The Fire Chronicle Read online

  “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—

  “I believe this is the grave,” said Dr. Pym.

  “What?” Michael said.

  “I believe this is the tomb we are searching for.”

  The wizard was standing before a rectangular stone box. It was roughly seven feet long, three feet wide, rose four feet off the ground, and seemed to Michael no different from any of the scores of tombs they’d already passed.

  “That was easy,” Emma said.

  “But,” Michael said, “how do you know?”

  “Different areas of this island were developed at different times. The pig merchant’s letter was dated in the last quarter of the eighteenth century. That would place our deceased sort of here-ish.” The wizard waved his arm in a half circle. “I thought we’d have to search a bit, but it appears we got lucky.”

  “But how do you know this is his grave?” Michael demanded. “We still don’t know his name.”

  “My boy,” the wizard said, “we don’t need to know his name. We have this.”

  He gestured for them to approach the tomb. There, chiseled into the center of the stone lid, visible through a glaze of ice, were three interlocking circles. Michael later sketched the symbol into his journal—

  “What is it?” Emma asked.

  “It is a thing I have not seen for more than two thousand years,” replied the wizard. As he spoke, he reached out and traced the rings with a finger. “Long ago, before Alexander the Great attacked the city of Rhakotis and caused the Books of Beginning to be scattered and lost, the Books were kept beneath a tower in the center of that city. The magicians who had created the books established the Order of Guardians, fierce warriors who had pledged to protect them with their lives.”

  “Wait, I remember!” Michael exclaimed. “The Countess told us about them!”

  The wizard nodded. “And as you know, when the city was overrun, I myself fled with the Atlas, which I later entrusted to the dwarves of Cambridge Falls.”

  Michael nodded, signaling his approval of the wizard’s choice.

  “It has always been my suspicion that the Order escaped with at least one of the books. But though I have searched unceasingly all this time, I have found no sign of either the missing two books or the Order. That is, until now. This”—he laid his hand flat upon the tomb, almost obscuring the rings—“is their symbol.”

  Michael’s heart was pounding with excitement. He’d decided he would excuse the wizard’s lapse in oldest-sibling protocol this one time.

  “If Dr. Algernon’s letter is to be trusted,” Dr. Pym went on, “and this is the tomb of that same feverish man, then we may assume that the Order did indeed rescue one of the books. The questions now are: Did our fellow make a map? And if so, is the map still here, or did your parents take it? There is only one way to find out.”

  “You mean,” Michael said, “we have to open the tomb?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “That dead guy,” Emma said, “he’s not gonna be a zombie or anything, is he?”

  “I think the chances are very low.”

  “You said that about meeting a troll. And guess what, we—”

  “My dear, he is not a zombie. I promise.”

  The wizard told the children to go to one end of the tomb, while he positioned himself at the other.

  “Remember, lift with your legs.”

  “Dr.
Pym,” Michael said, “this is solid stone. It must weigh a thousand pounds.”

  “Michael’s kinda weak,” Emma said. “I’ll do most of the lifting.”

  Michael was about to argue, but the wizard cut him off.

  “I have a feeling it is not as heavy as it looks. Ready? One … two … three!”

  To Michael’s surprise, the stone lid came off easily.

  “That’s it,” the wizard said. “Watch your fingers and toes.”

  They leaned it against the side of the tomb.

  Emma looked at Michael. “Don’t bother thanking me or anything.”

  “Oh please, Dr. Pym obviously—”

  “Well, that is interesting.”

  Dr. Pym was peering into the tomb. The children joined him.

  “Ahhhh!” Emma shrieked, and fell back.

  The entire bottom of the stone box was one dark, squirming mass. Michael could make no sense of what he was seeing; it was almost like—

  “Rats!”

  There were dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds. Wriggling and crawling all over each other. Long, naked tails whipping this way and that. Their gray-brown bodies writhing atop each other, their eyes glittering black and jewel-like.

  “Those’re rats!” Michael said again.

  “That they are.”

  “Don’t just stand there!” Emma cried. “Do something! Zap them or something!”

  “And why would I do that, my dear?”

  “Why? What do you mean, why? They’re rats!”

  Emma’s whole body was rigid, and there was a look of pure, undisguised panic on her face. It occurred to Michael that his sister was afraid. But that was ridiculous. He’d never known Emma to be afraid of anything, even things a person should be afraid of, like giant hairy spiders. Once, a wildlife expert had brought a bunch of snakes and lizards and spiders to their school for a demonstration. Halfway through, an enormous yellow-and-black tarantula had gotten free. There’d been a stampede of screaming children. But Emma, sitting in the front row, had calmly picked up the spider and plopped it back in its glass cage.

  “Tell me,” the wizard said, “do you notice anything odd about these rats?”

  “Uh …” Emma’s voice was not at all steady. “They’re still alive and you’re not doing anything about it?”

  But Michael thought for a second, then said: “They’re quiet.”

  “Exactly so,” the wizard replied. “This many rodents should be creating a terrible racket. There is more here than meets the eye.”

  Emma muttered, “I’m gonna throw up.”

  The wizard stepped to a scraggly tree that was growing between two mausoleums and broke off a long, dry limb. Michael watched as the wizard then poked the stick into the swirling gray mass. To Michael’s surprise, it went right through.

  “An illusion. Designed to discourage intruders. There are no rats. Indeed, I seem to feel a sort of shaft.”

  Emma took a half step closer. “So … they’re not real?”

  “Not at all. Now, one of you should come below with me while the other stays here and watches the way back to Malpesa. Just in case we were seen.”

  “You mean climb down into the rat hole?” Emma asked. “You—”

  “I’ll do it,” Michael said quickly. “Emma can stay up here.”

