Sorcerer's Secret (40 page)

Looking around, he spied Babe Ruth smacking people on the head with his baseball bat and then standing still for a moment, admiring his shot. War was crazy, Lincoln decided. A horse trotted in front of him, bearing Roosevelt, who seemed unafraid of the battle raging around him. Lincoln wished he could be like him. So brave and proud and courageous. Roosevelt's very presence seemed to lift the soldiers' spirits.

Suddenly Roosevelt flinched, falling back off his horse. Lincoln ran to his side, horrified to see a bullet hole in the god's chest. “Sir, are you all right?”

“Damned sharpshooters!” Roosevelt coughed. He pointed to a hill, where Lincoln could see men training their guns on the battling armies. “I will go show them the back of my hand!” He coughed.

“You're in no shape to go back into battle, sir,” Lincoln told him.

“Nonsense! I'm a god! This is but a scratch!”

“You may be a god, but you're still wounded,” Lincoln said. He turned to a nearby World War II soldier. “Excuse me, could you take him to the nuns?” The soldier helped Roosevelt to his feet, ready to take him to the medics. Lincoln glanced around. His comrades seemed to have lost some of their spark. He realized that the sight of Roosevelt being shot down must have shaken them. They couldn't lose their focus! He wouldn't let them. He turned back to Roosevelt. “Give me your hat! And your jacket! And your monocle! We need Teddy Roosevelt, and I'm gonna give them Teddy Roosevelt.”

“I hate to tell you this, son,” Roosevelt wheezed. “But you're black!”

“Details!” Lincoln scoffed, donning Roosevelt's clothing and climbing into the saddle, his sword raised high. “Tallyho!” he yelled, and the soldiers around him raised their swords in return, glad to see their leader was all right. He flicked the reins, guiding the horse through the battlefield, trying to look general-esque, while, inside, he was just praying he didn't get a bullet in the chest.

T
he sharpshooter reloaded his gun, calmly placing the bullets in the chamber one by one. In his mortal life, he had spent about a week in Europe during World War II before deciding that life was better back home, where he wasn't getting shot at. He'd promptly deserted, sneaking back to New York. He spent the next year drinking away his shame at local bars before getting run down in the street one drunken evening by a passing taxi.

It wasn't until the call went out for shooters that he discovered that it wasn't the battle that bothered him. It was being in the middle of the battle. He was perfectly happy sitting up on this hill, out of harm's way, taking shots at poor saps all the way across the field. He lined up his rifle, sighting some idiot dressed up in a ridiculous Teddy Roosevelt outfit, trying to rally his troops from the back of a horse that was far too big for him. Sorry guy, he thought as he started to squeeze the trigger. Better you than me.

Suddenly something dropped directly onto his face. He fell backward, screaming as he realized that a giant cockroach was clinging to his chin.

“Looks like your shooting days are over,” the roach said. The shooter could see his fellow gunmen being overrun by battle roaches, led by a girl roach with no helmet who was riding a sleek rat. She shouted at the roach on his face.

“Sergeant Kiffer! Stop messing around and take him out!”

“Yes, ma'am!” the giant roach yelled. It slammed its insect head into the shooter's forehead, and the man swiftly lost consciousness, leaving yet another battle to be fought on without him.

W
illiam Randolph Hearst sat under the trees, watching the battle with glee in his eyes. The smoke from the muskets and cannons stung his eyes, but he didn't mind. Every bullet that found a home was a headline, each fallen spirit a heartrending story. His newspaper fed on spilled blood and lost lives, and the next edition was going to be a fat one indeed.

He watched Kieft's sharpshooters being overrun by battle roaches, but felt no alarm. Victory, defeat, neither really mattered to him. He followed Kieft because Kieft promised war, but now that war was a reality, he needed no one. Swords rang and bodies fell and Hearst watched it all, writing the evening edition in his head.

He was so engrossed in the drama that he never noticed the gang boy creeping up behind him with knife drawn. The boy was a Dead Rabbit, but he wanted to be so much more. Like Hearst, he didn't care who won or lost the battle. He only wanted the spoils.

With a flash of metal, Hearst fell to the dirt, his last headline destined to remain unwritten. The gang boy grabbed the fallen god's locket and ran, leaving Hearst bleeding in the dust. His obituary better make the front page, Hearst thought. And then he was gone.

T
he battle raged on, in wave after wave of attack and counterattack. Kieft watched it all—his army gaining ground, the enemy army fighting back, blood spilling all the while—and he threw back his head and laughed and laughed.

P
eter Minuit's body wasn't the lightest in the world, but together, Rory and his father managed to carry it across the beach to the stone wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Rory spied Bridget hobbling along, half of her foot missing. Hex trotted up to her, holding out a piece of torn papier-mâché.

“This was on the beach by the water,” Hex said. “I believe it belongs to you.”

