Prue began to follow the man, transfixed by his strange aura, before she remembered herself. “Do you know where Carol Grod is?”
She’d stopped in her tracks; the man kept walking. She repeated herself. “I need to know where he is.”
Elgen turned. “He is close. Come.”
“What, like, you have him? Here?”
“Come, Prue. Speak to the tree.”
The hum had grown steadily louder in her mind. It made it hard to think straight. She could hear the weird ticking noises coming from the figures in the circle around the tree, though the sounds were quickly being eclipsed by the tree’s all-encompassing low. She rubbed her temples, trying to clear her thoughts. The man continued to speak, gesturing her closer to the ring of Caliphs, the bent hulk of the Blighted Tree. “We’ve been waiting for you. Ever since you were brought here. When the Dowager Governess robbed your family of your brother. We saw you before anyone. We knew your power, your potential. Come closer to the tree.”
“I need to find Carol. Carol Grod. We’ve got to remake Alexei.”
“We know, we know. We only want to help you in this task. You’ve come at an auspicious time, Prue McKeel, Bicycle Maiden, Wildwood Regina. The tree is sending out the Word. It is communicating to its true believers in the language of the Ancients. It is the Calling, Prue. The Blighted Tree needs us.” He waved his hand to the collected congregation. Prue saw them all: silent, standing in the shadow of the tree, the torchlight creating sparks against their cold, silvery face masks.
“Who are they?” she managed. The hum was now everywhere. The sound of her own voice came to her like birdsong beneath a foghorn.
“The true believers. Come closer.”
Prue began walking, as if in a trance, toward the ring.
“A new tree is being born, Prue,” said Elgen. “Deep in the heart of Wildwood. You’ve felt it. It is growing. Like an unborn child in its womb, it is pulling power from its parents. The mother and the father. It will be a difficult birth. Even now, it is sapping the energy from its surroundings. Sadly, the Mother Tree will die in labor. It is as it must be. But the Father Tree will survive. The Father Tree and the newborn will welcome in a new era. We are its midwives, Prue, all of us faithful.”
The humming was so loud now, Prue could barely hear the man’s words, let alone understand them. It came to her in cryptic waves. Ahead, at the tree, she now noticed a new gathering of people: Men and women stood in a line while a hooded acolyte scraped chunks of bark from the Blighted Tree’s wormy trunk. The uncovered people, the men and women in the line, each in turn knelt and opened their mouths, and the acolyte dropped the bits from the trunk onto their tongues. She recognized some of the citizens she’d seen that afternoon at the foyer of the Mansion. Prue watched as each one then stood and was handed a folded robe and a silvery mask.
“We are of the same mind, Prue,” Elgen continued. “We have heard the call as well. To bring the half-dead prince to life.”
HUM.
“It was not just the Mother Tree who decreed this—the Father Tree as well. A champion is needed for the newborn. Alexei will be that champion.”
HUM.
They were growing closer to the tree. The line toward the communion rite was longer now, curling away from the tree and through the encircling acolytes. It became clear to Prue that this was where the Elder Caliph was leading her. “Carol Grod,” she said insistently.
HUM.
“We have Carol,” said Elgen. “He’s safe. We only need Esben. And then the Möbius Cog can be made.”
HUM.
“The what?” whispered Prue. It was as if the man was speaking a foreign language. They reached the outer circle, the hooded Caliph acolytes. Prue listened and heard that strange ticking coming from within each of them. There was something strangely familiar, still, about these figures. Their shapes. She looked at them for some kind of sign of how she knew them, but she could only see the dark forms of their mirrored masks. Elgen called her on, noticing she’d paused by the ring of acolytes.
“Come closer,” said the Elder Caliph. “The tree is calling you.”
Indeed, it seemed to be; the HUM was now rattling in her skull like someone was holding a blender to her forehead. The other thoughts colliding in her mind simply fell away: Esben, Carol, Alexei, Curtis, her mother and father, everything. She approached the tree and placed her hand on its trunk.