  “Very good,” the wizard said. Then he took the branch he was holding and broke it into thirds. He handed one of the sticks to Emma.

  “Rub this on any surface, and it will burst into flame. But only do so if you’re coming below. Otherwise, you’ll make yourself too visible.” The wizard looked at Michael. “I’ll go first.”

  He draped his long legs over the side of the stone coffin. Michael and Emma watched with horrified fascination as his foot went into the swarming tide. For a moment, the creatures seemed to swirl around it, then his foot disappeared, and then his legs, and his chest, and finally, his white head vanished into the nest of rats.

  The children were alone. Michael turned to Emma.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t stand on top of a mausoleum. Silhouettes are really visible in the dark.”

  “Okay.”

  “And sound will carry a long way; so I’m afraid no singing or whistling to keep yourself company.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh, and don’t stare too long at any one thing. Look at something, look away, then look back. It’s an old sentry’s trick.”

  “Michael …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll be fine. You be careful too.” She gave him a hug. “I love you.”

  She released him, and Michael stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

  “Go ahead,” Emma said finally. “Dr. Pym’s waiting.”

  Michael nodded, then climbed up the side of the tomb, took a deep breath, and lowered himself down.

  “Take this.”

  The wizard handed Michael a burning torch. They were in a large cavern directly below the grave. Michael had found it unnerving, submerging himself in the squirming pool of rats, and though he’d known it was an illusion, he’d shut his mouth and eyes tight as he’d gone under. But he hadn’t been bitten, and a moment later, he’d found himself in a shaft that burrowed downward from the tomb. An iron ladder was affixed to the rock wall. The wizard had called up to him, and Michael had seen the red glow of the wizard’s torch thirty yards below.

  “So,” Dr. Pym said, “we must decide which way to go.”

  The cavern was unlike the caves and tunnels that Michael and his sisters had explored near Cambridge Falls. Both the ceiling and the floor were studded with stalactites and stalagmites, so the effect was like being in the mouth of a great, many-fanged beast. And there was water everywhere, dripping from the ceiling in a constant thip … thip … thip, running in rivulets down the walls, collecting in pools upon the floor. And there was the air itself, which was so moist and thick with minerals that every breath tasted like a dose of medicine.

  As to where they should go, Michael could see two choices, two tunnels that faced one another across the cavern.

  “Now, I would wager that tunnel,” the wizard pointed to their left, “runs back to Malpesa. While this fellow,” he gestured to the right, “seems to continue on beneath the cemetery. What do you think?”

  Michael had no idea. Part of his mind was still back in the graveyard. He hoped that Emma had listened to his advice. He hated leaving her alone.

  He tried to make himself focus.

  “Well—”

  “Or we could go that way!”

  Dr. Pym pointed to the far side of the cavern. At first, Michael saw only rocks and the play of shadows. But then, looking closer, he perceived that one of the shadows was in fact a narrow fissure, a sort of crack in the cavern wall.

  The wizard smiled. “Lucky we’re both slim, eh?”

  They had to scoot through the crease sideways, and the jagged edges of the rock wall ripped at Michael’s jacket and the legs of his pants; once, he banged his knee and had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. Finally, the crevice widened, and Michael and Dr. Pym could walk normally. But the way was still dark, and the only sounds were their footsteps and the soft flutter of the torches. Michael hung close to the wizard’s heels and began to ask questions. Mostly, he wanted to hear the wizard’s voice.

  “So, that letter Dr. Algernon found was from two hundred years ago?”

  “Yes, give or take.”

  “And the man with the fever, the one who was in the Order, said he and the others had taken the book out of Egypt; and that happened more than two thousand years ago.”

  “That’s right. Oh, Michael, my boy—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please don’t set fire to my suit. It’s my only one.”

  “Sorry.” Michael slowed and put another few inches between his torch and Dr. Pym’s back. “So wouldn’t he, the sick guy, have had to be really, really old?”

  Micha
el heard Dr. Pym chuckle; the sound seemed to bounce from wall to wall.

  “Indeed he would. Which raises an even more interesting question. There are two remaining Books of Beginning. Each has unique powers. Tell me, have you given any thought as to what those powers might be?”

  Michael had. He and Emma had debated the subject endlessly since their return to Baltimore—Kate had refused to join in, saying, “The Books’ll be what they’ll be; I don’t want to think about them till I have to.” But all of his and Emma’s theories about the Books’ possible powers—the power to fly, the power to become superstrong, the power to talk to insects (Michael had once seen a documentary that said there were more than a trillion insects on earth and how if they all worked together, they could take over the planet), the power of endless ice cream (one of Emma’s favorites, which Michael had maintained was not actually a power), the power to talk to people a long way off (another of Michael’s, though whenever he’d mentioned it, Emma had always said, “Yeah, that’s called a telephone”)—suddenly seemed either too small or just plain silly.

  “Yeah, but nothing good.”

  “Allow me to give you a hint,” the wizard said. “You correctly pointed out that the man in the pig merchant’s letter would have been thousands of years old. And yet, the members of the Order were men with normal life spans. How do you explain this fellow living as long as he did?”

  “You mean … that was the book?”

  “Just so. Now, what name would you give such a book? Remember, the Books deal with the very nature of existence, and the Atlas is the Book of Time. Think big, my boy.”

  There was only one answer. “I guess … the Book of Life?”

  “Exactly. Or as it’s also known, the Chronicle. And granting long life is only one of its powers. So this fellow in the letter, he and the other members of the Order, they hide the Chronicle in a secret place, and as long as they are close to it, they live on, century after century. Then this man comes to Malpesa, perhaps leaving the book with his comrades, and once separated from its power, he grows sick and dies. As to why he would embark on such a journey, well, that is another question.”