Gloria had been showing the magician’s house to some prospective buyers when, as sometimes happens at awkward moments, “nature called” and she had to excuse herself to go “freshen up.” Just as she was about to enter the bathroom, the bathroom door opened and an old man in a straw hat stepped out, carrying a box.
Needless to say, Gloria “had a heart attack.”
Very calmly, as if he’d been expecting her, he explained that he was the gardener—the one who first reported the magician’s disappearance—and that he was just cleaning up the magician’s study. He pointed out that she had missed some things when she packed up the house.
He asked Gloria if she would mind taking the box he was holding to the fire station—the estacion de bomberos, he called it. Gloria was so flustered she agreed right away.
Only after she’d left the house did Gloria start to wonder how he knew about the estacion de bomberos in the first place.
“And there you have it,” said Gloria, patting the big box she had brought in. “That’s the whole shebang.”
“Well, I have to say, you’re none the worse for the experience—you look fabulous,” said Grandpa Larry, looking at the newly svelte real estate agent. “Doesn’t she, Wayne?!” he called out to Grandpa Wayne, who was standing in the back of the store tinkering furiously with an old record player.
“Fabulous!” Wayne agreed, not looking up.
“That’s what everybody’s saying!” said Gloria wonderingly. “Ever since that fall. You know, I can’t help thinking that someone must have hypnotized me while I was unconscious. It’s almost like I really went to that spa—instead of the hospital!”
After Gloria left, Grandpa Larry let Sebastian back in. Grandpa Wayne reemerged—it turned out the record player wasn’t so desperately in need of fixing, after all—and everyone, dog included, went upstairs to have more tea, and to look through the box the gardener had sent.
Immediately taking charge, Cass opened the box with a kitchen knife, insisting that she get to handle everything in the box before anyone else. (She could tell her grandfathers thought her behavior a little selfish, but they didn’t say anything—probably because they didn’t want to reprimand her in front of Max-Ernest.) The box was filled to capacity with small items covered in newspaper. Cass eagerly unwrapped them, inspecting each one for clues and secret messages. But the more things she inspected, the clearer it became that there were no clues to be found. The box contained only dishware—plates and bowls and cups.
Cass was crushed. She’d been predicting, or at least hoping something. Something she hadn’t mentioned to her grandfathers, or even to Max-Ernest. Something about the magician’s gardener. But now, it appeared, she’d been wrong. The gardener was exactly who he said was. The box of stuff no more than a box of stuff.
Her grandfathers, on the other hand, couldn’t get over their good luck. “Can you believe somebody’s getting rid of this?” asked Grandpa Larry holding up a pastel plate. “Do you know what Russel Wright goes for these days?”
Taking a few sample dishes, Larry and Wayne ran downstairs to check them against pictures in books they had. Cass knew they would be at this for hours. The gardener couldn’t have chosen better things to send if he’d intentionally set out to give her grandfathers the most distracting items possible.
“So what do you want to do now? ’Cause I sort of have homework,” said Cass to Max-Ernest. She didn’t really want to do homework, but she wasn’t much in the mood for company anymore.
“I dunno...Hey, what’s he smelling?” asked Max-Ernest. “There’s nothing left in there.”
Cass followed Max-Ernest’s eyes over to Sebastian, who was sniffing the empty box, and wagging his tail.
“There’s probably just some kibble under it or something,” said Cass, refusing to be very interested.
Still, she picked up the box and peeked underneath—nothing.
Nonetheless, there was something unusual about the box.
“What’s this made of? Why’s it so heavy?” she asked, shaking it in her hands.
She put the box back down and looked inside. Then she looked at the outside. Then she looked at the inside again.
This time she reached down—and started pulling up the cardboard.
The box had a false bottom.
Hidden beneath the cardboard were two packages wrapped in paper and tied with string. The larger package was addressed to Cass, the smaller to Max-Ernest.