A kind of electricity entered her fingertips and snaked its way along the length of her arm; it fanned out at her chest and spread through her neck and pelvis and down to her feet. She suddenly felt a kind of spirit, an energy, that made her realize just how tired she’d been before she’d touched the tree, how much the agonizing events over the last year had affected her soul. It was as if she was a dead battery, a walking dead battery, and the Blighted Tree was charging her afresh. Her eyes, alight with new vision, looked to her fingertips and saw a substance staining her fingernails a phosphorescent green.
“Yes,” came a whisper at her ear. It was Elgen. “It is the Blight that gives the tree its power. The Spongiform.” The strange growth, Prue saw, gathered in every nook of the tree’s knobby bark. It glistened and glowed in the light of the torches. “You have come a long way, Prue McKeel,” continued Elgen, “and you have tasted the beginnings of true power. Eat the Spongiform and join us. Leave your primitive life behind; become a true Caliph and help birth the One Tree.”
Prue stepped away, the energy still coursing through her body, and looked to her right, where a hooded acolyte was scraping some of the foaming green stuff from the bark of the tree. Collecting it on the edge of the spoon he carried, he presented it to Prue, all glowing and wet.
“Eat,” said Elgen. “Eat the Spongiform. And join us.”
CHAPTER 14
A Natural-Born Saboteur;
Two out of Three
A warm bath.
It was something Elsie had not had in—literally—months. She’d almost grown accustomed to the layer of grime that had accumulated on her skin, to the ever-present sheen of grease that seemed to act like a hairnet over her curly black hair. She sat with her knees tucked against her chest while her sister used a glass mason jar to pour the warm, sudsy water over her shoulders.
Outside the room, they could hear the preparations proceeding.
A din of men shouting, things being lifted and shifted. Boxes upended and wires unspooled. Little smatterings of French peppered the men’s language; jokes being shared, hearty laughs echoing in the hallway. They were the sounds of a group of actors preparing for their greatest performance, something they’d been awaiting for many, many years. And the call to places was fast approaching.
Inside the bathroom, Elsie remained quiet, feeling the warm water course over her back and shoulders.
“Okay,” said Rachel. “One more time.”
Elsie nodded. “Straight. Left. Left. Straight. Right. Straight.”
“Uh-huh,” prompted Rachel. She was looking at a map that she’d laid on the floor before her, shielded from her sister’s sight by the lip of the bathtub.
“A vent opening. Hallway.” She looked at her sister for confirmation.
“Yep. Then what?”
“Bathroom, just a few feet to the right. Ceiling vent. Going left from the door. Then straight. For a while. Then right. Left. Left. Right. Straight. Vent opening.”
“Good, sis,” said Rachel. “Careful here.”
“Yeah, this is the break room, right?”
Her sister nodded.
“So we wait till it’s clear. Then drop. And then . . .” She faltered here.
“And then?”
Elsie snuck a look over the tub. Rachel snatched up the map.
“No peeking, Els! This is serious. You won’t have time to consult a map in the tower. You’ve got to commit this stuff to memory.” Her face was lined with worry; Elsie could sense her sister’s deep concern. “You can’t get caught, Elsie. You just can’t.”
Taki
ng a deep breath, Elsie continued, looking Rachel directly in the eye. “Through the break room. Down the hall. Service elevator. Wait for it to shut down.” She paused here and searched her sister’s face; this was to be Unthank’s responsibility. One of many. The entire operation seemed to hinge on his ability to perform several challenging tasks within the sanctum of Titan Tower. Rachel hadn’t looked up; Elsie continued, “Pry the door. The car will not be there. Climb the ladder up fifteen stories. That’s where the vent is, to the safe room. Break the grate and climb in. Then: Right. Straight. Left. Left. Straight. Right. Straight. And . . .”
“And?”
“There it is. Grate to the safe room. Climb in, emergency elevator is behind the bookshelf. Extract the captives, rendezvous outside at the eastern gate of the plaza.” The last sentence had been Jacques’s words; it had sounded cold and official. Elsie liked saying it.
