Mazes and Monsters (26 page)

“New York State or New York City?” Jay Jay asked.

“The whole state,” Martini said. He chuckled. “Big deal.”

“What did you do about it?” Kate asked.

“Filed it with the rest of the crank letters,” Martini said. “What do you think?”

CHAPTER 6

Underneath Grand Central Station, in the middle of New York City, there is a maze of steam tunnels that snakes around for several miles, supplying steam to the large office buildings and hotels nearby. Not many people know about them, nor would have any interest in them. They are the home for drifters, street people; homeless men and women who have no other place they want to go, or can think of to go, or have the energy and hope to go. They carry their belongings with them, and sleep lightly, lying on newspapers, watchful that their meager possessions are not stolen. They eat what little they can get. They cook, talk, make friends. Some of them have been there for years. In the morning the rumbling of the trains overhead awakens them, and many of them leave for the day, to wander the streets. But at night they come back to sleep. This is their home.

There are many ways to enter the underground tunnels from the street, if you know where they are. A polished brass door at the side of the famous Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, emergency exits in Grand Central Station itself, a doorless opening near the lower level that has the words
BURMA ROAD
handwritten over it. Burma Road is the main tunnel. It is easy to get lost there if you are unfamiliar with the winding passages. It is, of course, a maze.

It had taken Pardieu a long time to find this maze, and now he was resting here before continuing on his journey. He had known from the first moment he set out that he was blessed, but also that he would have to be very careful. A kindly stranger had given him transportation, and after passing through what seemed to be an endless tunnel they had emerged at last into a great city filled with noise and lights and all kinds of beings, mostly Human. Tall towers rose everywhere, but as he scanned the landscape Pardieu saw The Two Towers in the distance and knew he had found the right place. He walked through the streets, watching everything, looking into the eyes of the inhabitants and finding them full of anger and fear. He realized these people did not want to be looked at—they felt it was an assault. And yet some of them had dressed in such gaudy clothing that he knew they wanted to be noticed. It was their souls they were trying to hide. They knew he was a Holy Man and could see within their souls, and so they glared at him. Pardieu looked away, not wanting to incite them to a fight.

Not everyone in this city was unkind. Some smiled at him, returned his glance, and wanted to join him. But Pardieu had to journey on alone. He would smile back and bless them, and walk away.

Whenever he was hungry or thirsty there were places to buy food. He ate simply, buying from vendors who cooked in the open air. At night he would rent a small room in some unsavory inn where he could bathe and sleep, not wishing to sleep in the street. Only Trolls slept in the streets of this city; squat, waddling wanderers carrying bags of plunder and speaking in their own tongue. But even staying at the cheapest places he could find, Pardieu was growing short of coins. Soon he would have to beg.

Everywhere he trudged he looked for some sign that he was closer to the place where he would find the underground maze. “Do you know The Great Hall?” he would sometimes ask passersby, and often they would look bewildered, but occasionally they would point out some way, giving him instructions. He realized they had no idea who he was talking about. They thought he was looking for a building. They were only Men—how could they have heard of The Great Hall?

He tried to recall the map he had drawn, remembering that The Great Hall had told him not to take it because it was unnecessary. Where was he to go? What was the next step? Such an endless city, teeming with people! He waited for night, and his dreams.

Then one night Pardieu had the dream he sought. In it he saw a great door made of gold, as one might find in a castle, and he knew. The next morning he went forth to find it.

He saw it on the second day, set in the side of a fine castle that was guarded by a man in regalia. When the guard turned away, Pardieu pushed the door open and entered.

All mazes are different, and yet they are the same. This one was warm, dimly lit, and pervaded by the strange smell of ancient air. Pardieu longed to be back in the freshness of nature, as he remembered it fondly from so long ago, but he knew he had to go on for he was almost there. He touched his pouch of magic spells, cupping his hand gently over The Eye of Timor, and with the other hand he grasped his sword, in case any monster should appear. Then suddenly, from above, he heard a terrible roaring and screeching that shook the very walls. He knew it was the dragon of the hill, and from the sound it had to be the greatest and most ancient of any dragon he had ever encountered. He stopped, waiting motionless and silent, until the dragon stopped its outcry and was still. Was this to be the final test The Great Hall had set for him—to kill this dragon? In spite of everything—his faith and his magic and the battles he had already won—Pardieu was afraid.

