The Legend of the Rift by Peter Lerangis
The black cat had backed up and was waiting for me. With a low, growly meow, it inched closer, its orange eyes brightening. “Heyyyy, I don’t have any food, buddy,” I whispered.
But as I tried to walk back to my table, it leaped in my way, placing its front paws on my pants. “Stop!” I blurted.
I could see the waiter running over. The cat glanced sideways at him and then cast a reproachful glance at me.
That was when I saw the pupils of its eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DEVIL CAT
I DIDN’T NEED the Loculus of Language to know that the waiter was throwing some choice Turkish curses at the black cat.
“It’s okay!” I said. “Don’t—”
But the cat had disappeared out of the café, and the waiter was looking at me as if I had a screw loose.
Maybe I did.
I left the café and glanced over the outdoor tables. Torquin and Brother Dimitrios seemed to be in some kind of argument. Cass and Marco were laughing, and Eloise was stuffing fistfuls of calamari into her mouth.
For a moment I thought of going back and telling them what I’d experienced. But even I didn’t trust what I’d experienced. A cat with lambda-shaped pupils? It didn’t make sense. How could it even see?
I had to find it and look at those eyes again. Just to be sure.
To my left, the white stucco walls of the building ended in an alleyway. I casually walked to the alley and looked in. On one side of it was a tightly closed Dumpster. The ground was covered with cobblestones stained brownish gray with food. At the end, the cat was sitting on its haunches.
When I made eye contact, it stood and cocked its head, then walked behind the building. I ran down the alley and followed it around the corner.
And I tripped over the leg of a grizzled old man slumped against the wall. “Whoa!” I shouted, just managing to stay upright. “Sorry!”
The man pulled his legs in and looked up. He was wearing black sunglasses, and his face was covered with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard. “Australia?” he said, rising slowly to his feet.
“Uh . . . no!” I said. “America.”
He was blocking my path back to the café. I looked over my shoulder, but the cat was gone.
“Ah, good. America,” he said. “You take me to America?”
Oh, great. A total wacko. I knew this was a dumb idea. I backed away, figuring I could sneak around the other side of the building. “Yeah. Sure,” I said. “Uh, well, great to meet you—”
“Herostratus,” the guy said. “And you?”
“Jack. See you!”
I turned on my heel and bolted, but I didn’t get far. The back alley ended in a chain-link fence.
Spinning around, I said, “Oops. Look, I have to get back to my—”
“Orange juice,” he said. “I know.” He was reaching into his pocket, and I felt the hair prickle at the back of my neck. “Take this. We go to America someday.”
Out of his pocket, he pulled a dirty, ragged-edged business card and held it out to me. I grabbed it, mumbled thanks, and shoved it in my pocket. He stepped aside, gesturing for me to pass by.
I couldn’t help brushing against him as I squeezed by, back the way I’d come.
I bolted for the café, where the waiter was already serving the main courses. Someone had ordered me a cheeseburger. Marco was slurping the last drops of a chocolate shake. “Did you fall in to the toilet, bro?” he said. “You were gone a long time.”
“I—I went looking for that weird cat,” I said lamely. “It had . . . strange eyes.”
“Did you find it?” Eloise asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Chef probably needed it . . . for cheeseburger!” Torquin laughed at his own joke, a hideous snorting, choking noise that made the people in the nearby table drop their silverware.
“Well, there are plenty more cats,” Cass said, gesturing around the café floor, where at least three more were twining around the tables. No one seemed to be paying them much attention.
And neither should you, I told myself. As I took a deep breath and picked up my burger, I noticed something strange about my sleeve.
Hairs. Black cat hairs, up and down the length. Exactly where I had brushed against the homeless guy.
“Slow day,” Torquin remarked as we walked up the path to the temple site.
He was right. The sky was overcast, the air had a chill, and we were among the few visitors to the Temple of Artemis. “How much of it is left?” I asked.
Cass gestured to a marble column about two stories high that looked like it had been put together out of mismatched blocks by a baby giant. “That much.”
