The Fire Chronicle (13 page)

“Are you sure—”

“Quiet,” Emma hissed.

“Indeed,” said the wizard.

Before they’d left the cliff-top house in Spain, Dr. Pym had warned the children about what to expect in Malpesa. “Remember,” he’d told them, “Malpesa is a city in which normal, nonmagical humans live side by side with dwarves, elves, merfolk, witches and wizards, partially housebroken trolls—”

“Trolls?” Michael had exclaimed, trying not to sound too panicked. “But don’t trolls … eat kids?”

“I suppose,” the wizard had said, “that trolls are somewhat partial to children. But really, the odds of our meeting a troll are so astronomically low, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Banish it from your thoughts!”

Astronomically low, Michael thought as the ground shook and the creature came into view. Right.

The troll was the size of an adult elephant, with the same saggy gray skin and shambling gait, but with none of an elephant’s innate intelligence. Indeed, Michael had never seen any creature that projected an air of such perfect stupidity. The troll was busy cleaning one of its enormous ears with a garden hoe, scraping out great boulders of earwax, crusts of greenish bread, a cracked teapot, a bewildered-looking seagull.…

“We’re lucky,” Dr. Pym said when the creature had lumbered past. “At least it was wearing clothes.”

Much to the children’s frustration, they had spent all day at the house on the coast of Spain. Dr. Pym had told them that Malpesa was infested with the Dire Magnus’s spies and they could not risk entering the city till nightfall. The children had argued that they didn’t care about the danger, they wanted to find Kate and rescue their parents. “Be that as it may,” the wizard had said,
“I have other reasons for waiting till dark.” He had refused to explain further; and in the end, Michael and Emma had spent the day listlessly exploring the cliffs and nearby beach as the sun made its sluggish way across the sky.

The wizard had disappeared in the afternoon, returning after dark laden with heavy pants and shirts, sweaters, coats, wool socks, and boots that fit surprisingly well. “It’s still winter in South America,” he’d said. “We have to dress appropriately.”

Then, making use of his golden key once more—and after a final warning that the children must do exactly as he said while in Malpesa—Dr. Pym had led them through the kitchen door and into another land.

More or less immediately, they’d encountered the troll.

As the creature’s footsteps faded away, the wizard bid them follow and turned down a narrow alley.

Michael hesitated.…

The sun had gone down, but there was still enough light to see, and what he saw was an old colonial town of stone streets and three- and four-story houses with red tile roofs and wide ground-floor arcades. Half a dozen spires and towers rose above the nest of buildings. To Michael’s left, the street ran down to a harbor, where a score of fishing boats lay berthed. With their black nets strung up and drying, the ships looked both spooky and elegant, like a gathering of widows. Next to the boats was a pair of small floatplanes, bobbing on the tide. Beyond that stretched the blue-black table of the sea. Looking the other way, Michael saw that the town was walled in by mountains, snowy and massive, their peaks hidden among the clouds.

He was charmed: elegant old buildings, a perfect setting, and best of all, you could walk out your front door and be face to face with a wizard! Or a dwarf!

Michael had already forgotten his terror at the troll’s appearance.

I was born too late, he thought, and allowed himself a philosophical sigh.

“Michael!” Dr. Pym’s voice echoed down the alley. “Please don’t linger!”

The wizard led them along a series of twisting streets. There were patches of ice among the paving stones, and they passed restaurants and stores—grocery stores, clothing stores, a shuttered flower shop—that might’ve been found in any city in the world, and next door to those were taverns with signs announcing
DWARFISH ALE ON TAP
and shops that sold charms for seafarers: protections against drowning, fair-weather spells, a potion that let you speak to whales. They saw men and women, bundled up and going about their shopping, and they saw groups of dwarves, dressed in thick, dark coats and woolen hats with long tassels, marching past with clay pipes sticking from their bearded mouths.

They crossed many canals, or rather they crossed the bridges that spanned the canals, so many bridges and so many canals that the city seemed almost more water than land. Most of the canals were only a dozen feet wide, but at one point, the street opened up and the children found themselves at the edge of a wide canal lined with stately columned houses, many of which had seen better days. In the gathering dusk, lights reflected off the dark water, and men called to each other from their narrow,
black-hulled boats, their voices echoing as they passed beneath the stone bridges.

