Sorcerer's Secret

by Scott Mebus

  “Who is this agreement with?” Rory asked.

  “With the land itself. Think of it as rent that must be paid.”

  “The gods made an agreement with some dirt?” Bridget asked, incredulous.

  “Even the trees and the grass and the mud have a protector,” Mr. Hennesy replied, his eyes pained. “We humans aren’t the only things that matter, after all.”

  Rory’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know so much about all of this, anyway?”

  Mr. Hennessy opened his mouth to speak, but then he spied something in the distance. “Hell Gate!”

  “What?” Bridget asked, craning her head to stare down river. “There’s an actual gate to hell? Awesome!”

  “No, it’s that stretch of water up ahead between Wards Island and Queens, where the Harlem River and the East River meet. It’s an extremely dangerous passage—thousands of ships have been sunk trying to sail through. If you try to make the passage at the wrong time, the rapids will toss you around like a toy. We need to skirt around it to land in Queens. Hopefully we won’t get too close.”

  Rory could see the turbulent waters now, with swirling whirlpools and angry whitecaps churning in the distance. Mr. Hennessy began to look worried, pulling hard on the tiller to guide the little boat away from the rapids, but they only floated nearer and nearer to the rough water.

  “So the tides are not in our favor,” he admitted, his voice tight. “It’s all right. I’ll hold her steady and we’ll slip around the edge. I just wish we had a bigger boat.” He struggled to hold the tiller still as the turbulent water pulled at them. Suddenly he cried out as the tiller slipped from his hands and the boat swung around crazily, heading directly for the rapids. Rory lunged for the tiller, pushing it back toward his dad, and together they struggled to hold it on course.

  “I think we’re going to make it!” Mr. Hennessy cried. And for a moment Rory believed him. But then the unthinkable happened—the tiller snapped in two.

  The boat spun out of control, sending its passengers flying to the floor. Rory looked down at the broken piece of wood in his hands—he noticed that the base of the handle was riddled with bullet holes. The bullets must have chopped off half the tiller, so it didn’t need much more than a push to snap in half.

  “Hold on to the boat!” his dad screamed as the sounds of the rushing water grew louder. “No matter what you do, don’t let go!”

  And with that, the waters swept them into Hell Gate.

  Rory clung desperately to the side of the boat as the rapids spun them around like the teacup ride at Disney World. The screams of his fellow shipmates mixed with the pounding roar of the rapids as they all struggled to hold on. Water gushed over the edge of the boat, dousing them in salty spray until they were soaked to the bone. They were at the complete mercy of the waves as they were swept farther into the bowels of Hell Gate.

  A large rock suddenly loomed ahead of them, directly in their path. Rory barely had time to scream before the rapids rammed them, sideways, into the jutting stone. Miraculously, the boat’s frame held, but the mast didn’t fare so well—it splintered on impact.

  “Quick, cut the lines or we’ll capsize!” his dad cried as the mast began to fall over the side, tipping the little boat. Soka pulled out a knife from her tunic and handed it to Rory before pulling out a second one for herself. Together they sawed frantically at the lines while Bridget hacked at the ropes nearest her with her sword, Buttkicker 2. The mast was quickly swept away once it touched the roaring waters, and soon the lines started to run out. The boat began to dip, still attached by one last rope. Rory had visions of the small sailboat capsizing, trapping them under the waves, where the turbulent current would pull them down to the river bottom to lie forever among all those broken ships. But his dad finally managed to crawl over and cut the last line, freeing the ship from the mast, which had been completely swallowed by the rapids. Rory sighed, but the close calls weren’t over yet.

  As the rapids tossed them around, they slammed into another rock. Water began to leak into the boat as the sides were breached, and Rory couldn’t see how they’d survive. But finally his dad was able to grab hold of the stub of a tiller. He pulled it around with both hands as he tried to guide them past the rest of the rocks and through the rapids. Suddenly they seemed to be hitting fewer rocks. Over and over they seemed to be rushing toward destruction only to have Mr. Hennessy somehow nudge the boat just enough to get them through. For the first time, Rory was actually impressed by his dad. And then, finally, after one last violent dip and spin, they sprang free of the rapids, bursting out the other side of Hell Gate into the calmer waters of the upper reaches of the East River.

