The Secret Cipher
Authors: Whitaker Ringwald
For cryptographers everywhere
1
Ethan
FACT:
I am thirteen years old and I feel like I've already lived two livesâthe one before the magical Greek urn, and the one after.
I
t's still hard for me to use the word
magical
. Until one month ago, I would have bet my life on the fact that magic doesn't exist.
Yesterday, CNN ran a story about a kid who'd been born blind, but when he turned sixteen, he got a double cornea transplant. It was an experimental procedure. When he opened his eyes after surgery and saw light and shapes for the very first time, he kinda freaked.
That's how it feels to me when I lie in bed at night and remember the afternoon in the Thomas Jefferson Memorial when my cousin, Jax, opened the Greek urn and magic burst out. I'd been blind to the truth, but now I've seen it.
Maybe “freaked” isn't a strong enough word.
Before Jax opened the urn, the world was a normal place full of things that can be proven. Buoyancy causes objects to float, gravity keeps our feet on the ground, evaporation makes puddles disappear. Earthquakes and volcanoes are caused by the shifting of tectonic plates and thunder occurs during the cooling of superheated air. These are the laws I'd learnedâlaws based on reason and logic, cause and effect. Tides are predictable. Time moves at a steady pace. Science rules.
Or maybe I should say,
ruled.
Before Jax opened the urn, there were stories about gods. I never paid much attention to these stories. Zeus and his thunderbolt, Poseidon and his trident, Hades and his underworld of lost souls. These were myths, pure entertainment, written thousands of years ago by people who were trying to explain things that seemed totally unexplainable. These stories were as fantastical as
Grimms' Fairy Tales
. Who
would ever believe that a big bad wolf could dress up like someone's grandmother and say, “The better to eat you with, my dear”? Likewise, who would believe that a pantheon of gods could live on an invisible mountain and stuff human emotions, like hope, faith, and love, into clay urns?
You can't pack emotions into containers. They're not peanut butter sandwiches. They're
feelings
.
“Hey, pass the ketchup, will ya?”
Jax stared at me from across the restaurant table. A few strands of frizzy black hair hung in her eyes. The rest of her hair was pulled into a ponytail, as usual.
“Hello?” She tapped her fork on her plate. “I'm starvin' over here.”
“Uh, sorry.” I grabbed the bottle and handed it to her. I don't use public ketchup bottles. I read an article about the variety of germs that live on the mouth of the bottle, right where the ketchup comes out. It's disgusting. But I didn't share this information. Jax didn't care about germs. She used public drinking fountains all the time. And I've seen her eat a chicken strip after she'd dropped it on the sidewalk.
“Thanks.” She squirted a thick line down the
middle of her huevos rancheros. Ever since she learned that she was half Latina, a fact that had been kept from her all her life, she'd been ordering a lot of Mexican food. She dug into the eggs as if she hadn't eaten in days. “Don't you like your food?” she asked.
“It's good,” I said. Melted butter dripped down the sides of my short stack. I ignored the public syrup bottle and took a bite. I wasn't feeling very hungry. My sinuses were inflamed, thanks to the record-level of pollen in the air.
We were sitting in the Chatham Diner, the best place for breakfast in Chatham, New Jersey. We didn't have to pay for our breakfast because Jax's mom, my aunt Lindsay, worked there as a waitress. Jax had woken me up early and we'd ridden our bikes to the diner. She never slept in because, according to Jax's philosophy, sleep is a waste of time. My dad, who has a master's degree in chemistry, says Jax has a lot of fast-twitch muscles, and that's why it's hard for her to sit still and why she's always running everywhere. Mom, who has a master's degree in psychology, says Jax is hyperactive and should avoid caffeine and sugar. Tyler, my older brother, says Jax is a super spaz.
The things he calls me are way worse.
“I'm so totally bored,” Jax said, her mouth crammed with eggs and tortilla. “What are we going to do today?”
I could think of lots of things to do. The new issue of
Science Monthly
had come in yesterday's mail. And a couple days ago, I'd checked out a stack of books from the library. But reading was something to do alone, and Jax had been super clingy lately. I couldn't blame her. The urn experience had been terrifying.
To make a long story short, here's what happened. One month ago, on her twelfth birthday, Jax got a strange metal box in the mail. It was sent by our great-aunt Juniper Vandegrift, a relative we'd never heard of. The box wouldn't open but a message appeared on an LED screen that was set into its lid. It was a riddle. The box would open only at a precise, predetermined spot. So, with Tyler's help and some geometry, we found the right spot in Washington, DC. But we nearly got killed in the process.
It turned out Great-Aunt Juniper was an archaeologist who'd discovered an ancient Greek artifactâa clay urn. But this wasn't a typical clay pot that you'd find sitting in a museum. This one held a dangerous power.
