The Secret Keepers Page 22

  Not daring to show preference for either brother, the inventor wisely chose to live beyond the borders of either kingdom. Nonetheless, one day the brothers’ spies learned that the inventor had discovered a quantity of an unusual metal that possessed seemingly magical properties, and that with it he was performing private experiments. Together the noblemen confronted the inventor, insisting—on pain of death—that he reveal his secrets. When he told them what he might do, given time and freedom from other cares, the brothers agreed that he must make for them the device he had described.

  For many years after, the inventor wanted for nothing but his freedom. He lived in comfort, but always under guard and always knowing that his life’s greatest work was destined to be delivered, against his will, into the hands of these men. Yet he persisted, his brilliance won the day, and the time came when each of the brothers was presented—in secret, as they desired—his own exquisite clock watch.

  Reuben found that the flashlight beam wouldn’t hold steady on the page. His hands were trembling. Two watches? There were two?

  The legends, Jack, tell nothing of blindness, but I believe the inventor used it to his advantage. For the story goes that even as the brothers disappeared, so too did the inventor. He was never seen again. Some say the brothers had him killed, for he was the only one besides them who knew their secret.

  Reuben felt his skin break out in goose bumps. Penelope’s words described exactly his greatest fear—that even if he gave his watch to The Smoke, he and his mom would still be in danger. The papers in his hand were shaking too much to read now. He laid them on the floor and bent over them to continue.

  My own belief is that a man of such genius surely anticipated what the brothers would do, and planned all along to make his escape. I like to think he made his way to a distant land and lived out his life in peace.

  That’s what I’m trying to do, Reuben thought, feeling as if Penelope were writing directly to him. And as if she could hear him, he begged her to tell him how.

  Now, brother, we arrive at the reason I’m telling you of the legends. Yes, there were two clock watches made, but that’s not the whole of it. Out of spite for being forced to do the brothers’ wishes, the inventor enacted a form of revenge in advance. He let it be known that if either man possessed both devices, something extraordinary would happen. He left behind a manuscript when he fled (the various translations are all remarkably faithful to one another), upon which was written the following words:

  The possessor of both shall know no fear of death;

  Though time may pass, he shall feel it not,

  Nor feel aught pain or loss with any breath

  He draws; nay, who holds these both shall have no mortal care,

  Until such time as he lose possession, which God grant he will,

  For it is not fitting that any man,

  Be he low and wicked, or a good man or great,

  Exist for long in such abnormal state.

  You can see for yourself, Jack, what these words suggest. The metal from which the clock watches were made possessed even more astounding properties than the brothers had realized. The inventor, like all great minds of the time, was known to practice alchemy, which (as perhaps you know) was the attempt to transform common metals into gold, or in some cases into something even more precious—a substance that offers eternal youth. In this unique metal, evidently, he had met with success.

  He must have predicted the effects of these last words. At once the brothers turned suspicious and mistrustful of each other. Though each swore never to steal the other’s clock watch, each feared the other’s treachery. The darkness between them grew, and the inevitable outcome was war between their two kingdoms. By war’s end, both kingdoms were ravaged, and both brothers dead.

  From that time on, the clock watches have remained in the province of rumor and legend. It is believed that certain vicious rulers rose to power after possessing one of them. Some legendary assassins and thieves, too, are thought to have used the clock watches to achieve their wicked ends. And it is also understood, Jack, that whoever possesses one of the devices is always in search of its twin—partly in the hope of attaining eternal youth, but still more out of the terrible fear that another, more cunning person will emerge from the shadows to claim the second device for his own, at whatever bloody cost.

  In other words, dear Jack, since the creation of the twin clock watches, there have always been twin hunters in the night. And now I am one of them, and Bartholomew is the other.

  Reuben shuddered and looked over his shoulder, though he knew he was alone. He tried to steady and soften his breath, for just the sound of it in that strange chamber was giving him the creeps. This must be what Penelope had felt like, he thought, every minute of every hour of every day, for years and years.

  The letter continued on its final page:

  And yet I believe there is a chance to put an end to it all. Who can say if I am the first to hatch a plan to destroy the clock watches? But I aim to be the last, brother. In this secret contest I have one advantage: Bartholomew wishes to possess both devices (and God help this world if he does), whereas I seek only to destroy them, and need not proceed with the same degree of caution to protect them.

  Here you enter the story, Jack. You may wonder why I did not destroy at least the one clock watch in my possession. My answer is that I believe it offers us our best chance, not only because it confers invisibility to its possessor, but also because one who grows familiar with the use of it will better understand the habits and limitations of the one who carries its twin. In other words, a skilled hunter has the greatest chance of outfoxing another.

  But who will be this hunter whose aim is to deprive not only another but also himself of such power? It must be a person of great character. Though I esteem your character more highly than anyone’s, Jack, I don’t believe you have the disposition to be a hunter—nor would I ever wish such a path for you. No, I only leave my life’s mission to you, trusting you to find the right person to finish it. I pray that you will, and that you will live a long and happy life.