“It’s like Venice,” the wizard said, “without the tourists.”

“But with trolls,” Emma grumbled.

“Well, given the choice, I’ll take the trolls.”

“Dr. Pym,” Michael said, “can’t you tell us where we’re going?”

“You’ll see soon enough, my boy.”

And he started off again with his quick, long-legged stride.

The children knew they were here to search for the map mentioned in Hugo Algernon’s letter, the same map their parents had gone searching for ten years before; and it was likewise apparent that Dr. Pym had a theory about where to look, but so far, the wizard had not been forthcoming with details.

“If I tell you where we’re going,” he’d said—this was still back at the house in Spain—“you’ll only start worrying.”

As if saying that, Michael reflected, wasn’t enough to make a person start worrying.

They pressed on through the maze-like streets, over bridge after bridge, and as they walked, Michael stole a glance at Emma. At breakfast that morning, he’d tried to get her to acknowledge his new authority as oldest sibling, wanting to be clear on the matter before, as he put it, they were “out in the field” and their survival depended on her following his orders “without question.”

“But we’re both twelve,” she’d said.

“Yes, technically. But only for a few more days. I’m basically thirteen.”

“So till then we’re equal.”

“But Kate put me in charge, remember? In Miss Crumley’s office, she said, ‘Look after Emma.’ ”

“That’s probably because she saw you first. If she’d seen me, she probably would’ve said, ‘Emma, look after Michael! He really needs it!’ ”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Well, don’t worry.” And Emma had patted him on the arm. “I’ll look after you anyway.”

Then she’d gone to throw rocks into the sea, and that was that.

“Here we are,” said the wizard.

They had emerged from yet another alley and were standing on a stone embankment, looking out over a seemingly endless stretch of dark water. Michael felt as if they’d arrived at a kind of border: behind them was Malpesa, with its lights and noise; before them, this great emptiness, and no sound save the soft lapping of the sea against stone.

“We have a few minutes,” Dr. Pym said. “The bridge will not appear until night has well and truly fallen.”

“What bridge?” Michael asked.

“You’ll see, my boy. Now, as this may be our last quiet moment of the evening, there is something I need to give you.”

From an inside pocket, the wizard produced an object the size and shape of a marble and made of milky blue-gray glass. A thin wire looped about it and attached to a rawhide band, as if the marble was to be worn as a necklace.

“This arrived two weeks ago at the house in Cambridge Falls.
There was no note, but the envelope was addressed to ‘The Eldest Wibberly.’ ”

“Who sent it?” Emma asked.

“That, my dear, is the question. Who knew that you three had been at Cambridge Falls? Of course, there’s the Dire Magnus and his followers. But such stratagems are not his style. Another possibility, and it is only a possibility, is—”

“Our parents,” Michael said. Due to the strange twists and turns of time travel, the children’s adventure in Cambridge Falls had taken place before they’d actually been born, and subsequently, Dr. Pym had told their parents about what was going to happen. “You really think it’s from them?”

“I do not know. That is part of what is troubling me.”

“What’s the other part?”

“That I don’t know what the blasted thing is! Still, I’ve been unable to detect any sort of curse or malignancy, and I believe the time has come to turn it over to you.”

Emma immediately reached out her hand, only to have the wizard stop her.

“My dear, it was addressed to the eldest Wibberly, and in the present circumstances, I think it should go to Michael.”

Emma huffed, but Michael was pleased.

Finally, he thought.

He took the orb by its rawhide strap. “What do I do with it?”

“We could smash it,” Emma suggested.

To Michael’s surprise, the wizard nodded. “You’d be surprised how many magical objects give up their secrets when bashed to bits. Unfortunately, that might also destroy it, and if it is from
your parents, I would hate to lose the message. Either way, the decision is yours.”

Michael sensed them watching him. The glass marble felt light, almost hollow.

“Kate’s the real oldest,” he said finally. “I’ll keep it till she comes back.”

He knew it was strange that his first decision as oldest sibling was to pass the authority back to Kate; but saying that he believed his sister would return felt good, like an act of faith, and Michael smiled as he slipped the marble over his head.