“That’s it?” Eloise said.
“The temple was destroyed by the attacking Goths in the third century B.C.,” Cass said. “Many of the stones were used in other buildings over the years. Others were looted.”
As we walked closer, we seemed to be the only visitors speaking English. I heard what sounded like German, Greek, Turkish, maybe Swedish. Aside from the patched-together column, the site was basically a flat field strewn with relics—a piece of column here, a chunk of sculpture there. Mostly weeds and soil, and a wide, swampy puddle.
“Some Wonder of the World,” Eloise sniffed. “Are the others just as spectacular?”
Brother Dimitrios was stepping cautiously. “I have seen how this works,” he said. “These children can conjure life out of rocks. They can cause the formation of statues, Loculi, and all manner of creatures. It is a terrifying thing to behold.”
“I’m waiting. . . .” Eloise said, tapping her foot impatiently.
I walked around the field, but I felt nothing. Not the slightest vibration, nothing close to the Song of the Heptakiklos. “Be patient,” I said. “This happened at the Mausoleum in Bodrum, too. All we needed was the right stone. . . .”
Cass was kneeling by a piece of column that was charred black. “Hey, maybe this is from the time that goofball burned down the second temple, before they built the third and most awesome one.”
“Ancient goofballs,” Marco said. “Sounds like a book series.”
As I picked up a stone, Torquin pulled out his phone and began thumbing away. “Wikipedia. Temple arsonist wanted to be famous. Burned it down so people would know his name.” He scratched his head. “Didn’t work. Herostratus. Never heard of him.”
At the sound of that name, I dropped the rock on my foot. But I didn’t feel a thing.
Fumbling in my pocket, I pulled out the business card the homeless guy had given me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE BACK DOOR
BROTHER DIMITRIOS MUST have tipped well at lunch, because the Amazon Café waiter just smiled and nodded as we barged back into the outdoor restaurant. I led everybody around to the back alley, but it was totally empty save for an old newspaper blowing lazily in the wind.
“He was right here!” I said, inching my way down the narrow passageway toward the chain-link fence. “I followed the cat with the orange eyes, but when I got here it was gone. That’s when I saw the old guy.”
“Wait, orange?” Eloise said.
“Yes, and its pupils were shaped like lambdas,” I said. “I tried to show you, but you guys were all over the menu.”
I saw Cass give Marco a look. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Jack?” Cass asked.
“The calamari did taste a little funny to me,” Marco said.
I stopped when I reached the end of the alley. Just before the fence, in the back wall of the restaurant, was a closed door. From a distance, it looked black and featureless, but up close I noticed words carved into the metal but blackened with age and paint.
“I don’t remember seeing this,” I said.
“Restaurant kitchens generally do have back doors,” Brother Dimitrios said.
“I mean the words,” I said.
“Stand still,” Cass said, reaching into my backpack. “This is a job for the Loculus of Language.”
“Uh . . . yup,” Cass replied.
“It’s on the card that weird guy gave me,” I said. “He must work here.”
“I guess Amazon’s just starting out in Turkey,” Marco said. “Maybe we should order a book.”
I knocked on the door and heard it echo on the inside. “Hello?” I called out.
After waiting for a few moments, I knocked again.
“No one there,” Eloise said. “Can we go now? This places stinks, and it gives me the creeps.”
I pressed down on the latch. With a deep click, the door swung open into complete blackness. A blast of cold, dry, musty air whooshed out.
“Anyone home?” I couldn’t remember the name on the card, so I checked it in the light from outside and said, “Um . . . Herostratus? Hello?”
As we all stepped in, Brother Dimitrios said, “This is clearly some sort of meat locker. Unless you would like to have a run-in with a side of beef, I suggest we—”
“Yeeeeeeiiiiii!” A baby’s scream pierced the darkness. I jumped back, knocking Eloise off her feet. As we tumbled to the floor, I heard a click.