  No sooner had Reuben finished the letter than he started over and read it again. He wanted to have missed something, but he knew he hadn’t. There was no treasure. What Penelope had revealed about the watch’s secret he already knew, and what she revealed about its twin only filled him with fear.

  Or not only, he realized. There was fear, certainly, but there was also something else.

  Reuben wiped his brow and sat on the floor of the chamber, staring at the letter in the beam of his flashlight. It had not offered the help he was seeking. And yet. Ideas lurked among the shadows in his mind. He could almost see them. Not only a greater understanding but a kind of help. Not the answer he’d looked for, but an answer nonetheless. What was it? Reuben squeezed his eyes closed, trying to sort his thoughts.

  There was something about Bartholomew that seemed familiar. Why? And that line about vicious rulers coming into power with the help of a clock watch—why did that seem familiar? And why…?

  The answers sprang out at him without warning, like a jack-in-the-box, and with a gasp Reuben opened his eyes. Two revelations had struck him in quick succession. Each startled him—in fact, positively jolted him. But he knew them both to be true.

  The first was that The Smoke had the other watch.

  The second—shocking to Reuben even though it emerged from his own mind—was that he intended to steal it.

  Reuben sat in the chamber, trying to absorb what he’d discovered and what he meant to do. He had no idea how he was going to accomplish it. The one thing he felt sure about was that he had to try.

  For he would never persuade his mom to flee the city now. She’d struggled too long to risk something like that, not without money, not when she could simply hand the watch over to The Smoke, believing that would be the end of it. In her mind it would be the least risky choice, the best way to protect Reuben. But she would be wrong, Reuben thought, and he nee
ded to protect her.

  So he would turn the tables on The Smoke. It never would have occurred to him if not for Penelope’s letter, but all those rumors of The Smoke being some mysterious, all-seeing specter—what else could be behind them if not a clock watch like Reuben’s? Whoever he was, The Smoke was simply a man who could turn invisible, who used that secret power to his advantage. If Reuben used his own watch to steal The Smoke’s, he would be taking away not only that power but also all the authority that came with it.

  Yes, he thought, growing excited, he would expose The Smoke as a fraud, and the Counselor and the Directions would rebel, and the search for Reuben and the watch would be called off. He and his mom would be safe. Maybe they wouldn’t have any money, but he would still have his watch—it would still be his secret—and with the watch, given time, he could find a way to make money. With the watch he could do anything.

  Like taking down the lord of New Umbra, Reuben thought, marveling at his own idea. Why not? From a distance the plan seemed simple enough. The trouble was only in the details. He would have to figure those out as he went along.

  Reuben returned his attention to the letter, wishing he could copy it down. He didn’t intend to take it with him—he would leave it here for the Meyers. They deserved an explanation, and this would be his way of giving them one. That is, Penelope would do the explaining for him. Reuben himself would already be gone, beyond any attempt to stop him.

  He wanted to memorize the whole letter, but he lacked Penny’s extraordinary gift for recalling and recounting words. After spending several frustrating minutes on the first paragraph alone, he was compelled to adjust his goal, focusing instead on the letter’s most important part—the words attributed to the genius inventor, words that Penelope herself had memorized long ago.

  Immortality was a concept Reuben could scarcely get his mind around, and perhaps for that reason it didn’t hold any particular appeal for him. Or perhaps he was simply too young, for he knew that the idea was wildly attractive to adults. History was full of people searching for a fountain of youth, wasn’t it? To someone like The Smoke—someone who obviously relished his power—the prospect must be irresistible. He could rule New Umbra forever. Reuben figured he’d better understand the legend inside and out, because he felt sure that The Smoke did.

  And so he studied the words, concentrating with all his might, and only when he felt sure he had them by heart did he let his eyes leave the page. The moment he did so, a sort of spell was broken, and Reuben was struck with misgiving.

  How long, exactly, had he been sitting here? He tried to guess the time spent searching for the tunnel entrance, the time spent in the tunnels, the time he’d spent absorbed in the letter and its surprising revelations—and discovered that he really had no idea. His mind had been overwhelmed by too many things, and he’d lost track.

  Even as he thought this, Reuben was hurriedly bundling the letter up again, replacing it in its box. Surely it hadn’t been too long. Surely he was fine. Out of habit he checked the watch—only to be certain that it was ready for use, but he was struck by the irony nonetheless: here was the most ingeniously designed clock in history, but it could not tell him the hour.

  Reuben ducked out through the open hatch. At once he sensed a change in the tunnel acoustics. On his knees at the edge of the alcove, he shined his flashlight down. The puddle seemed to have expanded; the entire floor was covered with water. The tide must be coming back in.

  He needed to get out of there now.

  Clamping the flashlight between his teeth and taking a firm grip on the iron stake, Reuben got onto his belly and wriggled backward, searching with his foot for the highest rung. He knew it was only a few feet below him, but it seemed much farther. At last his boot came down upon it, and he prepared for the trickiest part. He had to let go of the iron stake; the very thought made him sweat inside his raincoat. Amazing how much more difficult it was to descend than to climb up. That topmost rung—the one that had broken away—would have made a tremendous difference. As it was, Reuben would have to cling to the alcove edge, like hanging on to the edge of a cliff. There was nothing to get a grip on.

