Spirits in the Park (21 page)

“Which clan are you?” Bridget asked, glancing sidelong at the turkeys on Chogan's cheeks.

“Turtle,” Chogan replied blithely, and Bridget lost the bet with herself. “Like Sooleawa and her children. Penhawitz was Turtle, too. Tackapausha, Penhawitz's son, belongs to the Wolf Clan like his mother. You see?”

Chogan led her out of the clearing, into the trees. They walked a few feet before emerging into another clearing, this one filled with tall stalks.

“Corn!” Bridget cried at the sight of the ears hanging from the tall green stalks.

“And beans and squash,” Chogan said, pointing out the other vegetables curled around the base of the maize. The beans grew on vines that wrapped around the cornstalks, while the squash and pumpkins filled the spaces on the ground in between. He wiped his forehead again, this time with a corn husk he pulled off the nearest ear. “We call them the Three Sisters. We grow them together, as they support each other. The cornstalks support the bean vines, the beans keep the soil rich, and the squash send out roots to keep out the weeds while shading the ground to keep it moist during the driest of summers. Like the one we're suffering through now.”

“Do you guys make mazes in the fall?” Bridget asked, thinking of the corn maze her mother took them to in Westchester every October. “I bet this one is even better than the one in Peekskill! The kids must be lost for days! I've even got a name for you! The Maize Maze! How awesome is that?”

“No, we don't make mazes,” Chogan replied, crinkling his nose at her strange ideas. “Life is hard enough already. Where is Wopi? He's supposed to be watching out for animals. Some deer will wander by and eat all the squash!”

“So all you guys eat are veggies? That's the most disgusting thing I ever heard!”

“Most of the men hunt,” Chogan explained. “We have a second camp half a day's walk north in the Ravine by the Loch, which is the only real river in this place. There the men venture out to track game in the North Woods, and also to fish in the Loch.”

Bridget cocked her head. “What's that sound?”

Tucket's ears perked up as the sound of laughter drifted by. He let out a howl and ran into the woods.

“Tucket, where are you going?” Bridget cried.

“He just hears the game, that's all,” Chogan replied. “I guess we found out where Wopi went, huh? There is another clearing nearby where the we play sports.”

“Let's run and catch up, then!” Bridget took off after her dog. She heard Chogan sigh behind her.

“No need to run, it's only twenty paces away,” he complained before lumbering after her.

Bridget followed Tucket through the brush, bursting out onto a new field, where the dog pulled up, tail wagging, to watch the game under way.

The field was set up in a way similar to football, with goal-posts on each end, though there was no crossbar to connect the two posts. To Bridget's surprise, one team seemed to be made up entirely of girls; the other was all boys. An old woman sat on the sidelines, a row of sticks at her feet. Probably keeping score, Bridget guessed. The kids were so wrapped up in their game that they didn't notice the visitors on the sidelines immediately, giving the girl a chance to watch them play.

There seemed to be different rules for the boys and the girls. The boys could only kick the ball toward the goal or one another, while the girls could run with it and pass it back and forth. Bridget didn't like different rules for different people, but she had to admit it looked fun. The boys tried to knock the ball out of the girls' hands, but they didn't try to tackle. The girls, however, often brought a boy running with the ball down to the ground. Bridget imagined how easily she'd tackle that boy; she'd be queen of the ball field. She smiled at the thought.

“It's called Pahsaheman,” Chogan said, stepping up next to her. He leaned over to put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath after running after the girl and her dog. “I'm in no shape to play it now, but I used to be fairly good.”

“I bet I could pick it up real quick,” Bridget said. “Does Soka play?”

“She is one of the best,” Chogan replied. “I'm sure the girls' team misses her out there.”

One of the boys leaped to the side to avoid a tackle and kicked the ball square through the posts. His team erupted into cheers. The girls grumbled, clapping hands while encouraging one another as they prepared to exact their revenge. It made Bridget's heart ache for her days playing soccer at camp, or shooting hoops with Rory down at the courts. She wanted to join in, to play with the others. It looked so fun.

