museum has a destination point elsewhere. This one terminates at a stone coffin in the abbey’s crypt. So if you need to get to the archabbey in a hurry, use only this one.” She then pointed to the richly sculpted sarcophagus resting on two marbled lions across the room. It was decorated with Grecian figures who seemed to be enjoying an outdoor party. “That one leads to another community out West, at the Getty Villa. You don’t want to go there now. One of these others goes to the Cleveland Museum—or is it the Walters? I can’t remember which.”
“You mean I can use the sarcopha-bus? I can travel in it?”
“That’s the idea. Step in.” He did so. “Lie down. Cross your arms over your chest. Now you’d better either hold your helmet or put the chin strap on. Sarcophagal peregrination can be a bit aggressive, dear.”
“How aggressive?”
“Tornado-like.”
His chin strap in place, palms sweating, Will asked, “What’s next?”
“You have to recite a formula. It’s very simple. Close your eyes. Say it quietly, and brace yourself. Whatever you do, don’t move your arms or legs while you’re in motion. You could lose them.”
“Okay, okay. What’s the formula?”
Aunt Lucille stooped over and whispered, “Morte in vitam—it’s Latin. I’ll be right behind you. So step out quickly once you arrive.”
Will took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and repeated the formula.
“Morte in vitam….”
The floor of the sarcophagus beneath Will suddenly disintegrated. He fell backward, a mighty wind surrounding him. It was as though he were plummeting from the top of the Empire State Building…and yet, strangely, the violent gale supported his weight.
In the darkness, plunging faster and faster through space, Will was needled by an unwelcome sensation. It started as a slight itch, a tingling. Unable to move his hands, he tried to suppress it mentally, tried to distract himself by thinking of something else. He wriggled his lips from side to side. All the while Will hoped its arrival wasn’t a warning as it had been in the past. But there was no holding it back.
This could be a problem, he thought.
AH-CHOO! AH-CHOO! AH-CHOO!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing fiction is like entering an extended dream while trying to capture what is seen and heard. Without the indulgence of four very special people, I might never have had the time to enter Perilous Falls, and her residents would have certainly remained unknown.
Will Wilder was born aside a bathtub. When they were younger, my children would often ask me, during bath time, to tell them stories while they played in the bubbles. One night, Will Wilder and his slapstick, scary adventures came tumbling out of my imagination, and they refused to go back. At the urging of the kids, Will would reappear in installments each evening, usually accompanied by suds. So I first must thank my children, Alexander, Lorenzo, and Mariella, for demanding an original story and for their willingness to hear the Wilder saga in its various iterations over many years. They have made my story (and my life) so very rich. But it was their mother, Rebecca, who allowed me hours and hours of time to commit Will and his wild exploits to the page. Without her sacrifice and loving support, I know I would not have been able to complete this first book in the series, nor plan any of the forthcoming adventures. Dear Rebecca, I love you so.
Many people collaborated with me to bring the Will Wilder series into existence. Their sage counsel inspired me to reshape this work and remake it in ways I never originally intended.
To my publishing family at Random House, what a joy it is to be back home. My editor, Emily Easton, at Crown, with taste and care helped me refine this story in incalculable ways. She is now an honorary citizen of Perilous Falls, and I am so grateful to have gone on this journey with her. To Phoebe Yeh, my publisher at Crown, and Barbara Marcus, president of Random House Children’s Books: you both took Will Wilder under your wings from the start. The love you showed this story and its author will never be forgotten. I am humbled and so thankful to have you as collaborators and to have been the beneficiary of your wisdom and advice. You are simply the best in the business.
I am absolutely thrilled to have Jeff Nentrup’s splendid, action-packed art gracing the cover of this book. For the stellar line drawings that punctuate the text, I am indebted to the very talented Antonio Javier Caparo.
Dominique Cimina and her crack PR team; John Adamo in marketing; Ken Crossland, our designer; and Isabel Warren-Lynch, our art director, all took a personal interest in the series from the very beginning. Your professionalism and devotion to this series showed at every turn. My thanks to each of you.
Outside of Random House, there were others who offered perceptive notes and kind assistance as I shaped the story. They are Diane Reeves, Rachel Abrams, Hannah Sternberg, Marji Ross, and my friend Cheryl Barnes, whose artistic eye helped guide me in many ways.
Then there are the other dear friends and mentors without whom this first book in the Will Wilder series would not exist. My friend Francis “Chip” Flaherty at Walden Media has been devoted to this project for literally years. He encouraged me to rethink my first take on these characters and never failed to provide passionate support and fantastic suggestions. It was he who proposed taking this work to Random House. How right you were, Chip. Thank you for always being there. Ron Hansen, one of our great novelists, offered pointed advice early on that fired my imagination and gr
eatly helped me to expand this story. Joseph Pearce, an accomplished man of letters, also provided critical notes on the manuscript that proved extremely helpful. You all have my deepest gratitude.
For their inspiration, friendship, and support, I must thank William Peter Blatty, Dean Koontz, Jim Caviezel, Anne Rice, Laura Ingraham, Randall Wallace, Christopher Edwards, Umberto Fedeli, Monica and Kevin Fitzgibbons, Joe Looney, Stephen Sheehy, James Faulkner, Cristina Kelly, Peter Gagnon, Lee South (with the mercilessly wonderful editorial eye), Deborah Giarratana, Mary Matalin, Loretta Barrett (my agent of happy memory), Father Gerald Murray for the Latin course, Bill Donahue, Michael Warsaw, Dorinda Bordlee, Corey Frank, Michael Sortino, Doug Keck, Mother Angelica, her nuns, and my parents, Raymond and Lynda Arroyo.
To the librarians, bloggers, and lovers of kids’ lit who carry the stories forward—who storyent our lives, touching souls and shaping the future—we are all in your debt. Finally, I want to thank you for taking the time to read Will’s first adventure and for supporting me for so many years. I can’t wait for you to see where Will goes next….
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RAYMOND ARROYO is a New York Times bestselling author, producer, and lead anchor and managing editor of EWTN News. As the host of The World Over Live he is seen in more than 250 million homes internationally each week. When not visiting Perilous Falls, he can be found at home in Virginia with his wife and three children (none of whom wear pith helmets or steal relics for kicks). You can follow him on Facebook and on Twitter at @RaymondArroyo.
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