“Good job, sis,” said Rachel, smiling. “I think you got it.”
“Merci,” said Elsie, in the manner of the Chapeaux.
Just then, a knock came at the door; it was Michael. “You guys done in there?”
“Just about,” shouted Rachel. “I think this one’s got the plan down.”
“Good. We need you. The rest of the Unadoptables are here.” He and Cynthia had made the journey back to the warehouse in the Forgotten Place; there, they’d distributed food from the Chapeaux and briefed everyone on the action. As promised, they’d recruited several of the kids for the advance on Titan Tower.
Elsie looked at her sister, wide-eyed. It seemed as if the thing was really happening. “We’re coming!” she shouted.
Outside in the main room, all was chaos. A flurry of black turtlenecks presided, a flock of black berets hovered above. The two girls waded into it uneasily; Michael sidestepped over to them, under a wooden spool of bomb fuse being carried by two saboteurs. He was followed by a trio of other children: the smallest and spryest of the young Unadoptables. They were Harry, Oz, and Ruthie. All were around nine years old and fairly short for their age. Harry was a thick kid, square-shouldered for one so young—but an indomitable force. The other kids called him Harry the Wall. Oz and Ruthie were close friends and shared an almost intuitive way of communication; it was decided that that sort of cunning would come in handy. Elsie sized up the crew and smiled. “Hey, guys,” she said. “You ready for this craziness?”
They barely had a chance to respond when Nico arrived with a stack of what looked like dark tablecloths. “One for each,” he said from behind the tower of cloth. He began to distribute them. “Smalls and extra smalls.”
Oz unfurled the thing that had been tossed to him; it was a black turtleneck, matching slacks, and beret.
“You might be Unadoptable,” said Nico, “but tonight, you’re part of the Chapeaux Noirs.”
“Yes, sir,” said Elsie reflexively. She wasn’t sure that was how they referred to one another. It just seemed right. She gamely fished the beret from her pile of clothes and perched it on her head, slightly askew. A chill of pride went down her spine.
“A natural,” said Nico, winking at her.
Elsie blushed; before long, the gathered Unadoptables had donned the outfits and made their transformation into junior saboteurs.
While Elsie turned to her fellow duct-rats, as their crew was going to be known, Rachel followed Nico across the room, where an assembly line of sorts had been organized: At one table, a group of men were unpacking what looked like black, opaque iron globes, the size of large snowballs, from wooden crates and were tossing them to a second table, where a powder was being poured into the globes’ cavities with a funnel. A third table, just adjacent, continued this assembly line: There, a crew of men carefully threaded wicks into the globes and sealed them with wax. Nico whistled to one of the men at the third table and proffered his hands; a finished bomb was thrown to him, and he weighed it in like a baseball.
“How’s this feel?” he asked, handing the thing to Rachel.
It was heavier than it looked, and she nearly dropped it when he set it in her hands. It was cold, too, and smelled of sulfur. She squared her shoulders, set her feet apart. “It feels good,” she said.
Nico seemed unimpressed. “How far do you suppose you can throw it?”
She juggled the bomb between her hands a few times, gauging the weight. “I don’t know,” she said. “A little ways, I guess.”
“Think you could hit that?” asked Nico, pointing to a pile of discarded flour sacks in the corner of the room. It was easily twenty feet away.
Rachel took a deep breath, gave a thoughtful smirk, and tossed the bomb as best she could, underhanded, as if she were throwing a softball in gym class. It tumbled to the cement floor several feet short of its mark.
“No, no, no,” chided Nico. He grabbed the bomb and walked it back to her side. He modeled the proper form by bending his arm and holding the black orb at his neck. He bent his knees, somewhat comically, before extending his arm in slow motion from his shoulder. “Like that,” he said. “The power all comes from your legs.” He handed the bomb back to Rachel.
She hoisted it to her shoulder and tried again; this time, the thing landed with a dull thump in the middle of the pile of sacks.