  Mr. Hennessy, by now knee-deep in the water that was slowly filling the boat, collapsed back as the boat drifted toward the far shore. Rory was so exhausted he couldn’t even remember what they had been talking about before their brush with death. He just lay against the side of the boat as it floated onward to Queens.

  7

  THE ROYAL STEED

  Nicholas sat in the back of the council room, trying not to worry. As Alexa finished her report on DeLancey’s Cowboys’ running amok in the Bronx, which duplicated reports from other boroughs, the shell-shocked looks in the faces of the councillors did not inspire confidence. Even his bulldozer of a father seemed uncertain. Nicholas caught Alexa’s eye and she shook her head; she could see it, too.

  “They look like a bunch of kicked dogs,” Lincoln muttered to Nicholas. “They’re gods, for goodness’ sake. You’d think they’d be a little less wussy.”

  “They’re used to petty little struggles among themselves,” Nicholas whispered back. “But half of Mannahatta has followed Kieft to Roosevelt Island. This war will be bigger than even the old battles with the Munsees. So no matter what, they’re looking at the end of something. And no god wants to see anything end.”

  “Spirits are rising up on our side as well, don’t forget!” Whitman was saying, his characteristic exclamation points ringing out. “And there are many, the silent majority you could call them, who are simply hiding, hoping everything turns out all right. When the real struggle begins, they will join our side!”

  “Not when they see these,” Peter Stuyvesant said, nodding toward the door. One of his farmhands, Diedrich, strode into the room, dropping three knives into the middle of the council table with a clatter. Nicholas’s heart sank as he recognized the evil metal blades—he’d almost been sliced open by one such weapon not long ago. The councillors’ faces turned ashen.

  “Where did he get these?” Hamilton asked, his voice shaking.

  “We pulled them off a group of mobster spirits that were cavorting downtown,” Peter said. “Thankfully, they were too drunk to put up much of a fight.”

  “But I thought there was only one knife and we still have it!” Babe Ruth announced, his round face confused.

  “Well, darling, someone has managed to make a couple more,” Mrs. Parker said drily.

  “Are we sure these are really god-killing knives?” James Bennett asked.

  “More certain than I would ever want to be,” Peter replied. “The mobsters were boasting about a murder they’d committed earlier that day. I pulled a locket off of them, myself. I destroyed it, of course; we’re lucky no one thinks to put the lockets on. At least not yet. But it’s coming if we don’t do something soon.”

  “Three valuable knives given to a couple of small-time crooks?” Mrs. Parker mused. “What is Kieft doing?”

  “He’s making certain that chaos reigns,” Hamilton said. “He must be passing these out to every spirit who wants one. The fear alone will drive people to his side.”

  “But he could destroy Mannahatta forever!” Whitman said. “Why would he want that?”

  The councillors erupted in frightened chatter as they tried to come up with some reason for this wanton destruction. Nicholas felt his spirits sag. He’d been trying to find the one who would inspire them. He’d thought he might have found him among t
he Munsees, but Buckongahelas had no desire to lead any gods into battle. Then he’d hoped he discover the leader among the council members. But as he glanced around the roomful of frightened councillors, he knew that wouldn’t be happening, either. He’d have to continue his search. His eyes rested on the evil knives in the center of the table. He’d better find this guy soon. Because time was running out.

  Rory, Bridget, their father, and Soka landed in an industrial yard in the north of Queens, the boat coasting onto shore just before it could sink completely. Simon was waiting for them, grinning.

  “Nice ride,” he said impishly as he kicked at the ruined boat. He glanced over at Peter Hennessy. “Where did he come from?”

  “He showed up to help us!” Bridget exclaimed proudly, and Rory shook his head at the pride in her voice. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they would both soon be disappointed by their old man. Simon shook Mr. Hennessy’s hand warmly, however, and welcomed him to the hunt.