  There was also no other choice. And so, mustering his nerve, Reuben released the iron stake and pressed his hands hard against the floor of the alcove. For a moment he was perched like that, in an awkward position so familiar that his mind flashed back to when he was younger, climbing down from the kitchen counter, readying himself to drop the last foot or so. The boy in that memory seemed like one from another lifetime. And yet in some ways he hadn’t changed at all. Years later, and Reuben was still climbing to high places, trying to get his hands on things he wanted.

  He had much of his weight on the rung now, his chest and hands supporting the rest as he stretched downward with his other foot. The flashlight in his mouth bumped against the alcove edge, and so he craned his neck all the way back, the beam wavering and jerking on the ceiling above him. He strained, searching in vain for the next rung, and as his hands were tiring, he began to wonder whether he should risk reaching down with one of them. If he could just get a grip on the rung that his foot rested upon—

  Suddenly, though, that rung was no longer there. It had broken loose with a tiny pinging sound, the sound of a distant game of horseshoes, and yet to Reuben it seemed the most dreadful sound he’d ever heard. He felt his knee bang against the wall, felt the toes of his boots sliding down the stone, felt the entire weight of his body pulling on his hands, which could not hold on. He cried out as his hands ripped free from the alcove edge. His boots scraped stone, came down hard on the next rung, which likewise broke free, and then he was plummeting through space.

  He plunged into water. His feet struck the floor of the tunnel hard enough to hurt, and his teeth clacked together painfully, but if the water had been only as deep as he’d thought it was, he would surely have broken bones. Instead it was deep enough to break his fall—waist-deep, in fact. So deep that he had no time to recover from his fright and experience relief, for he had only fallen from one danger into another. He would never have guessed that the tide could fill the tunnels so quickly. He wouldn’t have thought it possible. Now he was deep in the tunnels, and the water was still rising.

  All of this occurred to Reuben in the space of a moment and in almost total darkness. The flashlight, which had fallen from his mouth when he cried out, was somewhere nearby, still shining weakly underwater. There was a very faint glow in the water around his boots, which were now entirely filled with water themselves. He tried to move—he needed to locate the flashlight—but it was as if anvils had been strapped to his feet. He could scarcely budge them.

  Awkwardly, with one hand clinging to a rung in the wall and the other held high overhead, he struggled to free his feet from the boots. Only after he’d succeeded and felt his bare feet on the stone floor (the boots had claimed his socks)—only then did Reuben realize why he’d been holding his hand up in the air. Without thinking, he had snatched the watch from his raincoat pocket and was holding it high to keep it clear of the water. He continued to do so as he turned this way and that in search of the flashlight.

  In a moment he’d spotted it, already sunk to the stone floor a few paces away.

  And in the next moment, the light went out.

  All was black. As black as it ever was when he vanished. Reuben heard his own breathing, loud and desperate, as if he’d been running for miles. “No,” he whispered, “no, no, no!” He splashed over to where he had seen the flashlight and felt for it with his feet. He found it almost at once and, holding his breath, stooped down for it, just managing with the other hand to keep the watch out of the water. He came up, shook the flashlight, switched it off and on again. Nothing. He tried again and again, with no results, and with an anguished shout, he flung the flashlight out into the darkness, heard it crack against a wall and plop into the water. Instantly he regretted it, was tortured by the wish to try the switch one more time, tortured by the thought that
it might have worked. Now there was absolutely no hope for light.

  He considered climbing up those iron rungs again, high enough to escape the rising water. Then he rejected the idea, doubting his chances of reaching the alcove a second time, not trusting the rungs, and at any rate recoiling from the prospect—if by some miracle he did make it up—of spending hours there in total darkness. No. He had to get out. He just needed to keep his head. He was used to navigating through darkness, he reminded himself, and he knew the way back out.

  “Keep your head,” he whispered fiercely. “Keep your head, keep your head.”

  And so Reuben set out, trudging through water, holding the watch aloft with one hand and finding his way along the wall with the other. The water was cold, he noticed now, and his movement made splashing echoes in the tunnel. His memory of the centipede haunted him as his fingers traced the stone wall, with its many crevices and holes in which others might be lurking. He imagined, too, creatures in the water with him, swimming things and slithering things he could not see.

  “Keep your head,” he growled, more loudly this time, but the note of panic in his voice upset him so much that he clamped his mouth shut and said nothing more. He told himself to focus on the wall. The wall was his way out, and he must think of nothing else.

  He turned right at the first corner. Ages later, it seemed, he came to the next corner and turned right again. He remembered how many steps he’d taken along each stretch of tunnel on the way down here, and they didn’t line up with those he was taking now. That must be because he was moving through water this time, Reuben thought, and doing so altered his stride. It made sense, yet doubt assailed him. Could he have overlooked a branch on the way in, a side tunnel that he had walked right past, only to have taken it blindly now?