He walked on, careful and alert for danger. Here and there he saw signs that others had been in this place before him. Food had been eaten, bottles of wine drunk and tossed away empty. There were runes written on the walls; names perhaps of other searchers for the treasure. Surely that dragon above had the greatest treasure in all the world. A treasure such as his would feed and clothe many of the poor and needy. As for himself, Pardieu had no money left. He had spent his last coin yesterday, and if he had not had the fortune to have found this place at last he would be sleeping on the street with the evil Trolls, or begging, which he was loath to do. A Holy Man should beg for the unfortunates, not for himself. Still, he was hungry and thirsty, and he hoped he would come upon some other wanderer who might share his provisions with him.

He turned a corner and found himself in front of a cozy little nest made of paper and rags. A Man was sitting there, looking at him curiously. He was a distinguished-looking man—tall and thin with an aesthetic face and silver hair. He did not look like an enemy.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“I am Pardieu the Holy Man,” Pardieu said.

“I’m the King of France.”

“Why, may I ask, are you here?” Pardieu asked respectfully.

“There are worse places,” the King of France said. “What are you doing here?”

“I am on a quest.”

“Aren’t we all. I’m making some coffee. Care to have some?”

“Thank you,” Pardieu said gratefully. “I would.”

The King of France had set up some cooking things in his little corner, and he and Pardieu drank coffee together and talked. He also gave Pardieu some small cakes. “One of these days,” the King of France said, “I’m going to leave this place. I say that every day. But then I don’t go. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Years.”

“Have you ever seen the dragon?” Pardieu asked.

“Seen lots of them. Seen some you’ll never see.”

“The one above …” Pardieu asked. “Tell me of him.”

“Stay away from up there,” the King of France said. “They catch you, they throw you out. It’s safe down here.”

“But the dragon guards the treasure.”

“Depends on how you feel about money.”

“It’s not for me,” Pardieu said quickly. “It is for the poor.”

“Then forget it. Why don’t you go home?”

“I can’t.”

The King of France nodded understandingly.

That night some other wanderers began to come by, carrying bundles of provisions, and each went to a place which seemed to belong to him or her and prepared a nest to sleep in. Pardieu noticed they all slept very cautiously, trusting none of the others. He realized this was a kind of central meeting place, but no one discussed their plans or their quest even though they knew each other. Perhaps they had no quest. They were subterranean dwellers, that was all. He sighed. They might give him food or drink or company if he gained their trust, but they would never come along to aid him. They could not. He was destined to be alone … and perhaps that was as it should be.

The King of France was asleep, snoring softly. Pardieu rose to his feet and quietly slipped away. He remembered that the others had entered from a different branch of the maze than he had, and he thought there might be a way to the dragon’s lair. All the pathways were dimly lit, and in some of them he came upon other wanderers, also asleep. It must be very late. The dragon was silent. Dragons slept too.

He found a door, and touched it carefully, listening to hear what might be on the other side. He was sure now that this was what The Great Hall wanted of him: to find the dragon where it lay and to enchant it and take the treasure. The dragon was evil, as all dragons were. Perhaps there were slaves that had to be freed. Pardieu kept his hand on his sword. He fervently prayed that he would not be forced to kill anyone or anything ever again, but if he had to kill the dragon he knew he would be forgiven. He opened the door and gasped.

There was a huge, beautiful room with a vaulted ceiling, like a room in a castle. It was empty. Long hallways led into dank tunnels that had the metallic smell of dragon’s breath, and Pardieu knew the dragon was somewhere near. He walked down one of these, listening and sniffing, and then jumped lightly into a long narrow ditch that wound deeper into the dragon’s lair. He was walking along a kind of metal track that seemed to go on forever. He suddenly realized that he had been walking ever since early that morning, with the exception of the short time he had stopped to rest and take refreshment with the King of France, and he was very tired. It was dark here, and quiet. He could take just a short rest, perhaps sleep. When the dragon awoke Pardieu would surely hear him. It was more prudent to deal with a dragon when you were not so exhausted as he felt now.

