The Crown of the Bandit King

by Matti Lena Harris

  “How do we stop him?” I asked. “Do you have a plan?”

  A knock on the Professor’s door made Sweet Pea, Deeter and me jump.

  “Excellent.” The Professor glanced at his wristwatch. “That, my young friends, is our plan knocking right now. His timing is always impeccable. Of course, he doesn’t have to knock. Doesn’t even need to use the door, come to think of it. He’s only being polite. Come in!”

  The door opened, and a man poked his head into the room. His face was bearded but young, with eyes so blue I could see them even at a distance. On his head, he wore a brown top hat, which he removed when he entered the study.

  “You sent for me, Professor?” The man showed us an addressed envelope. “I received your letter while I was in London on June 5, 1844, at noon precisely! Remarkable. You truly are an Artisan of impressive skill. Sometime you must tell me how you did it.”

  “I’d be delighted to, old friend, but right now we have a very grave matter at hand, or else I wouldn’t have interrupted your travels.”

  The man made a slight gesture with his right hand, and then he was standing next to us by the desk. Poof. Just like that. When it happened, Sweet Pea gasped, and Deeter seemed ready to duck and hide behind a stack of books. The man gave me a polite nod while the Professor stepped forward to greet him.

  “I can’t thank you enough for coming,” the Professor said, shaking the man’s hand with both of his own. “I know you dislike getting involved in these sorts of affairs, but the Historian is off interviewing George Washington at the moment, and I’ve been unable to reach her. We need your help.”

  After that, the Professor drew the man aside and spoke with him in low tones, filling him in on what had happened with the Bronze Crown.

  “He’s our plan? Who is he?” Deeter asked. “And why is he dressed so funny?”

  Not exactly funny. Out of place was more like it. He wore a tan wool suit with a gray silk inner vest and a strange, high stiff collar. Around his neck, a blue silk scarf was tied in a kind of bow tie. And there was his strange hat, of course. He kept fiddling with it in his hands.

  “It’s just old clothes,” Sweet Pea said. “You know, from another time in history. And I like them. He must be one of the time travelers.”

  “Time travelers?” I asked.

  “Not all of the Artisans are bound to our modern age. A few of them have the power to go anywhere in history.”

  “The future too?”

  “I guess. I mean, everyone’s past is someone else’s future, right?”

  “Er, sure. I guess.”

  Right when I thought the Artisans couldn’t get any weirder. A time traveler? Seriously? I stared at the man for a moment, but he must have noticed because his gaze shifted and met mine. I looked away.

  “Neither of you know who he is?” I asked. “Or what he’s doing here?”

  Deeter and Sweet Pea shrugged as the Professor and the man approached us at the Professor’s desk.

  “Excellent,” the Professor said. “We’re agreed. Are you ready to go?”

  Why were they looking at me as if they expected me to answer?

  “Um, go where?” I asked.

  The Professor sighed. “See what happens when I get distracted? I haven’t even introduced you yet. This man is my good friend and fellow Artisan, the Hitchhiker.”

  The Hitchhiker shook hands, first with Sweet Pea and then with Deeter.

  “Delighted, delighted,” he said.

  Then, he turned to me. But instead of offering his hand, he only winked.

  “Ah, the great and daring Ragman’s Rook! I’ve heard so much about your accomplishments. Trust me when I say it’s quite an honor to meet you!”

  What was that supposed to mean? He’d heard about me? Was he talking about the fiasco with the library fire? Why would that make it an honor to know me? Unless he had a grudge against the Librarian. Or unless he was messing with my head. Or both. Or neither, actually. Talk about confusing.

  The Professor sure had some weird friends.

  “He’s agreed to escort you,” the Professor said. “He can only carry one of you, though, I’m afraid.”

  “Only one?” Sweet Pea asked while the three of us exchanged looks.

  “Yes,” the Hitchhiker said. “If it were a normal trip, I’d have no trouble bringing you all, but this trip will be a touch more difficult. It involves light, gravity, complicated forces.”

