Spirits in the Park (9 page)

Inside lay three items. The first was a rusty old padlock, its mundane appearance belying the fact that it was one of the magic items needed to open the Trap. Beside it lay another piece of the puzzle: a key made of white wampum dangling from a piece of string. The key fit the lock, and he'd almost turned it that day in Hex's office, before Toy tore it from his hands and escaped out the window. Rory had feared he'd never find the paper boy—or the key—again. But to his surprise, he'd woken up one morning less than a week later to find the key lying on his windowsill. Toy must have left it for him during the night, evidently deciding to trust Rory not to use it thoughtlessly. Rory had no idea where Toy was now, but he hoped the poor paper boy had found some form of comfort out in the world. He deserved it after all he'd been through.

The final item in the box wasn't what some might have expected; there was no Sachem's Belt here. That third piece to opening the Trap lay hidden in Wampage's cave. Its powers stretched beyond freeing the Munsees, and Rory felt more comfortable knowing the Indian warrior guarded it. No, the last item in the box was an old photograph, creased at two corners. Rory didn't quite know why he'd hidden it with these magic objects, but ever since that day the Half Moon sailed by, he'd felt it belonged here. He reached down and carefully lifted it out.

His father stared out at him, holding baby Bridget in his arms and smiling. Rory had long ago noticed that the smile didn't reach his father's eyes, and as he stared at the picture, his father's smile seemed more and more forced, becoming a simple baring of the teeth for the benefit of the camera. What was he thinking? Rory wondered. Was he already planning to leave? Did the thought of Mannahatta dance in his head, calling to him, turning the time spent with his family into a horrible chore? If so, why had he settled down in the first place? So many questions, and no one to answer them.

His father really did look like him, Rory noticed. He'd never wanted to see that before. It must kill his mother to see her lost husband in her son, every day. Maybe that was why she was so sad all the time. Rory hoped not, with all his heart.

Rory was overcome with a sudden urge to seek out his father, to talk to him and discover all his secrets, despite what he'd said to Bridget. He didn't want to feel like this, he wished he could just walk away, but this unknowable man in the picture tugged at him.

One day I'll find you, Rory told the virtual stranger in the photo. When this is all over. And we'll have a long, long talk . . .

A loud gasp coming from the next room interrupted his reverie. Startled, Rory leaped to his feet, sticking the photo in his pocket and rushing out into the hall. His clothes still formed a path to the bathroom, and he stomped over them as he raced to Bridget's room.

“Bridge? You okay?” he called, pushing open her door. She lay on her bed, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, tears running down her cheeks. Rory's shorts lay at the foot of her bed, and a familiar necklace of purple and black hung limply around her neck.

“Bridget!”

Rory rushed forward, lifting her up and yanking off the necklace so hard it almost broke. With a sob, Bridget came to.

“So sad . . . that poor lady.”

Rory had to refrain from shaking her.

“What were you thinking!” he yelled at her. She trained her eyes on him, wiping the tears away with her blanket.

“I saw the necklace poking out of your pants, and I thought it looked pretty, so I tried it on. I felt so bad for her! I even felt bad for Tackapausha! I think I stained my pillow from crying. And to think her father never came for her. She must be so scared!”

Sighing, Rory tried to be delicate.

“Bridget, she's not . . . she's not really alive anymore.”

“You don't know that!” Bridget angrily crossed her arms. “You're being Captain Poop-Face again. I bet she got away and went into hiding. So now she's waiting for her father to come, but he can't because of the Trap. I bet she's built a house at the top of a tree or something and every day she looks down at the ground waiting for her father to look back up at her. It's the saddest thing ever! You know what?” Bridget snapped her fingers excitedly. “I bet she's a princess!”

Rory groaned. “I thought you hated princesses,” he said, bemused.

“I hate stupid, wimpy cartoon princesses with upside-down ice-cream cones on their heads, waiting around all day for some jock to make out with them. Olathe's not one of those dorks, I can tell. She's a warrior princess, like me. She's living in her tree house, fighting off evil woodland creatures, hunting deer with only her teeth, staying alive until her dad can come and get her. And if her dad can't make it, then we have to.”

“Even if she were still alive and up in a tree, we have no idea where to find her—or her long-lost father.”

“We could go to that Great Hill she talked about,” Bridget replied, giving the necklace a good once-over. Rory pulled it away, stuffing it into his pocket for safekeeping. “Rory, don't you wanna know what Kieft hid there, at least?”

“One thing at a time, Bridget,” Rory said. “We have to deal with the Trap before we worry about strange princesses and old secrets.”

“Come on, Rory,” Bridget said, clearly not convinced. “Don't you know that in every story, princesses always end up being pretty important?”

An hour had passed, and Rory lay on his bed, waiting for his mother to fall asleep in the next room. His eyes fluttered, heavy after the long day. Before he knew it, they drifted shut and he fell into a fitful slumber.

He knew it was a dream because he was flying. The city below was dark. The blackout covered all of Manhattan, as if someone had put the island in a closet and shut the door. Rory sailed forward over the shadowed city toward Inwood Hill Park, heading for the ancient trees. The bridge to the mainland was a dark shape against the sky, with small lights like fireflies running along the top; headlights, Rory realized, from the cars crossing the river. He dipped down toward the hill, which was covered in thick forest. The trees were old, far older than anything else on the island. Rory felt like an intruder as he soared up to them, dipping down to slip under the branches and into the forest.

Rory darted between the twisted branches deeper into the woods. Bursting into a clearing, he sailed over Wampage's camp with its round pit of white wampum glowing softly, and he thought for a moment that this was his destination, but he did not slow. Instead he continued on until he reached a small stream. Dogs, many dogs, gathered upon the bank of the water and they barked as he flew into view. Floating in the middle of the stream was a canoe, heavily laden with supplies as if for a long journey, and standing knee-deep in the water beside the boat, holding it steady, waited Wampage. He glanced up and smiled at Rory floating above.