  Simon led them to a group of horses he had tethered to a warehouse door. Heavy bags hung from one horse, and when the stallion shifted, Rory thought he heard the sound of china clinking. Simon was now the God of the Good China, and he couldn’t go anywhere without his crockery. The new god untethered their steeds, helping Rory up behind him as Mr. Hennessy and Bridget shared a horse, his sister chatting away excitedly to her father the whole time. Soka took the third horse, looking lonely. Rory caught her eye, but she glanced away; he guessed she was still mad about his stunt at the lighthouse. Even though it had probably saved her from gambling away something important to her. It made no sense to him. He didn’t care, he told himself, so emphatically that he almost believed it.

  “So, where to?” Simon asked.

  “The Fortune Teller told Rory to look in the belly of the royal steed,” Soka said. “So I gather we’re looking for a horse of some kind.”

  “But there aren’t any kings in Queens!” Bridget exclaimed, then giggled at what she’d just said.

  “Maybe a breed of horse?” Simon conjectured. “Royal horses?”

  Mr. Hennessy suddenly snapped his fingers. “There is one king in Queens, you know. Rufus King.”

  Simon slapped his forehead. “Of course!”

  “Who’s Rufus King?” Rory asked.

  “He was a bigwig during the Revolution,” Simon explained. “Helped write the Constitution and I think he was a senator for a while. But beyond that, the guy never won at anything. He ran for governor, he ran for vice president, he ran for president, and he never won! He had the worst luck. That’s why he’s the God of Also-Rans.”

  “He was a pretty bad gambler, too, as I remember,” Mr. Hennessy added. “He couldn’t come in first at anything. Not the guy you want betting on you to win.”

  “Well, he’s probably betting on someone right now, ’cause today is racing day, and he never misses racing day.” Simon’s face brightened. “I love racing day!”

  “What’s racing day?” Bridget asked.

  “You’ll see,” Simon told her cryptically. “Come on. We’ve got some ground to cover if we want to beat the starting gun!” He flipped his reins and soon they were galloping away from the river and into the heart of Queens. And what a ride it was!

  Back and forth they rode from the mortal world to the spirit world of Queens, weaving in and out of the past. They galloped from the crowded present-day city streets to tranquil open farms with wheat swaying in the fields, through bustling nineteenth-century open-air markets, where peddlers cried their wares while pulling heavily laden pushcarts, and down shadowy back alleys lined with what appeared to be opium dens, with dangerously fragrant smoke drifting from the dark doorways. On and on Rory and his companions rode, threading in and out of the rich tapestry of history, until finally they emerged into a festive sight.

  A huge crowd of spirits and gods milled about an open fairgrounds, filling a large grandstand decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. More spirits lined a long dirt road that stretched into the distance. A brass band played old marching songs while vendors selling peanuts and hot dogs worked the crowd. Simon slowed his horse, leading them over to a hitching post behind the stands.

  “What is all this?” Rory asked, gazing around.

  “The greatest sporting event ever devised by mankind!” Simon enthused, his eyes bright. “The Vanderbilt Cup Race!”

  “What do they race, exactly?” Rory asked. “Horses?” Simon gave him an incredulous look.

  “Are you joking? Do those look like horses to you?” He pointed across the crowd of people to a cleared-out area on the other side of the track, where Rory saw a group of funny looking machines.

  “Are those go-karts or something?” he asked doubtfully. Simon narrowed his eyes, not pleased with Rory’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “Those are cars!” he exclaimed. “The greatest cars ever made.”

  Rory wasn’t so sure about that. They certainly didn’t look like any cars he’d ever seen. Their chassis were long, rickety, metal cigars with the back third scooped for a riding bench and steering wheel. Each unwieldy body rested on tall, thin, fragile wheels, which resembled bicycle tires. Smoke billowed out from under many of their long hoods. Rory had seen faster-looking vehicles in the Boy Scouts’ pinewood derby, where none of the cars were bigger than his hand. But Simon was fanatical in his enthusiasm.

  “The Vanderbilt Cup Race was the first—and the greatest—race in the history of racing! Starting in 1904, they invited all the greatest racers in the world to compete. Chevrolet! Mercedes ! Fiat! Hotchkiss! They all started here!”