  “A trip where, exactly?” I asked.

  “Back in time,” the Professor said, “to speak with the only person who can help us now—the Bandit King himself. He’s the only one who can tell us more about the crown’s weakness, and until we know how to take advantage of that weakness, we’re powerless to stop the Actor.”

  “But Professor, how do we even know the Bandit King will help us?” I asked.

  “His love letters.”

  “Love letters?”

  “Oh, yes. Everyone’s been trying to recover The Book of All Words because they wanted to use it to read Ketter’s journal. But I found that the book showed something even more valuable—the love letters he wrote to Rose Sullivan. And they revealed a very interesting fact. He never stopped writing her, not even after she was deceased. Every Sunday of every week until the day he died.”

  “Why would he do that?” Deeter asked. “Especially if she was dead?”

  “Ah, why indeed! When you are able to answer that, you’ll know why I think he’ll help us.”

  The Hitchhiker offered me his hand. “Are you ready to go, Rook?”

  This was the second time he’d called me Rook. Why did he keep calling me that?

  “That’s not my name,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Was I sure? Was he joking? But then again, since I didn’t know what my name was, Rook was a possibility. But come on. Who names their kid Rook?

  “Pretty sure,” I said.

  “Hmm.” He gazed at me for a moment. “A not-yet name, perhaps.”

  What was that supposed to mean? A not-yet name?

  “I don’t really have a name,” I said. “I mean, I do, but I don’t remember it. Everyone just calls me Rookie.”

  “Ah, Rookie,” the Hitchhiker said. “Yes, of course. This moment is earlier in your timeline. I should have known.”

  He had this vague twinkle in his eyes, like the kind that comes when a person knows something you don’t. But it was probably like that with every Artisan. They all knew more than I did. In fact, everyone knew more than I did.

  I should’ve been used to it by now.

  “One moment,” the Professor said. “Before you go, do you still have the Magic Eight Ball, young scholar?”

  “Yeah. In my backpack.”

  “May I borrow it for a while? I think it might help us.”

  The Magic Eight Ball, helpful? Yeah, right. But maybe the Professor could get it to work. If anyone knew the right questions to ask, it’d probably be him. I fetched the Magic Eight Ball from my backpack and handed it to him.

  Deeter took a step forward. “Hey. Wait a minute. How come he gets to go? Why not me? Or Sweet Pea?”

  “That’s simple enough,” the Professor said. “While those two are away, I need you and Sweet Pea to use your Finder’s instincts to help me locate the Oratorium.”

  “The ora-what?” Deeter asked.

  “The Oratorium, the Actor’s own private theater. Now that he has the crown, he’ll have gone into hiding there. Once, the Oratorium could be reached by using the Artisans’ Stairwell, but the Actor has sealed off that entrance. If we’re to find the Actor and take back the crown, then we’ll need to find another way in.”

  Deeter and Sweet Pea both nodded, and then Deeter punched me in the arm.

  “Good luck, Rookie,” he said.

  “You too.”

  From her pocket, Sweet Pea pulled out the Swan Feather.

  “Here, you should take this,” she said.

  “I can’t. I mean, that’s your m
agic feather,” I said. “What if you need it?”

  “If you’re going to meet the Bandit King, then you should have it for protection. Just hold it by the tip, not the feathery part, and don’t use it unless you have to.”

  “No way. I can handle the Bandit King. What if you run into the Actor?”

  “We’re only searching for the entrance to the Actor’s hideout. We’re not looking for him. And the Professor’s going with us. We’ll be fine. You’re the one who’ll need it.”

  “Sweet Pea, I’m not taking your Collectible. End of conversation.”

  She scowled at me, so I scowled right back. We stood so close to each other that I could hear her soft breaths. For a minute, I thought she might hit me—she had her hand clenched in a fist like she would.

  “Rookie, you’re so stubborn you drive me crazy! Fine. Don’t take the Swan Feather. Just come back in one piece, okay?”

  “You too,” I said.