In a more sober moment, Cass might have reflected on the dangers of opening an unexpected package from a total stranger. This was not a sober moment, however.
She and Max-Ernest both tore open their packages at once.
Fortunately, the packages did not contain explosives; they were not even booby-trapped.
Cass’s contained a backpack.
I wish I could describe the way the backpack looked. But there’s a very good chance she’s still carrying it to this day, and I don’t want to give you any more ways to identify her than I already have. At any rate, it wasn’t the backpack’s appearance that made it special. In fact, when Cass first saw it, she was almost disappointed that it looked so normal.
Inside—that was another story. The backpack was filled from top to bottom with state-of-the-art survival gear—all very compact and lightweight and built to withstand the hardest use and the harshest conditions.
The backpack’s best features she didn’t notice until the backpack was empty. These were the things the backpack did—as opposed to the things it contained. For instance, if you pulled one cord, a parachute popped out. If you pulled another cord, the shoulder straps inflated and the backpack became a flotation vest. If you turned the backpack inside out, and unzipped it all the way around, it expanded into a full-size tent.
Cass knew her mother would be unhappy to see Cass wearing a backpack again (lately, her mother had been trying to get her to carry a shoulder bag) but Cass had a feeling this was a backpack she would never want to take off.
Max-Ernest’s package was also disappointing when first opened. It contained what looked like a familiar, handheld device—a kind of device you see every day, and not even a very special version. But it only took Max-Ernest a few seconds to discover that the device wasn’t what it looked like—at all. It didn’t even accept any game cartridges. (Oops. I almost gave away what it was disguised as.)
It had a false front that lifted up at the touch of a hidden button. Underneath was a small, tablet-style computer/scanner specially designed for cracking secret codes—the ULTRA-Decoder II. As Max-Ernest would learn after experimenting for a while, the Decoder included keys for decrypting all known code systems, and tools for deciphering unknown ones. Its memory contained full dictionaries and character recognition software for over a thousand languages including Aramaic, Sanskrit, and Navajo. It could even read Egyptian hieroglyphics.
One thing the Decoder did not do was tell jokes.
Max-Ernest loved it anyway.
“Are you guys OK up there?” called Grandpa Larry.
“We’re fine!” Cass yelled back.
They were ready to hide their packages if Larry came upstairs. But, apparently, he and Wayne had yet to finish researching their new dishes.
A moment later, Max-Ernest was busy translating the word fart into every language he could think of (someone had told him that fart jokes were funny), and Cass was taking a second look at her flashlight—not only a flashlight, it turned out, but a warning siren, tracking device, and two-way radio.
Between the rain and the steam from all the tea, the kitchen window had fogged to the point where you could no longer see through it. Whenever the light passed across the glass, thousands of tiny droplets would briefly illuminate then disappear. This must have happened a half-dozen times before Max-Ernest looked up from studying the Decoder and saw it—
“Look!” he said, but by then the light had passed again.
He had trouble getting Cass to aim her flashlight again at the just the righ
t point, but eventually she hit the spot.
And now Cass could see it, too.
Someone had written a message on the glass—just as anyone might, say, sitting on a bus next to a foggy window. But this message was not scribbled with a finger. Rather, it looked like someone had used some kind of fine writing instrument. And it didn’t say anything like “Joe was here” or “Terry + Samantha = Love.” Actually, it didn’t look like it was even written in English.
It was written in code.
By the time they started deciphering the message, the fog was disappearing from the window, and the message was disappearing with it.
Max-Ernest grabbed a notepad and pencil from the kitchen counter. He scribbled in a kind of delirium— the kind that only comes when you’ve eaten too much Halloween candy or when you’re trying to transcribe a secret message before it vanishes forever.
Max-Ernest held up the page as soon as he’d finished copying the message.
Here is the first line exactly as it appeared on the window:
CSTO RTPPTKCOT TKC JTX-SOKSPQ:
For several minutes, the kids studied the mixed-up letters with increasing frustration.