“I am glad you could come,” he said. “I wished to say good-bye before I left and this was the only way I could accomplish that.”

“Where are you going?” Rory asked, worried.

Wampage pointed down the stream, which disappeared around the bend.

“This stream empties into the river, which empties into the ocean that leads into the mist. Long ago, when my people alone walked Mannahatta, we were ruled by Kishelamakank, the first Sachem. When the newcomers arrived from over the sea, there was a struggle over Mannahatta. For the longest time, we were winning and the newcomers were fading. But they somehow found a way to get the land to accept them as it had long ago accepted my people. Once this happened, everything changed as the balance of power shifted. The mortal Munsees were driven out by your ancestors, until none remained. Soon, many of the Munsee gods passed on without a mortal people to strengthen them, until only the oldest and newest endured. The newest swore to stay, even after our people had left. But the oldest had no stomach for it. One after another, they left us, until only Kishelamakank, the greatest of us, remained. One day, he called us all together, and declared that he could no longer fight. He was old and weary of the struggle. He passed on his mantle to Penhawitz, who had only recently gained his godhood. Then our oldest, greatest leader took to his canoe and paddled out into the mist, never to be seen again.

“Not too long after, my people fell for the great Trap, which only I escaped, and now here we are. This quaking of the earth today, it will not be the last of the terrors to strike our island if we do not bring down the Trap. Something else comes, something that will blow us all apart. But we cannot tear down the Trap, not yet. Not while our two peoples are still so far apart. We must bring them together, you and I, or you will be faced with a choice that will hurt us all either way.”

“But how do we do that?” Rory asked.

“I must find Kishelamakank. I am lost and he will help me find my way. You . . . you have already started down your path, though you might not realize it. But you are not alone. Trust in your sister, and in your friends. And I see glimpses from your memories that you learned how useful a spirit dog can be; he senses the danger surrounding you and grows accordingly. He is your spirit guide, and that is partly how he protects you.”

“Don't go, Wampage,” Rory begged, one last time. Wampage gave him a look of infinite compassion before climbing into the canoe.

“The dogs will remain here, until I come back,” he said. “They will protect the Sachem's belt until you need it. I will return soon. Good-bye, Rory.”

Wampage waved once and pushed off down the stream. His paddle dipped into one side, then the other, as his boat gathered speed. The dogs let out a cacophony of howling as their master paddled away from them and Rory wanted to join in. The canoe disappeared around the bend into the darkness and Wampage was gone.

Rory floated back up into the air, rising out of the trees of Inwood Hill Park. He began to float back toward his body, but he felt a tugging at his chest, pulling him downtown. Following the feeling south, he soared over the darkened city, darting around the tall black buildings with airy ease. He approached Central Park, which shone blue as he neared it. With a gasp he hit the barrier, and pressure bore down on him as he passed through. Sighing with relief he burst out the other side and quickly flew into the center of the park, where a familiar form sat cross-legged around a fire.

“Soka!” he cried. The young girl looked up at him, her eyes heavy and tired.

“I do not have much time and it takes all of my will to call you like this,” Soka said quckly. “So listen carefully. I have looked into this Olathe from the necklace, and it is very interesting what I found! My mother was not the only one who remembered the poor girl; many knew her story, though not how it ended. But the truly fascinating thing I learned was who she used to be before she married Buckongahelas . . .”

Suddenly Soka began to choke. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her hand clutching frantically at her throat. She bent over, as if she were trying to throw up, and then looked up in a panic. Rory was shocked to see something forcing its way out of her mouth, something covered in scales. It was a snake, forked tongue flicking lazily about. With a slither the snake burst free, flying through the air toward Rory's neck, its venom-drenched fangs bared. He screamed, willing himself away from this horrible nightmare before it could suck him dry . . .

Rory woke up with a whimper, sitting straight up. The apartment was quiet and dark. He collapsed back into his bed, sweat covering him, overwhelmed by his dream that wasn't a dream. Not only was Wampage gone, but Soka had been silenced by that reptile before she could tell him Olathe's identity. He hoped she was all right. Fritz would send in a rat to check up on her, he reassured himself. He would never forgive himself if Soka was harmed because of him. He shuddered. The image of that snake straining to sink its fangs into his neck would not fade. He wanted to crawl into bed with his mother and let her chase away the nightmare like she used to do when he was small. But people depended on him now, and he couldn't hide from that. His heart continued to pound in his ears as he forced himself upright and readied himself to face the night.

THE DYCKMAN HOUSE

W
ith Tucket in tow, Rory and Bridget hurried down a deserted Broadway toward Dyckman Street, past the dark storefronts that lined the usually busy main drag. The occasional police car passed by, slowly traveling down the shadowed street, but the sidewalks were empty. In the distance, Rory could hear the sounds of some of the younger inhabitants of Inwood throwing a blackout party. But the revelers were far from Broadway and Dyckman.

Rory was still shaken by his dream of the snake, but it soothed his fears to think that soon he'd be among friends. Up ahead he spied their destination: the Dyckman farmhouse. One of the oldest buildings in New York, the farmhouse had been a fixture of the Hennessys' childhoods. Set up on a hill overlooking Broadway, the old wooden-frame house seemed almost like a mirage, frozen in time amid the rising apartment buildings of modern New York. As they were growing up, their mother used to tell Rory and Bridget ghost stories about the place, about how the spirits of old man Dyckman and his wife still haunted the rooms and grounds of the house, stomping about in anger at how the rest of their once-sprawling farm had been overtaken by buildings and pavement and cars and people. Rory had always dismissed these tales as superstition. He snorted; he was the one eating his words now.