  She suddenly wrapped her arms around me and gave me a big hug. It took me by surprise. Not that I was going to complain or anything. Deeter giggled at us, but we ignored him. Then Sweet Pea stood by the Professor, and the Hitchhiker held out his hand to me.

  “Ready?” he asked. “Good. Then take my left hand with your own, and extend your right hand.”

  My stomach was flipping somersaults again. Probably nerves. I grasped the Hitchhiker’s hand, and the moment I did, a strange buzzing started in my head.

  “Now,” he continued, “make your right hand into a fist, with your right thumb sticking out.”

  I did as he said, and he nodded. Then he put his hat back on his head and extended his own right hand.

  “Hold on tight,” he said. “And take a deep breath. You’ll need it.”

  I was about to ask him what he meant, but before I could form the words, he stuck out his thumb like he was hitching for a ride.

  And then, I knew exactly what he meant.

  Chapter 27

  The Bandit King

  No up. No down. No colors, but no black or white either. Only movement, both fast and slow. And worst of all?

  No air.

  Now the sensation of rising. Or were we falling? Like traveling on the track of a roller coaster. And I was riding it blindfolded underwater. The only constant was the Hitchhiker’s grip on my hand, but what would happen to me if he let go?

  Would I die?

  All those books and movies about time traveling—they made it sound like a fun vacation adventure. Snap a few selfies at the battle of Troy, then zip back home again in time for dinner. What a joke. This was a nightmare. I couldn’t survive like this much longer. I had to breathe.

  I tried to tug at the Hitchhiker’s hand to give him a signal that I needed help. But his grip seemed to be loosening. He was letting me go. My heart pounding, I grasped his hand harder, and then I realized it was me—I was the one letting go. I couldn’t help it. My strength was gone. And the part of me that was actually me, it was fading.

  I was fading.

  A voice, but not a voice. Echoing among whatever remained of my broken thoughts.

  Hold on, Rook. Just hold on.

  Then, we stopped.

  There was light again, dim at first, but growing brighter until it became faint colors, like those of an old photograph. I doubled over, gasping for breath. The air that filled my lungs was hot, dry, and dusty. I blinked a few times to make sense of my surroundings.

  “That trip was more difficult than I thought it would be,” the Hitchhiker said. “I apologize for the rough journey. It’s a good thing you were my only companion. Keeping you alive and in one piece was tricky enough.”

  “Um, thanks,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how tricky it’d really been. In some ways, I could imagine death feeling just like I’d felt. Hard to believe the Hitchhiker actually liked traveling through time. Me, I was already dreading the trip back home again.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  The colors of the world finally started to look normal again. We were standing at the edge of a splintered picket fence. Some distance past the fence’s borders stood a ramshackle two-story house that tilted leftward like gravity was trying to make friends with it. Besides the house, there wasn’t much else to see. Just dry grass, red dirt, and a few snagged tumbleweeds.

  “We’re in Arizona, 1945,” the Hitchhiker said. “Miles from any town.”

  “Is anyone here? This place looks deserted.”

  “Looks don’t count for much. That house is the Bandit King’s long-time hideout. We’ll need to be careful. We’re not expected, which often leads to trouble. Oh, I recommend you use extreme caution when reaching into your left coat pocket.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Your friend slipped the Swan Feather into your pocket when she hugged you. She’s very clever, isn’t she? I was impressed.”

  Sweet Pea didn’t. How could she have? I checked my pocket.

  The Swan Feather was tucked neatly inside.

  Tricked. How did I fall for that so easily? When we got back, I was going to use the feather on her. Whatever the feather’s magic did, she deserved it.

  “She cares about you considerably, I think,” the Hitchhiker added.

  “She’s going to be okay, isn’t she? Without her feather…she won’t need it, right? I mean, you’re a time traveler. You know the future, don’t you?”

  “I know you care about her considerably too, which means you’ll do whatever it takes to ensure her safety. She’ll be just fine.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I was asking. But digging for more details probably wouldn’t get me any answers. Especially since I could feel my cheeks turning hot and red. Definitely best to settle for the vague answer I got and drop the subject.