I scrambled to stand up. Above us a single lightbulb flashed on, and from it hung a long string almost all the way to the floor. At the end of the string was a fuzzy, chewed-up plush mouse.
A black tail disappeared into a half-open doorway. “That’s it!” I said. “That’s the cat!”
My heart thudding, I took in the surroundings—an empty, square room with a vaulted ceiling that seemed higher than the building looked from outside.
“Close the door!” a voice with a thick accent called out from the next room.
“Herostratus?” I called out. “Is that—”
“Am I not being clear?” the voice boomed.
Torquin reached behind him and pulled the door shut.
The room fell silent. Everything we had been hearing—distant car horns and revving motors, planes, radios—was totally gone. Not the slightest hint of a sound.
“Echo!” Marco called out. “Echo! Echo!”
Eloise poked him in the side. “Will you stop that!”
For a moment, absolutely nothing happened. Slowly, the light from above seemed to soften, and I blinked, thinking my eyes were adjusting weirdly to the light. Near the half-open door, the harsh white wall seemed to be darkening. Its flatness grew wavy, as if it were suddenly melting. But one by one, the waves swelled and took on solid form. They became rounded like cups, bowing outward until each one took the shape of a sconce, each holding a flickering candle. Their surfaces took on the weight and shine of polished marble, carved with faces, shoulders, and arms of women. Each one looked as if she were holding up the light herself, the sconce fires dancing brightly.
“Jack, look!” Cass exclaimed, pointing upward.
I craned my neck to see the ceiling, which was now at least twice as high as it had been. Its squarish shape was now vaulted marble, its walls carved with the shapes of vines, leaves, and jumping deer. The bare lightbulb at the top was now a chandelier made of deer antlers, their tips blazing with candlelight.
Brother Dimitrios let out a gasp and began to dance weirdly. I felt a movement under my feet, and I realized he was just spooked over the fact that the bare cement floor was changing shape, transforming into a mosaic of colorful glazed tiles.
Eloise let out a scream. “I want to go home!”
She headed for the door and pressed down on the latch, but it wouldn’t move. Brother Dimitrios joined her, but he wasn’t having much success either.
Marco ignored them both, creeping toward the half-open door, where the cat had disappeared. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty . . .”
I stepped closer to him. At the transom, we both leaned inward, pushing the door open. I reached in and felt around the inner wall. “There’s got to be a light switch somewhere. . . .” I said.
“Careful, Brother Jack,” Marco said.
I stepped into the room. And I put my foot down on . . . nothing.
Losing my balance, I grabbed Marco. But his weight was pitched forward, too. “Whoa!” he said. “What are you—”
Marco reached for the doorjamb but I felt my weight pitching downward. I let go of Marco’s shirt and windmilled my arms.
“DOOOOIIINNNNG!” Marco’s voice echoed against the walls as we both fell into blackness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
HEROSTRATUS AND VROMASKI FLAMBÉ
I’M NOT SURE how Marco hit the floor first. But I was really glad he did. He may be all muscle, but he’s way softer than a hard marble surface.
“Yeow, Brother Jack, that was your butt and my kidney!” Marco said, jumping to his feet with a tight grimace.
“Sorry!” I rolled off onto a carpet that was woven with threads of deep reds, greens, and blues—hunting scenes, woodland games, meetings in meadows. The fact that I could see this rug, and Marco’s grimace, meant that somewhere on our way down, someone turned a light on.
As I looked around, I realized it wasn’t just one light, but about two dozen fiery sconces, fancier and bigger than the ones above. I sat there, winded, catching my breath. The view into the room was blocked by a big marble desk balanced on thick columns, but a foot or two away from me was a wooden ladder leading up the wall to an arched doorway above. Cass, Marco, Eloise, Torquin, and Brother Dimitrios were gathered there, looking down.
“You could have used ladder,” Torquin commented.
“Thanks for the suggestion,” I said.