“Not anymore,” Bridget said sourly. “It's been torn off.”

“Allow me.” Hex knelt down like a clerk in a shoestore. He mumbled some words as he placed the piece of papier-mâché onto Bridget's foot as if he were Prince Charming fitting Cinderella with her glass slipper. When he finished, her foot was whole again.

“Wow,” she said, admiring the restoration. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Hex replied. “I used to do that for Toy when he had accidents.”

Bridget's face went cold. “You know Jason died last week, right? He gave his life to help Rory free the Munsees.”

“I heard that, yes,” Hex said, looking away.

“You treated him like a servant. You even called him Toy! He was your son!”

“He wasn't my son,” Hex said, still not looking at her. “I found him when he was a baby, and I recognized his gifts. So I adopted him.”

“Stole him, you mean,” Fritz cut in, riding up.

“I saved him,” Hex insisted. “He would have been taken like all the other Lights if it weren't for me. I treated him like my own.”

“If that's how you treat your own, then I'm glad you never had any real kids!” Bridget scolded him.

“I don't think anyone here is an advertisement for perfect fathers,” Hex replied, glancing at Mr. Hennessy.

They approached a cave mouth right in the middle of the wall. Fritz rode up to it, turning back to them to say with exasperation in his voice, “Why didn't we just run over here in the first place? That great beast would never have gotten to us in here!”

“It wasn't there earlier,” Mr. Hennessy replied, his voice tired. “Believe me, I've been down here before, and that cave has never appeared until after the alligator is sated.”

“Why did you come down to this place the first time?” Rory asked, puffing from carrying Minuit's body.

“It's a long story,” Mr. Hennessy said. “Longer than the time it takes to get to where we're going.”

“You and your secrets,” Rory said, anger welling up. “I don't know who you are, what you are, I don't even know your real name!”

“It's Henry,” his dad said. “Like you read in Adriaen's journal. That was my real name.”

“Oh,” Rory replied, taken aback. “Nice to finally meet you, Henry.”

“Don't be sarcastic, it doesn't suit you,” Henry told him. Rory opened his mouth to retort, but he heard his sister giggling at their father's words and he decided to let it go.

They passed into the cave, which soon led to a long, dimly lit passage. Hex's ball of light danced back and forth as they walked in silence. Something was about to happen, they all knew it, and the weight of that knowledge made talk seem unnecessary.

They finally approached a light at the end of the tunnel and emerged into a beautiful garden, the very garden Adriaen had described in his journal, Rory guessed. The garden stretched off into the distance, with huge plants and trees growing in lush abundance. The air was warm, like the inside of the jungle house at the zoo. Gazing up, Rory couldn't even see the ceiling. Warm, sweet light poured down over everything like golden honey. Just a breath of the air loosened Rory's back, easing his worries. But even though the sweet smells and soothing light calmed him, he did not feel comfortable. He could sense that he was not really welcome in this garden—no mortals were. It was not their place.

They walked a little ways into the garden until they reached a small clearing inside a circle of tall palm trees. They gently placed Peter Minuit's body on the ground and looked around.

“Now what?” Fritz asked.

“Now we wait,” Henry replied.

“Wait for what?” Hex asked.

“For her,” Henry said, nodding behind them. They spun around and Rory felt his heart jump.

“Mom?” Bridget whispered at his side. And it was their mother who was emerging from the trees in a long white dress, barefoot and smiling. Even as Rory's heart was aching at the sight of his mother, he could hear his father sighing.

“This is not fair,” Henry said.

“I wear the shapes required of me,” Rory and Bridget's mother said, and Rory knew right away that it wasn't really her. The voice coming out of their mother's mouth was low and earthy, barely a human voice at all. He could hear the rhythms of the water as she spoke; the eternal patience of the mountains colored every word.

“You're not our mother!” Bridget accused.

“No, I'm not,” said the woman who wore their mother's face. “I am wearing the shape of what is at stake for you.”

“So who are you really?” Fritz asked, riding toward the woman. “Are you a god?”

“Mortals believe their gods are everything,” the woman said, smiling at Fritz's question. “Yet your gods only care for mortals. I do not spring from any mind, nor do I require worship to survive. I was what the first mortals felt when they knew they were being watched over, but they had to create their own protectors, since I did not give them the attention they felt they deserved. I have so much to protect”—here she gestured to include the entire garden—“and so had no time to devote solely to them. Mortals are so needy.”

“So you watch over plants and stuff?” Bridget asked.

“I watch over everything,” the woman replied. “I remember everything. I recall the winners and the losers, the victories and the defeats. And my memories became a place all on their own. Mannahatta was not created by the Munsees—I simply allowed them to live there. And I eventually allowed the newcomers to thrive, as well. They are all boats floating on my ocean, and their gods are the wind in their sails. But without my blessing, they would all drown.”