  The Hitchhiker motioned at the house. “Let’s go see who’s home.”

  We walked along the picket fence until we finally reached a gate. It was hanging half off its hinges, but somehow the Hitchhiker managed to pry it open. The path beyond led to a garden of dead rosebushes, their brown branches tangled and their thorns sticking out like fangs. In the center of the garden stood a white marble fountain with a huge crack running along its dry, empty basin.

  The Hitchhiker traced his finger along the fountain’s rim. “This garden could use a little water.”

  “I can’t imagine the Bandit King is much of a gardener,” I said.

  “Ah, and yet, there are roses.”

  “Dead roses.”

  “Indeed. Everything dies in the end.”

  This Hitchhiker was a cheery guy.

  Finally, we reached the house. It had been white once, but now the paint was peeling. Just like an old snake shrugging off a layer of skin. The house’s wooden boards were shrunken and cracked, and everything in sight was the color of dishwater.

  “Not exactly what I expected a hideout to look like,” I said.

  The Hitchhiker sighed. “The white picket fence, the roses…it’s a dream that should have been, but never was. Broken dreams are always dangerous. We’d best knock first.”

  Then he crept up the creaking front porch steps and rapped on the door with his knuckles three times. We waited, but the only noise was a scratching made by the porch swing. One end of the swing was still attached by its chain while the other dangled against the floorboards, scrapping them as the hot breeze pushed it.

  There was no answer at the door, no sounds inside.

  “Well,” the Hitchhiker said, “it seems we have no other choice but to invite ourselves in. Wait right here a moment, if you don’t mind.”

  He made that same gesture I’d seen him make in the Professor’s study, only now I recognized it. He was holding out his thumb again, and then I was standing alone on the porch. After a few minutes, I tried peering through the house’s front windows, but the dingy curtains were drawn tight, so I went back to stand in front of the door. The Hitchhiker had been gone for a long time.

  He wouldn’t abandon me here in
1945, would he?

  The door’s locks began to unbolt from the inside—I counted at least five of them before all the clicks and clanks stopped. Finally, the door swung open, and the Hitchhiker stuck his head outside.

  “Apologies for the delay,” he said. “I ran into a complication.”

  “A complication?”

  “In truth, several. The whole downstairs was rigged with booby traps. Barbed wire, broken glass. Rudimentary types, but still capable of inflicting harm. The entire front yard was filled with them too, and that took some time to clear as well. I hope you weren’t waiting long?”

  “Um, not really. But, what do you mean the front yard was full of them? We just walked through it, and there wasn’t a single one.”

  “That’s because I popped back in time and removed them before we arrived.” He winked at me. “Tricky, aren’t I?”

  “Can you really do that?”

  “Well, there are some limitations….” The Hitchhiker opened the door wide enough for me to pass through. “Rules, regulations and so on, but for a smallish thing like the booby traps? Yes. I can. Shall we seek out our ungracious host?”

  I entered the house, and the Hitchhiker closed the door quietly behind me.

  “I can’t imagine that the Bandit King will be too pleased to see us,” the Hitchhiker said, “judging from the booby traps. I’ve searched the downstairs, but it’s quite abandoned. I think we’d best search upstairs now.”

  “Right,” I said.

  Good thing we didn’t have to spend too much time downstairs. The mess in this place made the Ragman’s house seem like a nice, upscale hotel in comparison. Every downstairs window had been boarded up from the inside, and the wallpaper—a dingy rose print—was peeling off the walls in huge sheets.

  The Hitchhiker touched one of the loose, wrinkled edges and frowned.

  “Such a pity,” he said.

  To the right of the entryway was a sitting room with a couple of ragged armchairs in front of a rusted pot bellied stove. Cobwebs draped from the light fixtures to the furniture. Probably even the spiders were dusty. I tried to imagine the Bandit King sipping tea with guests there.