My gaze rose further upward toward the ceiling, which was capped by an enormous dome, painted with an image of a goddess surrounded by women with long, flowing hair. The height of the room was freaky enough. The Amazon Café was a one-story building. It also very much did not have a dome.
“How did they light all those candles so fast?” Marco turned, rapping his fingers on the marble desk. “Whoa, glad my kidney didn’t land on this hard thing—”
He froze in the middle of the sentence, looking over the desk.
I jumped to my feet. On the other wall of the room, a cavernous fireplace crackled. The flames rose at least three feet high, licking the sides of what looked like a pig, slowing turning on a spit. A horrible smell, like burning rubber and puke, made me suspect it was actually a vromaski.
Off to the side, cranking that spit, was Herostratus.
I elbowed Marco. “That’s him,” I hissed. “That’s the guy!”
The old man turned, and his face broke into a huge smile. “Ah, so good of you to . . . drop in!”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Did you hear what I just said?” Herostratus exclaimed. “‘Drop in?’ Haaaar-ha-ha-ha!” He threw his head back in a high-pitched, barking laugh.
Marco narrowed his eyes as he moved closer to the old man. “My, Grandpa, what orange eyes you have.”
He was right. The light flashing from the man’s eyes were an unmistakable dull orange. “The color of fire,” Herostratus said.
“You . . . you were the cat!” I said.
He nodded. “They love me in that restaurant. Such nice people. Especially the Greeks.”
“Okay, Garfield,” Marco said, “tell us who the heck you are and what you’re doing.”
The old guy stepped away from the fireplace, shambling a few steps toward us in his broken sandals, and bowed stiffly. “Humble Herostratus, at your service. And this”—he gestured with a grand flourish toward the roasting animal—“is Hog Warts.”
“Now that,” Marco said with a sneer, “is not funny.”
Herostratus shrugged. “That joke killed at the last boar sacrifice.” He glanced cautiously toward an arched doorway that led to a long hallway. “They cursed me—the Zons. Like them, I live for an eternity. But unlike them, I have the power to shift shape into animal form. But it is for their pleasure only. For their amusement.”
“Who are the Zons?” I asked.
“They hunt me. They trap me all alone and slaughter me. You cannot imagine the pain of dying, only to be brought back to life—only to be killed again. And for what? Because of my personality. I am being punished for who I am, for what I enjoy—a little laughter, a little flash!” Herostratus moved closer. “Would you like to see me juggle three flaming willow branches?”
“You’re the guy who set fire to the Temple of Artemis,” I said.
He looked fearfully over his shoulder. “Please. That name is not to be mentioned here!”
“Whoa, hang on, Thermostatus,” Marco said, “let’s cut to the chase. We’re here for a reason.”
“Yes, yes, the Loculus, isn’t it?” Herostratus replied.
“You know?” I said.
Herostratus clapped his hands. “Of course! I have been waiting ages—literally—for you, young man.” He looked curiously at me. “Erm . . . your name?”
“Jack,” I said. “But how—?”
Herostratus spread his index and middle finger and pointed them downward in a lambda shape. “The mark! You have it.”
Instinctively I reached for the patch of white hair shaped like an upside-down V at the back of my head. How did Herostratus know about the G7W mark? All of us had this. It was part of way the gene expressed itself. My hair had been shaved off when I first arrived on the island, but the mark had grown back. Professor Bhegad had called it a lambda, because it resembled the shape of the Greek L.
A belch erupted from behind us, echoing loudly in the room. Marco and I spun around to see Torquin leading the others down the ladder. “Sorry. Calamari,” Torquin explained.
“By Adonis’s curls!” Herostratus blurted out, pointing at Marco and then at Cass. “You have the mark also . . . and you! Oh, the Zons will be absolutely thrilliated. Oh, dear eyes, do not fall out of this head! I have been despairing to see even one of you—but now three! Oh!” He cast another nervous glance toward the hallway. “We have a few minutes. You must be hungry. Calamari are such miserably small things. Sit, sit. The only way to properly eat a vromaski is en flambé. Flames rising to the ceiling—”