  “That’s what cars were like in 1904?” Bridget asked, looking askance at the smoky vehicles. “How did anyone live to see 1905?”

  “They’re built for speed, not beauty,” Simon answered, peeved that no one shared his enthusiasm. “Anyway, the race was shut down after a few years because too many spectators died. Hey, they knew what they were getting into when they lined the track, that’s what I say! But the race lives on here, and instead of once a year, it’s every week!”

  “Have you ever raced in it?” Rory asked. Simon looked away, his face pained.

  “No,” he said. “You have to either be a god or be sponsored by one. And no one would sponsor me. I even built a car of my own–” He cut off, as if he had said too much. “Anyway, I’ve always wanted to race, if only to show that stupid Willy Vanderbilt that I’m better than he is! ’Cause I am!”

  “Are you sure Rufus is here?” Mr. Hennessy asked, putting the focus back on their mission.

  “Of course,” Simon answered, hopping down off his horse. “I told you, he never misses a race. Come on.”

  The others dismounted, following Simon into the crowd. Rory began to feel a bit uncomfortable surrounded by so many gods. Mortals were not meant to be around so much concentrated divinity. But he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

  “There he is!” Simon shouted, pointing. They pushed their way past the excited spirits, making a beeline for a fat, balding man who was gesturing wildly at another man holding a small pistol. Simon stepped up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Rufus? Busy?”

  “Of course I’m busy!” Rufus King shouted back without turning. “I’m trying to prevent that damned Vanderbilt menace from racing in my car! He’ll probably crash it! It doesn’t belong to him!”

  “But he won it from you fair and square at the last race,” the man with the starter pistol explained, his weary voice betraying his impatience. “You know the rules: the winner of the race gets to take the car of one of the losers. He chose yours. If you want it, you’ll have to win it back. You have another car, right? You lose every race, after all, and you never seem to run out of cars.”

  “Number fourteen wasn’t supposed to be in the last race!” Rufus yelled. “She’s never supposed to be in any race! I’m saving her for my victory parade once I win the Cup! But my latest driver grabbed the wrong car and it cost me my baby! She is my pride and joy! My steed! She belo
ngs to me!” Rory exchanged an excited glance with his friends at the mention of the word steed. He pushed forward.

  “Sir, this number fourteen car is your steed? Can we see it?”

  “Who are you?” Rufus said, noticing him. “Of course you can’t see it. It’s mine! Or it will be, again. Hey, come back here!” This last exclamation was directed at the man with the starter pistol, who’d seized Rufus’s momentary distraction to make himself scarce. “Now you did it! He got away!”

  “Rufus, we need to talk to you,” Simon said.

  “Young Simon Astor,” Rufus exclaimed, noticing the Rattle Watcher for the first time. “Come to ask me to sponsor you again? I may have fired my driver and lost my best car, but I’m not that desperate.”

  “We’re not here to race, sir,” Rory said. “We just need to look in your car.”

  “Who are you people?” Rufus asked, confused. He blinked, looking closer at Soka. “Aren’t you a Munsee, girl?”

  “Just talk to us for one moment under the grandstand,” Simon said. “We’ll explain everything.”

  Rufus agreed to follow them as they pushed their way through the crowd. Rory was becoming more and more uncomfortable, sweating under the power of all these gods of Queens. Bridget looked fine, however. She must be protected by her paper body, he surmised. If only he were so lucky.

  As they pushed past a small group of gods, Rory overheard one of them talking in low tones. “The Munsees are the true menace. They’ve been killing gods all over Mannahatta. It’s only a matter of time before they come to Queens. We need to make a stand now. You bunch have the blood to cross the river. Are you with me, fellas? Or will you let them slaughter our families in their sleep?” Rory burned to hear these lies. He ran up to Simon, who was walking by Rufus.

  “There’s a guy back there lying about the Munsees,” he whispered, pointing. Rufus overheard and grimaced.

  “That’s Robert Moses, one of Kieft’s men. He’s been recruiting all over the borough. I don’t believe much of what he says, but others do. I’m a staunch supporter of the Munsees, myself. They have as much right to live their lives as anyone, I figure. Well, here we are under the grandstand. What do you want to tell me?”