And that was when they noticed her. The players froze, a hush falling over them as they spied the visitor and the spirit dog. Bridget decided to make the first move, stepping forward with her hand raised in hello.

“Hi! I'm Bridget. And this is Tucket. He's a spirit dog, you know. I'm just a girl, not a demon, by the way. Can I . . . can I play?”

They greeted her with stony silence. As she glanced around, she saw a whole bunch of different emotions on their faces: fear, worry—interest, even. But no one said a word. Finally, the old woman stepped forward.

“Perhaps next time, young one,” she said, not unsympathetically. “This game is almost through.”

Some of the kids nodded, though Bridget thought she heard the word demon float by. It made her unbearably sad. All she wanted to do was play. Chogan took her arm.

“We should go,” he said softly, his eyes kind.

“We do need someone to take Soka's spot,” one of the Munsee girls piped up suddenly. “They are truly killing us out there.”

Bridget felt a wave of gratitude wash over her as the Munsee girl smiled at her. An argument broke out behind the girl over the invitation. Some of the other girls seemed to agree, while the rest most certainly did not. It was the same with the boys; some said yes, some no. Bridget realized that she'd mess up their game if she joined in, so she declined. But she'd never forget the girl who'd spoken up. As she walked away with Chogan at her side and Tucket right behind, she felt renewed hope that their people would one day live together. She'd make it happen. She'd just have to speak up.

THE DOCKS

A
fter sending Tucket to his sister, Rory had followed Alexa and Simon back to Washington Irving's house. But upon turning onto Irving Place, they were shocked to find the entire residence surrounded; a group of the green-skinned Brokers of Tobias patrolled the sidewalk. Rory felt sick; they'd been discovered.

They quickly retreated before they could be noticed, heading south toward the Stuyvesant farmhouse. They'd just reached the outskirts of the farm when Fritz had overtaken them with news. Hans had found a sailor down at the docks who had information about Harry Meester. Rory's stomach did a somersault as he realized they might be getting closer to his dad. They left right away, heading downtown to meet this mystery sailor, finally ending up on Pearl Street, hurrying toward a large warehouse.

But now Rory was confused. The street they were walking down was a good three long blocks from the East River—docks tended to be near water, in his experience. So why were they headed toward a large, completely landlocked building?

Alexa patiently explained it to him.

“The island has changed a lot over the centuries,” she said. “When my father first came here in the seventeenth century, Manhattan was much thinner, especially down here toward the southern tip. As the years passed, people wanted more land, but there wasn't any more to be had down here. So they made some from scratch. They extended the island out into the river, dumping dirt and stones in the water to create a new shoreline, much wider than before. They'd even sink old ships into the areas they were filling in to stabilize the landfill. So over the years, Pearl Street, which used to be the shore, became one block from the river, then two, then three.”

“But the ships still sail into the same docks,” Simon said, taking up the tale. “Spirits are really set in their ways, if you haven't noticed. So the docks remain here on Pearl Street, even though there hasn't been any water nearby in three hundred years.”

“Keep an eye out for anything odd and don't attract any attention,” Alexa warned them all. “We don't want to be noticed.” She led them into the warehouse, and what Rory saw inside took his breath away.

It was as if someone had crammed every ship that ever existed into one place. A large pool of water extended before him, into which stretched a multitude of wooden piers from a dock that ran the length of the wall through which Rory had entered. Though the warehouse was much bigger on the inside than appeared possible from the outside, it could barely contain all the ships in its harbor. The boats bobbed gently in their slips, so close to one another that their sides scraped. Rory stepped onto the long wooden dock that stretched into the distance on either side of him. Looking up, he could just see the ceiling far above, the wooden planks of the warehouse roof barely visible by the yellow light of the many lamps hanging from posts that thrust up from the dock.