“Nice!” said Nico, clapping. “Remember: from les jambes.” He translated: “The legs, that is.”
As Rachel walked to retrieve her practice projectile, a new voice sounded behind her: “And you’ll need to double that distance. From here, you’re still in the blast radius.” She turned to see it was Jacques.
Rachel paled a little at the notion. “I’ll work on it,” she said.
“Good. Bon. Your life depends on it.” Jacques then turned to Nico. “Hopefully she won’t take out any of your fellow saboteurs.”
It had been a sticking point between them, having Rachel on the bombing squad. Jacques had thought it was reckless enough to send children into the tower via the ductwork; it was another thing to actually employ an unseasoned teenager as a bomb thrower.
“Elle peut le faire, Jacques,” said Nico, steely. “Elle a besoin d’un peu de pratique, c’est tout.”1
“Nous n’avons pas le temps pour la pratique. Nous frappons ce soir.”2
Rachel walked up to the men and stood, knowing they were saying something about her. Her ninth-grade French was not enough to unscramble the men’s quick speech. She glared at the two of them, until one of them spoke in English:
“Well,” said Nico as he faced Jacques defiantly. “I hope your own pet project, the madman, has pulled himself together enough to not get us all killed.”
“He’ll do. Oh, he’ll do. And I’ll be glad to be nearer to him than to any bomb-throwing teenyboppers.”
Teenyboppers? thought Rachel. Does anybody say that anymore? She cleared her throat, hoping to get their attention, to no avail. They continued to argue like she wasn’t even there.
“Listen, this is your big project, Jacques. This is the chip on your shoulder.”
“Well, it’s not quite happening the way I’d have liked it. You had to go and make a promise to a bunch of children, that’s what’s got this whole thing going, you know.”
Rachel had had enough. She lifted the iron bomb to her neck, bent her knees and, recalling Nico’s instructions, threw it easily forty feet across the room, letting out a very unseemly grunt in the process. The unlit bomb landed with a loud clatter some ways down the hall that led from the room, and the sound seemed to bring all activity in the chamber to a state of sudden stasis.
“We’re not children,” said Rachel, suddenly aware she had the attention of the whole group. “And I’m not a teenybopper.” She looked over to where the bomb had fallen and, having surprised herself, exclaimed, “That’s pretty far!”
Nico smiled. He looked at Jacques. “See, comrade? She’ll do just fine. And now we know: When the bombs need throwing, look to les ados.”
The room returned to its former state of commotion; Rachel retrieved the bomb and continued pra
cticing her throw against the pile of flour sacks. Before long, several other saboteurs, apparently having been put in mind of their own lack of practice, joined her, and a good-natured competition soon sprouted.
Over in the corner, by a stack of emptied crates labeled EXPLOSIVES, sat a hunched figure, clad in a rumpled argyle sweater-vest, shuffling through a deck of white index cards. Like an immobile object in the midst of a hectic time-lapse video, he remained still, fixated solely on the cards in his hands, while the activity in the room spun around him. Elsie watched him for a time: the almost glacial pace of his reading, the way he mouthed the words of whatever had been written on the index cards. She broke away from her group of gabbing duct-rats and walked over to the man.
“Hello, Mr. Unthank,” she said.
The man seemed not to have heard her; he continued to mumble to himself, reciting the words on the cards in a low murmur. She repeated herself.
“Mr. Unthank.”
He paused and looked up at her. His eyes were wide and searching. He seemed to Elsie like a confused and scared animal.
“Do you remember me?” asked Elsie. “I’m Elsie Mehlberg.”
He shook his head. “N-no,” he said. “I d-don’t know that I do, tra la.”
“My parents went to Istanbul to look for my brother, who disappeared last year. They dropped me and my sister off at your orphanage. They’re somewhere in Russia now, I think. You made us Unadoptable, which is funny because we were never supposed to be adopted in the first place.” It felt good, this litany, this bit of autobiography Elsie was reciting.