Way back in the beginning of time, Zeus made
three urns and gave them to a girl named Pyrrha. One urn contained Love, one contained Faith, and the third held Hope. If Pyrrha felt sad, she could open whichever urn she chose and be filled with that emotion. Imagine if you could fill miniature urns with love, faith, and hope and sell them on the internet or one of those shopping channels. They'd be an instant cure for depression, dark thoughts, and doubt. I'm guessing that would make you one of the richest people in the world.
But after Zeus gave Pyrrha her special gifts, Pyrrha's father, Epimetheus, went insane with jealousy. He felt that the gods had ignored him, for they'd never given him anything special. So he stole the urns, planning on keeping Love, Faith, and Hope for himself. But when he opened the urns, the contents were destroyed by his evil nature. Now empty, the urns seemed useless, so Epimetheus buried them, trying to hide the evidence.
Time passed and eventually the Greek gods disappeared from the human world. The urns lay untouched, buried by centuries of dirt and debris. Then, during an archaeological dig on the Greek island of Kassos, Great-Aunt Juniper dug up one of themâthe urn of Hope. Curious about what it contained,
she uncorked it. A tornado shot out of the clay jar and swirled around the site. Juniper watched with confusion as every member of the excavation team collapsed, except for her. After swirling around each of the victims, the wind calmed and disappeared back inside the urn.
During all that time underground, the urn had transformed. Because it had been created for one purposeâto hold Hopeâit had begun to
crave
hope. Literally. So when our great-aunt opened it, it sucked hope from everyone it could reach. Only Juniper was safe because she'd been holding the urn at the time.
Ever see someone who's had hope sucked from his soul? I have. When we were at the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, Tyler was attacked by the urn. He ended up in the hospital. It was the worst day of our lives.
“Hey.” Jax's mom stood at the end of the table, a pot of coffee in her hand. “How are your pancakes?”
“Great,” I said, making sure to look right into my aunt's eyes. My counselor always reminded me to do that.
The customer in the next booth held up his mug. Aunt Lindsay filled it, then turned back to our table. “So, do you two have big plans today?” The question had a suspicious tone. Who could blame her? Jax and I
had gotten into more than our share of trouble lately.
“Not really,” I said. Jax groaned. What had I done?
“No plans?” Aunt Lindsay smiled. “Well, that means you have time to do some chores. The backyard needs to be mowed and the walkway is full of weeds. That should keep you busy.” A bell chimed from behind the counter.
“Order up,” Michael called. He was the morning cook.
As soon as Aunt Lindsay had walked away, Jax leaned over her plate and narrowed her eyes. “Thanks a lot,” she said. “Now we're stuck working all day.”
“Sorry,” I said. But I didn't mind helping my aunt. She was a single parent and never had enough money to hire a gardener. My parents had a whole team of guys who came once a week to mow the lawn, weed the beds, and clean the pool. “I can do most of it. You don't have to.”
Jax sighed. “I guess it's better than sitting around waiting. Do you think we'll hear from Juniper today?” It was the same question she'd asked every day for the last month.
I shrugged. “I don't know.” After the incident in the Jefferson Memorial, Great-Aunt Juniper had disappeared, taking the urn of Hope with her. She'd
told us she was going to find a way to destroy it. That would be the best thing to do. If the urn fell into the wrong hands, it could be used as a weapon. “It's possible we might never hear from her again,” I told Jax.
“I hate not knowing,” Jax said.
I stared out the window. Usually I would have said that I also hate not knowing. I'm the kid who loves facts and information. But during the last month, I'd woken up every morning wishing I'd never seen the urn's powers.
For the first time in my life, I didn't want to
know.
Jax
“I
'm melting,” I complained.
“The news predicted a high of ninety-two,” Ethan said after blowing his nose. “Ten degrees hotter than last year.”
We were in my small backyard. Ethan had mowed the grass. The mower's blades had stirred dandelion pollen into the air so he was having a huge allergy attack. How many times in a row can a person sneeze before his head explodes? Seriously. Good thing he always had a bunch of tissues stuffed in his pockets.
I tossed weeds into a bucket. Yard work was the last thing I wanted to do, and to make it even
worse, my mom didn't pay for chores.
“I'm hot too,” Ethan said.
“Take off your shirt,” I told him. Boys are lucky that way. They can strip down to their boxers and no one cares.
“But I don't have sunblock.”
I didn't have any either. I rarely used the stuff. My skin's tan like coffee, while Ethan's is as pale as a fish belly. While I've got black hair, his is brown, but you never see it because he wears a baseball cap most of the time. He likes to hide under its brim. He's übershy.
I pulled another dandelion. Its roots were super stubborn, as if it knew I was coming to get it. “I . . . hate . . . pulling . . . weeds,” I groaned as I yanked it from the ground. My buttcrack was starting to get sweaty. “Forget this,” I said, peeling off the gardening gloves. Then I hurried into the garage, looking for something that would make us both feel better.
There it was, behind a stack of snow tiresâmy old Hello Kitty swimming pool.
