“Perhaps not, but you’re younger than the rest of us, with fewer resources, no branch to support you, and almost zero knowledge of our family history. Many predicted you wouldn’t last a week. Yet here you are, right in the thick of things. Maybe you’ve inherited some of Grace’s abilities, or perhaps your outsider status allows you to see the big picture. Whatever it is, Jonah seems to believe it can help him.”
“I don’t care about the contest,” Amy said impatiently. “Not until we’ve got Dan back. Who knows what Jonah’s going to do when he’s through with him? They’ve got crocodiles here, too!”
“At least now we know where to look,” Nellie reminded her. “Find Jonah and we’ve found Dan. One thing about being a world-renowned jerk-face — he can’t hide. Wherever he goes, it makes the news.”
Alistair scanned the article. “According to this, his next stop is the Great Wall.”
“Then so is ours,” Amy decided.
“My dear,” he told her, “the Great Wall of China is over four thousand miles long. Since Jonah is traveling from Beijing, we can make an educated guess that he will visit the Badaling section, closest to here. But even that is a vast amount of territory to cover.”
“Jonah’s a celebrity,” Amy argued. “If he’s there, we’ll find him.” Her face turned grim. “We have to if we want to save Dan.”
Broderick Wizard frowned out the window of the Gulfstream G5. Far below, the rolling Chinese countryside gave way to a wide sprawl of houses and low apartment buildings. “I thought Dengfeng was supposed to be a little village. There’s a lot of population down there.”
“Welcome to China,” the flight attendant told him with a smile. “Even the small towns are big.”
“When you’ve got one-point-three billion people, you have to stick them wherever they fit,” suggested Dan from the depths of a forest of sodas, milk shakes, and snacks of all varieties.
It was a good thing Dan took advantage of the extravagance of the jet ride, because the comforts evaporated on the ground. The airport was little more than a landing strip, and their “limo” turned out to be a 1969 Volkswagen Bus.
Their driver spoke no English but kept up an elaborate travelogue in Chinese for the hour-long ride. The first thing Dan noticed in Shaolin was a small strip of souvenir shops and restaurants. Not even this remote corner of Asia could escape tourism. Then he saw it — the fields surrounding the main path were filled with kung fu classes — dozens of teachers and students in the orange robes of the Shaolin monks.
He pressed his face against the fly-specked window of the VW and watched. “How cool is this?”
“Off the chain,” Jonah agreed absently.
Dan recognized Jonah’s tunnel vision. The star was so focused on the next Clue that he barely noticed his surroundings. He couldn’t help wondering if Amy was the same way right now — so engrossed in the hunt that she had barely a thought for her brother.
The driver dropped them off with elaborate instructions no one understood, and they continued on foot.
The first view of the Shaolin Temple was of a magic floating kingdom. Nestled in the Songshan mountain range, the huge complex of hip-roofed structures seemed to float on the clouds.
This was the cradle of martial arts. All at once, Dan understood Amy’s excitement when the contest took her to the footsteps of the history she loved so much. Standing between the foo dog statues that guarded the front entrance, he could almost feel the fifteen hundred years of super-sweet fighting skills that had been refined in this very spot.
If Amy were here, she could exact some revenge for the hard time he’d given her at all those museums and research libraries — oh, the boring Shaolin Temple, boring kung fu, I’m so bored….
Of course, Amy would never say that stuff. It was Dan who went around affixing the Dan Cahill Seal of Disapproval to anything he deemed uncool. Which was — let’s face it — an awful lot.
On the other hand, forget Amy! I’m a Madrigal! We’re stone-cold killers! What do we care about family — we probably eat our young —
An image of his parents appeared in his mind, bringing him up short. He didn’t remember much about them, but the memories he had were not stone-cold at all. The thought triggered a stab of longing.
A young monk with a shaved head and orange robes exposing one shoulder stepped in front of Broderick and pointed to the BlackBerry in his hand.
“Photography forbidden,” he said with a heavy accent.
“I’m not going to take any pictures,” Jonah’s father promised airily.