“Excellent,” the wizard said. “Now I think it is dark enough.”

And, turning his back on the city, Dr. Pym took out a coin and threw it into the water. There was a shimmering in the air, and a bridge appeared, arcing away from the embankment. It was made of black granite and guarded by two forbidding stone sentries. The figures were roughly carved, armed with heavy swords, and swathed in long robes and hoods that obscured their faces and hands.

“Over this bridge,” the wizard said, “lies an island. For a thousand years, it is where the citizens of Malpesa, magical and nonmagical alike, have buried their dead. It is where I hope to find what we are searching for. Come. There is no time to waste.”

And he led them past the sentries and out upon the bridge.

It seemed to Michael that the air grew colder with each step, as if they were moving into some deeper current, and as they crossed the top of the bridge’s arc, Michael saw the silhouette of an island emerge from the darkness, and the salty tang of the sea became mixed with another smell, the odor of old soil and the cut-up
ends of things, of death and decay. At the far side of the bridge, Michael and Emma followed the wizard past two more stone sentries and onto the island of the dead.

Dr. Pym raised his hand. “A moment to get my bearings …”

The children hovered behind him, hardly daring to breathe. Standing where he was, Michael had no sense of the island’s true size. The tombs and mausoleums—some of which were a dozen feet high and crowned with snowcapped stone figures—crowded in upon one another, leaving only narrow gaps through which to pass. Michael’s impression was of an ancient, overgrown forest, dark, and silently watching.

As they waited, Michael’s hand drifted to his bag, nervously checking the contents—journal, pens, pencils, pocketknife, compass, camera, King Robbie’s badge,
Dwarf Omnibus
, gum. Assured that everything was in place, he brought his hand to his chest, where he felt the hard nub of the glass marble hanging from his neck. Already it felt like a part of him.

A cloud moved, and the moon cast down a pale, unearthly light, which reflected off the patches of snow.

“This way,” the wizard said. “Stay close.” And he started off through the thicket of tombs.

It was all Michael and Emma could do to keep up. Dr. Pym moved at his usual brisk pace, following a zigzag path that only he could see. And as the group pushed forward, the tombs pressed in and the way became darker and narrower still. Michael worried that he or Emma would trip and the wizard wouldn’t even notice, but just continue on, leaving them lost and alone in the warren of gravestones.

“Dr. Pym,” he had to ask once more, “what’re we doing here?”

“And can’t you walk a little slower?” Emma said. “Your legs are, like, a hundred times longer than mine.”

“My apologies. And I suppose it is time to explain why I brought you to this ghoulish place. You remember, of course, the letter that Dr. Algernon found? The pig merchant’s story of coming to Malpesa and meeting the man with a fever, the one who ranted that he and others had taken a great, magical book out of Egypt long ago?”

“Yeah, and he wanted to make a map,” Michael said, hurrying past a tomb that was emitting a low, strangled gurgle. “The sick guy, I mean.”

“Exactly so, my boy. What we don’t know is what happened afterward. Did the sick man die? Did he succeed in making his map? The story requires us to use our imaginations.” He paused and read the inscription on a tombstone, then moved off in another direction. “Now, if the sick man recovered and left Malpesa, then he and his map are lost to us. There are a million directions he might’ve taken, a million fates he could’ve met. But let us suppose that the sick man was very sick indeed. Let us suppose he perished in Malpesa. If so, this island is where he would have been buried.”

“Wait, so you think the map got buried with him?” Emma said. “Also, you’re still walking too fast.”

“That is my theory. And I suspect it was your parents’ theory as well.”

“Okay,” Michael said, “but we still don’t know his name. We can’t just go around digging up graves till we find him!”

“Yeah,” Emma said. “That would take forever.”

“And it would be wrong,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Emma said, with little conviction. “That too.”

Michael was peeved that Dr. Pym hadn’t run his plan past him earlier. Michael could’ve saved them a lot of time by pointing out the glaringly obvious flaws, like trying to find the grave of some nameless man who might or might not have died hundreds of years before! Certainly, as the oldest sibling, he had a right to approve all—