Then Max-Ernest looked up and smiled. “What does J—T—X dash S—O—K—S—P—Q look like?”
Cass shrugged. She had no idea.
“Well, what if X was X, like really the letter X, even in the code—”
“It’s your name—Max Ernest!” said Cass.
“Right—how ’bout that?”
“Which means J equals M, and T equals A.”
“And S is E, and O is R, and K is N, and P is S, and Q is T.”
Using one of Grandpa Larry’s red pens (Larry still had a lot of them from the days he taught high school), Max-Ernest rewrote the first line of the message, substituting letters according to the formula they had just worked out. This is what he came up with:
CEAR RASSANCA ANC MAX-ERNEST:
“‘Dear Cassandra and Max-Ernest,’” read Cass, filling in the blanks. “It’s a letter to us!...Hey, shouldn’t you be using your Decoder?”
It was almost too simple a code for the Decoder. Having gotten so far, Max-Ernest could have decoded the rest of the message himself, but it would have taken him much longer. The Decoder did the job in less than a second.
It also told them that the code’s keyword was “TERCES.”*
“Terces? What’s that mean?” asked Max-Ernest. “I don’t even think it’s a word.”
“I don’t know—maybe we’ll find out if we read the letter,” said Cass, who felt as if she’d been waiting years to read it, rather than a few minutes.
It’s difficult to describe the feelings that our two friends experienced as Max-Ernest read the letter aloud from the screen of his Decoder. Even if you were good at having feelings—and I, as you know, am not—I think you would have trouble finding names for this particular mix of emotions.
There were a few easier, old-fashioned feelings, like: Happiness. Excitement. Pride. Anxiety. Fear. But there were other, vaguer, harder-to-pin-down feelings, like: A pit in the stomach that means something is either really good or really bad or both. A feeling of being old and young at once. A sense of beginnings and endings happening at the same time. A certainty that your life is changing, but an uncertainty about how it’s changing and whether you want it to.
There was also a feeling that combined confusion, recognition, and amusement all at once.
That feeling came from the way the letter was written.
The funny thing was: even after the letter was decoded, it still didn’t sound exactly like English. It sounded foreign.
Foreign in a familiar way.
Foreign in a way that felt to Cass and Max-Ernest like an old friend.
I’ve included the letter below with one minor but necessary excision. The letter, I think, speaks for itself.
So this is good-bye. For now.*
Dear Cassandra and Max-Ernest:
Congratulations for escaping yourselves from the Midnight Sun.
By rescuing the boy, Benjamin Blake, you have not only saved the life, you have performed for the whole world the service—keeping the evildoers from the great power.
Unfortunately, Ms. Mauvais and Dr. L, they have escaped themselves also. At this very moment, they collect for themselves their army. And every day they come closer to the Secret. The Secret is not what they think it is, but that is all the more reason we must protect it from them.
We have very little of the time. Many lives, they are at stake.
In recognition of your bravery and unique talents, I hereby invite you to become members of the Terces Society— and to enlist in our fight against the Masters of the Midnight Sun.
Understand this: once you swear to the Oath of Terces, your lives, they will never be the same. You will face the hazards and the hardships. And you must obey all the orders without the questions.
If you accept to join our noble cause, leave a xxxxx xxxx in this window next Wednesday.
The man you call Owen, he will find you and take you to us.
In the meantime, please watch carefully the boy, Benjamin. He is more valuable than even you know.
I beg for you to join us. Without you, I fear, we will not succeed.
I am sure I do not have to tell you—speak to no one about this letter. For you have now entered yourselves in the circle of the Secret. And anyone who knows of the Secret—their life is in the grave danger.