Like lightning, the monk snatched the device out of his hand. “Return camera later.”
Dan had never seen a human move that fast before.
Jonah’s father was outraged. “That’s my lifeline to the world!”
“It’s all good, Pops,” soothed his son. “Give the thumbs a rest.”
As they passed through the gate, the monk gave each member of the Wizard party a thorough once-over, especially Jonah.
They probably don’t get a lot of hip-hop kids in Henan Province, Dan reflected.
Soon they found themselves in the Chang Zhu courtyard, surrounded by sculptures and frescoes. Dan was fascinated. Most of the art depicted fighting figures in every imaginable kung fu pose.
From there, they entered the Hall of One Thousand Buddhas, with its central shrine of bronze and white jade.
“Notice the floor is uneven,” intoned a monk guiding a group of British tourists. “These depressions come from long-term foot-stamping practices of Shaolin teachers with profound kung fu powers.”
Dan made it a point to step in one. He could almost feel the energy.
Although there were no stairs, the farther they moved through the series of halls, the higher they seemed to climb. The temple was built directly into the mountainside and moved up with the slope.
Jonah’s father regarded the thick stone walls covered in frescoes of martial arts scenes. “No way would I get reception in here anyway.”
The largest crowd of visitors was gathered around an exhibit protected by a Plexiglas case. “This is the shadow stone, the most sacred artifact in the temple,” another Shaolin guide was explaining to his tour group. “The fifth-century monk Bodhidharma sat facing this rock for nine years of silent meditation. When his eyes began to close out of weariness, he tore his own eyelids off. He maintained the lotus position for so long that his legs withered away. And the sun was so strong that his shadow was cast onto this stone with such detail that even the pleats of his clothing can be seen.”
No wonder the Shaolin are tough, thought Dan. He wasn’t a big fan of meditation, and definitely not the eyelids part. But talk about willpower! What a fighter this Bodhidharma guy must have been — when he had legs, of course.
Jonah let out a snicker. “I guess homey wasn’t much for winking and tap-dancing after that.”
The guide regarded him with scorn. “Rude jokes are not welcome here. Bodhidharma is the monk who brought Zen Buddhism to China and introduced the art of kung fu to the Shaolin Temple.”
“Chill.” Jonah held up his arms in a gesture of innocence. “No need to go medieval on the Gangsta—”
“‘Gangsta’?” Suddenly, the monk’s eyes widened in wonder, and he called out in agitated Mandarin.
Monks came running from throughout the building, converging on the Shadow Stone.
Jonah’s cocky sneer vanished. “Whoa, I was just playing around! I didn’t mean no disrespect!”
His father reached into his BlackBerry belt holder, but there was nothing there to dial for help on.
Even Dan was nervous as he watched the orange robes congregate around them, a collection of kung fu masters capable of unleashing unimaginable martial arts force.
“Word!” Jonah was babbling now. “I’m down with the respect thing! I’m all about respect for — uh — great traditions and — uh — orange dresses—”
The monks continued to assemble, their piercing stares burning int
o Jonah. At last, an older monk who seemed to be in charge said, “So it is true, yes? You are Jonah Wizard, the American television and music performer?”
CHAPTER 11
Never before had the famous Jonah Wizard felt so lost at sea. He could usually charm his way out of any situation. But his patented hip-hop charisma didn’t work on Shaolin monks.
Dan scanned the temple for the nearest exit. They were badly outnumbered by trained martial arts masters. Escape would be their sole option if this got ugly.
The head monk went on. “You have many admirers among our order, Jonah Wizard. We find similarities between our ritual chants and your — I believe the term is ‘hip-hop groove’? We consider you to be, as you might say, ‘all that.’”
Jonah laughed with pure relief. “Thanks, yo. Nice to be kickin’ it in — you know — wherever we are.”
“I am Li Wu Chen, Chief Abbot of the Shaolin Order,” the man introduced himself. “Please honor us by coming this way.”