To be sure he was perfectly safe, Pardieu opened his vial that held his potion of invisibility. He drank half. That would ensure his invisibility for six hours, which was enough. He curled up next to the wall with his cloak around him, his head resting on one of the tracks, and was instantly and deeply asleep.

In his dream Pardieu heard the rumbling of the dragon, far away. He felt it vibrating along the track where he had laid his head. Then he awoke and knew this was no longer the dream—the dragon was awake too, and nearby. Pardieu could hear him, coming closer.

He stood up, peering into the dark. Then he saw the great bright eyes of the monster, like lights, sweeping ahead to find danger. What a fearful racket! Pardieu rushed to the side of the tunnel and pressed himself against the wall as the dragon came thundering past him, screeching and clattering his iron scales, breathing great showers of fiery sparks. Never in his life had Pardieu seen a dragon as immense as this. He was terrified. It would take an army to kill this dragon; it would take a war. How vainglorious he had been to think he could do anything.

When the monster was gone Pardieu climbed out of the ditch and ran on shaky legs back to the door that led to the safety of his underground maze. He felt sad and ashamed. He would stay here for a while and live like the others, sleeping underground in the quiet nights and begging on the streets during the day so he would not starve. And every day he would walk and look, waiting for The Great Hall to forgive him for the presumption of going out to kill the dragon unprepared—waiting for his next instructions. He knew that the next time he would be sent to do something that was possible.

CHAPTER 7

It was May. In Greenwich everything was blooming with fresh new lushness. The sky was a clear sapphire-blue. People who had boats began taking them out on the water, white sails snapping smartly in the warm breeze. Robbie had been gone a month.

His absence had not brought his parents closer. Cat knew that happened in nice novels but not in real life. She and Hall had made tentative attempts to be kind to each other, because they had no one else now, but there was still too much blame between them. She wondered if stopping drinking would make her stop blaming Hall for her life, and him stop blaming her for the loss of his children. She doubted it. Not drinking would only make her stop talking about her pain, not stop thinking about it. The only difference was that Hall spent more time at home now, waiting for a phone call from Robbie that never came, and thus Cat was able to talk to him more. She wondered if he really listened.

Most of the time she talked to herself. Sometimes she spoke to the absent Robbie, the way she wished she could do if he were there. “I wanted you to be able to listen to music and look at the sunset,” she said to him. “I wanted you to do all the silly, romantic, quiet things I did when I was young. But you don’t have sunsets—you have war and riots and terrorists and threats of nuclear poisoning. You have crime and drugs. We had implicit faith in money and the future, and you have only fear. I couldn’t keep the world away from you … maybe I made it worse. Did you hate coming home? Did you hate me? Did you hate your father? I wasn’t angry at you, just the world. It wasn’t your fault, Robbie. Did you think I didn’t love you?”

Now she had no doubt that Robbie had run away, not been murdered. It still didn’t mean that she would ever see him again. Now that she knew from the newspapers about the game he had been playing with his friends she realized Robbie had run away long before he actually disappeared physically. She wondered who the other players had been. What kind of families did they have? Was it their parents’ fault, or life’s fault that they had to escape into a fantasy world of invented terrors?

She and Hall subscribed to the New York, the Greenwich, and the Pequod and Philadelphia papers. Except for a few locally written articles expressing new opinions about motivation, most of the news was from the wire services and concerned the police investigation. It was fairly scanty now. Most of the leads led to nothing. The only thing of significance was that a truck driver named William Hansen saw Robbie’s picture in the newspaper and told the police he was sure that was the kid he had given a lift to on the highway outside of Pequod, near the university. The kid had been going east, so since Hansen was on his way to New York he had dropped him off after the Holland Tunnel. So now the New York police were in on the case, and there was hope that Robbie hadn’t gone into the caverns after all.