With the greatest admiration and respect,
P. B.
Appendix*
Grandpa Larry’s Compass Recipe
To make a compass in a bowl of water, you need a magnet, a cork, and a stickpin (or thin needle). Hold the pin by one end, and brush the magnet down the pin from one end to the other—in one direction only. Never brush the magnet back up the pin. Repeat twenty times or more until the pin is fully magnetized. Then push the pin through the cork. Gently place the cork in the bowl of water. The floating cork will rotate until the pin points north. This is how sailors navigated before the invention of the modern compass. Feel free to share this information; it’s not a secret. Just don’t tell anyone where you heard it.
Cass’s “Super-Chip” Trail Mix
Author’s note: I’ve never tried this recipe myself, but Cass swears by it.
Ingredients:
1/4 cup chocolate chips
1/4 cup peanut-butter chips
1/4 cup banana chips
1/4 cup potato chips
...and no raisins, ever!
Instructions:
“Pre-break” banana chips and potato chips by dumping them into a big bowl, then crushing with a cup. (Try to make all pieces the same size—about 1/4 inch around.) Mix in chocolate chips and peanut-butter chips. Pour into ziplock bag. Seal. Eat in emergencies. Or when you don’t like what’s being served for dinner.
Circus Glossary
Here is some of the lingo the Bergamo Brothers learned when they were in the circus. But be careful. If you use these words incorrectly, a real carny will know you’re just a rube!
All Out and Over—Means the show has ended. (Or in our case, the book.)
Bally—The platform a circus or carnival performer stands on when he’s trying to attract a crowd for the sideshow. It gets its name from the ballyhoo: “Step right up! Prepare to be excited and amazed!” Like everything else in the circus, the bally and the ballyhoo are designed for one purpose: to trap the audience into paying as much money as possible.
Big Top—The main circus tent. Where the Bergamo Brothers first caught sight of the Ringmaster who would later sell them for a few dollars.
Blowdown—When a storm knocks over the Big Top—and suddenly everyone in the tent looks like a clown.
Blowoff—A special, curtained-off show at the end of a circus tent. The idea is to get people to buy another show ticket on their way out.
Carny—A carnival worker. Sometimes toothless. Always conniving. Of course, a circus and a carniv
al are not exactly the same thing. (A circus worker is sometimes called a cirky.) But the circus that the Bergamo Brothers joined had elements of both—you could say it was the worst of both worlds!
Clem—A fight with the locals.
Jump—The jump is the distance a circus or carnival travels between performances.
Mark—An audience member—i.e., a sucker.
Mentalist act—A mind-reading routine like the Bergamo Brothers’.
Midway—The area between—midway, get it?— the circus exit and the entrance to the Big Top. This is where the sideshow stalls and concessions are lined up.
Roustabout—A laborer in the circus. Also a fun word to say.
Rube—A rube is exactly what you are if you don’t know the word rube. In other words, a dupe. A townie or other circus newbie.
Shill—Shills work for the circus but they pretend to be ordinary customers impressed by the sideshow acts—so that other customers get excited enough to cough up their money. Think of parents at a school performance. You know how they always clap really loudly, even when their kids sing out of key or flub their lines? Parents are terrible shills.
Slum—The useless stuff you buy from a circus vendor, like teddy bears and plaster statuettes. Otherwise known as toys and prizes.
Swag—See slum.
Tip—Audience or crowd. “Turning the tip” means getting the crowd to pay to enter a show.
With it—Hip to the carnival scene. A carny. You’re either with it—or you’re not.
Keyword Codes
The secret letter Cass and Max-Ernest received from the Terces Society was encrypted with a keyword code. If you want to try encrypting or decrypting a letter with a keyword code yourself, here’s how:
In a keyword code, the first letters of the alphabet are replaced by a secret word. For instance, if TERCES is your keyword, A is replaced by T, B by E, C by R, D by C, and E by S. (You skip the second E in TERCES because you can’t repeat letters.) After the letters of the keyword, the alphabet proceeds normally—minus the letters that have already been established. Therefore, in this case, F is replaced by A, and G by B. H, however, is not replaced by C, because you’ve already used C for D; instead, H is replaced by D.