The procession of monks led them farther into the temple. Jonah walked beside the abbot, with Broderick and Dan bringing up the rear. They passed through room after room of Chinese art treasures that rivaled the Palace Museum in the Forbidden City. Farther on, the library hall featured countless shelves of ancient manuscripts. At last, they stepped through an elaborately carved archway. Dan felt the temperature drop, and he understood that they were no longer in the building on the mountainside but inside the mountain itself. There were no tourists here, no souvenir stands, no signs in a dozen languages. This was the heart of the Shaolin Temple, a secret place reserved for only a handful of chosen visitors.
Dan peered into a huge chamber where several monks — obviously the top fighters — were engaged in a spectacular battle. The movements were so fast, yet so perfectly fluid and natural, that at first glance, the lightning combat seemed almost like dance. But this was no ballet. The punches and kicks cut the air like bullets, leaving whispers of sound. Bodies soared, as if gravity did not exist. Watching it, Dan realized that all the martial arts he had seen in the fields of Shaolin had been child’s play by comparison.
It took him several seconds to find his voice. Still, it was in a hushed whisper that he said, “This is the coolest kung fu I’ve ever seen in my life!”
Li Wu Chen smiled tolerantly. “We prefer to call it wushu here. The word kung fu can mean any skill mastered through long practice. Wushu refers specifically to martial arts. Would the young man care for a lesson?”
Dan’s heart very nearly blasted through his rib cage and leaped out of his chest. “Me? With these guys? You’re kidding!”
“There is no kidding in the Shaolin order,” the abbot deadpanned. “But if you wish, we will show you a few of the fine points.”
“Oh, I wish!” Dan exclaimed fervently. “I wish!”
The bus ride to the Great Wall was scheduled for seventy minutes, but that obviously didn’t include Beijing traffic. At the seventy-minute mark of their trip, Amy and Nellie were still gridlocked on the freeway, and they were having a hard time restraining Saladin. The Egyptian Mau was expressing more than average interest in the plump hen in the arms of a peasant farmer in the next row.
“I feel sorry for that chicken,” Nellie commented. “Her options are lousy — the tender mercies of Saladin, or the stew pot of that family. Either way, the end of her day is going to be a bummer.”
Amy was deep in the pages of Puyi: The Last Son of Heaven, a thick paperback she had picked up at the bus station bookshop. But her mind was never far from her brother. “Is anybody wearing a Jonah Wizard T-shirt?” she asked, scanning the aisle. “If we find a real fan, maybe we can follow him to Jonah — and Dan.”
“I don’t think this is the fan bus,” Nellie observed glumly. “More like the poultry bus.”
In fact, Nellie had been checking for T-shirts — and hats, belt buckles, Pez dispensers, and authentic Wizard Enterprises Bling™ ever since the Beijing terminal. She had even been sidling up to random teenagers in hip-hop clothing, hoping to pick up snippets of Jonah’s music on their iPods. No luck.
How could they have lost Dan? If Amy was frantic about finding her brother, Nellie was doubly so. She was outwardly calm — no point in making Amy even more distraught. But these were her kids — in her care — and one of them was missing!
Well, not missing, technically. Dan was with Jonah, which was better than him vanishing completely or landing in the clutches of Isabel Kabra. Jonah wasn’t the worst of those Cahill vipers, but that was like saying it was preferable to be attacked by a tiger shark than a great white. Especially since Jonah was up to something. Why else would he lie to them about Dan?
Nellie’s instructions were clear: “Finding Dan is important,” the voice on the other end of the crackly line had told her. “But nothing takes precedence over the clue hunt.”
“You’re talking about an eleven-year-old kid!” Nellie had shouted into the pay phone.
“Who happens to be Grace Cahill’s grandson,” the voice had added. “He has shown himself to be quite a resourceful young man. We have every reason to believe he can take care of himself.”
Big talk from someone sitting in a paneled office thousands of miles away.
Suddenly, the pressure of keeping her real mission a secret seemed nearly as exhausting as the Clue hunt. Nellie slumped in her seat, hugging Saladin to her chest.