The docks were filled with people: hawkers selling food and supplies, women of questionable character, dockhands seeing to the ships, and, of course, sailors in every manner of dress from the past four hundred years. They intermingled in a loud orchestra of chaos. But Fritz, sitting on Alexa's shoulder, appeared to know just where to go, and Rory and Simon followed them into the mass of people.

They weaved in and out of the throng, heading toward a row of rickety shacks built up against the wall of the warehouse. One building had a lodgings sign above the door, and it was into this so-called hotel that Alexa and Fritz disappeared, bidding Simon and Rory to wait.

“Who is this guy we're meeting, anyway?” Rory asked as they stood staring out at the ships.

“Just some old sailor,” Simon replied absently. His eyes had lit upon a commotion farther down the dock. A crowd of people had gathered around something outside a tavern. Simon inched forward, trying to see. Rory held back, but then a loud shout emitted from the throng brought Simon hurrying over to see what was what, leaving Rory alone. Rory watched as Simon burrowed into the crowd, disappearing from view. He thought about staying put, but then another cry erupted and he decided he had to make sure Simon didn't get himself into trouble.

Forcing his way, Rory muscled into the center of the crowd, just in time to see Simon sit on the ground in front of a black man in a colorful outfit that rivaled Simon's own. They had dice on a strange board in front of them and Simon was placing some gold pieces on the ground. Something about the man tugged at Rory's memory, but he couldn't quite place it. Worried, he quickly knelt down by Simon.

“What are you doing?” Rory hissed in Simon's ear. “We're supposed not to be attracting any notice!”

Simon shrugged, unconcerned. “This will only take a second. I'm great at this game. I'm gonna win this guy's shirt. Look how cool it is!”

Staring at the other man's bright red shirt threatened to burn holes in Rory's eyes; he pulled at Simon's shoulder.

“We don't have time to play with dice,” he said. “We've got to stay focused, here!”

“Quit your talking,” the other man said, looking irritated. “What's your bet?”

“Calm down—Hendrick, is it?” Simon picked up the dice to look them over. “You keep pushing me and I'll think this game isn't on the up-and-up.”

“Would I rob you?” Hendrick appeared offended at the very thought.

“It's not that I don't trust you,” Simon said airily. “But you are a pirate.”

“Fair enough.” Hendrick flashed Rory a smile, which unsettled the boy. Where have I seen him before? he thought. Hendrick opened a button on his shirt to fan his face with the collar, and Rory spied a flash of a tattoo on his chest.

It hit him all at once: the smile, the tattoo, all of it.

“You tried to kidnap me!” Rory cried. “At that tavern the other day! I barely fought you off! You're a kidnapper!”

Hendrick stood up as the crowd began to rumble.

“Now, those are some hard words, boy. I never kidnapped anyone. What do you think I am?”

Simon stood up next Rory. “We think you're a pirate.”

“A pirate, yes, but a kidnapper? Please.” People began to drift away, not wanting to get mixed up in a fight. Hendrick shot Rory an angry look. “You're messing with my gold, boy.”

“You messed with my life!”

“Hey, you got away, didn't you?” Hendrick spat. “With the help of that magic bear or whatever it was. And now you've scared away my day's take. So we're even, okay? Beat it!”

“How can you call that even!” Rory cried. “I got lost in those tunnels! I was almost run over by a subway train. You owe me!”

“I don't owe you nothing except a knock for costing me money,” Hendrick replied. He balled his fists and Rory belatedly realized that he was picking a fight with a pirate, and that wasn't the best path to a long, pain-free life.

Suddenly a loud laugh boomed behind them, making Hendrick jump in his boots. Strolling through the thinning crowd came an older man, dressed expensively in seventeenth century clothing, with hose from his knee to his boots and a white wig atop his head. He slapped Hendrick on the back, so hard it almost knocked the smaller man clear across the dock.

“Don't be such a grinch!” the man announced. “You owe this boy an apology. Say you're sorry!”

“I'm the one who lost money,” Hendrick replied, his voice sullen now. The man in the wig winked at Rory.