The guilt gave her no respite. These poor kids had been deceived practically from birth — first by their parents, who had hid their Cahill identity, then by Grace, who had withheld the truth about the fire. Next, the Clue hunt — practically a double-crossers’ convention. Who knew what lies Jonah was telling Dan right now?
And on top of it all, there’s me — someone they trust. Someone who’s supposed to protect them …
If it ever came down to a choice between the mission or Amy and Dan —
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Worry about today’s problems, not what might happen tomorrow. Find Dan. Keep Amy from losing it—
After all, whatever Nellie’s covert role, she was still an au pair. The kids were her responsibility. That included Dan’s safety and Amy’s mental health.
Keep her distracted.
She turned to Amy. “How’s the book? Any leads?”
Amy shrugged. “Puyi was a Janus, all right. I recognize the type — spoiled rotten, nuts about art, totally self-centered. According to this, his life was basically one extended hissy fit after he was kicked off the throne. It wasn’t so bad while they let him stay in the Imperial Palace. He still had eunuchs to worship him and servants to do his bidding. When he demanded a Western education, they brought him a tutor all the way from London. He loved the West — even took an English name: Henry.”
“Emperor Henry,” Nellie mused. “Has a nice ring to it. Like King Ralph.”
“When they threw him out of the Forbidden City, he kind of fell apart. He turned into a real playboy, a do-nothing rich guy. Sound like anybody we know?”
“At least Jonah raps for a living,” Nellie offered. “I mean, he’s a world-class idiot, but he has a job.”
There was a roar as the bus picked up speed. They were moving again.
“During World War Two,” Amy went on, “the Japanese set Puyi up as emperor of Manchukuo — the old Manchuria, where the Qing dynasty had originated. He knew he was just a puppet for Japan, but he needed to feel like a king again. He paid the price, too — when the war was over, he served ten years in jail for it. And after they let him out, he spent the rest of his life as an ordinary citizen working in a library. He died in 1967.”
“That’s cold,” Nellie agreed. “It’s a big come-down from jewel-encrusted golden robes. Poor guy peaked at six.”
“It’s pretty Cahill, too,” Amy pointed out bitterly. “They dump everything on your shoulders when you’re just a kid. In our family, you don’t get a childhood. We’re too busy trying to dominate the world.”
And I’m a part of that, Nellie r
eflected as the bus rattled over a pothole. Pushing children into a lethal game.
She felt a sudden yearning to take the girl in her arms, to reassure her that everything would be okay, that she’d get to be a normal teenager one day. Yet that would be deception, too.
Aloud, she said, “So when Puyi painted that silk and hid it in the secret attic, it had to be before he got booted from the Forbidden City. They wouldn’t have let him back in and given him the run of the place.”
Amy checked the time line at the front of the book. “That happened in 1924, when he was eighteen. Maybe Puyi sensed that his days were numbered in the Imperial Palace, and that’s why he wrote the poem.” She recited from memory:
‘“That which you seek, you hold in your hand,
Fixed forever in birth,
Where the Earth meets the sky.’”
Her brow furrowed. “But what did he mean?”
Nellie rolled her eyes. “What do you Cahills ever mean? More thirty-nine clues mumbo jumbo.”
Amy frowned. “What you hold in your hand can only be the page itself. And it’s not what we seek, since the clue is someplace else. Fixed forever in birth — well, nothing stays exactly the way it is the instant it’s born. And where the Earth meets the sky—”
“I’ve got news for you,” the au pair said sourly. “The Earth meets the sky everywhere. That’s how it works. Earth stops; sky starts. Face it, we’ve got nothing.”
Amy raised an eyebrow. “We don’t know what Puyi was trying to say. But we do know when he said it—1924.”
“So?”
Amy pulled Dan’s laptop computer from his backpack and powered it on. “So if we research major world events from the early nineteen twenties, we might be able to learn what Puyi was up to. One thing about Cahills — we make the news.”
Nellie was skeptical. “The guy went from child emperor to rich slacker, to Japanese puppet, to war criminal, to librarian. What do you expect to find that isn’t in the history books?”