Star of Stone Read online

  The Century Quartet

  Ring of Fire

  Star of Stone

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Translation copyright © 2010 by Leah D. Janeczko

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random

  House, Inc., New York. Originally published as La Stella di Pietra by

  Edizioni Piemme S.p.A., Casale Monferrato, Italy, in 2007. Copyright © 2007

  by Edizioni Piemme S.p.A.

  All other international rights © Atlantyca S.p.A., [email protected].

  Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Baccalario, Pierdomenico.

  [Stella di Pietra. English.]

  Star of Stone / by Pierdomenico Baccalario ; translated by Leah D. Janeczko. — 1st American ed.

  p. cm. — (Century quartet; bk. 2)

  Summary: In their continuing adventures, Elettra, Sheng, and Mistral meet Harvey and Ermete

  in New York City and follow clues to find the mysterious Star of Stone.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89227-1

  [1. Good and evil—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Mystery

  and detective stories.] I. Janeczko, Leah. II. Title.

  PZ7.B131358St 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009030416

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  This book is for my grandmother,

  who sees the stars from very close up.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CONTACT

  1. The Rope

  2. The Song

  3. The Crow

  4. The Catalog

  FIRST STASIMON

  5. The Panther

  6. The Club

  7. The Antiques Dealer

  8. The Debate

  9. The Buyer

  10. Agatha

  SECOND STASIMON

  11. The Tailor

  12. The Postcard

  13. The Locker

  14. The Stranger

  15. The Mission

  16. The Island

  17. The Phone Call

  18. Prometheus

  19. The Appointment

  20. The Register

  21. The Tower

  22. The Attic

  23. The Century

  24. The Return

  25. The Party

  26. The Trade

  27. The Woods

  28. The Meteorite

  29. The Needles

  30. The Lions

  THIRD STASIMON

  31. The Friend

  32. The Star of Stone

  33. The Door

  34. The Seed

  35. The Hermit

  36. The Children of the Bear

  Photo Inserts

  Credits

  About the Author

  Why should we lament that fire ravaged the universe, that the Earth’s blaze burned from city to city? When the sparks from the chariot gone astray drifted wayward, the sky itself was scorched, and set ablaze with unknown flames were the nearby stars, which still today bear signs of the havoc wrought.

  —Manilius, The Song of the Stars, vv. 744–749

  You ask me what reward we may gain from this task. The greatest one of all: an understanding of Nature.

  —Seneca, Naturales Quaestiones, VI

  CONTACT

  A STRETCH OF BLACK ROCKS SWEPT BY A WIND HEAVY WITH SLEET. The lead-gray sky. The sea is a vast expanse crashing against the reef. Crests of stone seem to chase each other as they’re swallowed up by the water. Mesmerized, the woman watches the fury of the elements battling among themselves. Water, wind, fire and earth, the fickle sentiments of this remote isle: Iceland.

  She brings the sled to a halt. The six wolves curl up in the snow, the brass bells on their leather harnesses jingling one last time before falling silent.

  The woman has just left the shelter surrounded by ice and the three others, her friends. She told them that Century would begin in Rome. Irene suggested they have the children meet in her little hotel. They tried to imagine how to do it.

  New Year’s Eve.

  A good idea.

  They made their plans and then said goodbye.

  At the top of the cliff, the wind makes the woman’s clothes billow. The hardened lava from an ancient eruption trembles beneath her boots. It’s the blood of the planet, its wounds sealed by salt.

  Then she gives the order to leave. The wolves spring forward and pull the sled swiftly across the snow. They dart toward tall columns of steam that stand out against the gray sky like phantom cathedrals. The wolves run, letting out resounding cries. Suddenly, amid the clouds of steam, an expanse of blue, boiling hot water appears. It’s a thermal spa surrounded by prancing sleet.

  The woman guides the sled up to a wooden hut. She unhitches the wolves and gives them a few commands with a harsh tone.

  Then she goes inside. She takes off her damp clothes and puts on a swimsuit. Her long hair tumbles down her back. She goes down a few steps and sinks into the hot, hot water, half-closing her eyes as the steam caresses her. She swims over to the uncovered side of the pool.

  She waits there, surrounded by snow.

  A long while later, a man silently swims over to her, barely making the water ripple. He calls her by name.

  “It’s me,” she replies.

  The man introduces himself. His name is Jacob Mahler. His hair is the color of spiderwebs, and he’s crouching down in the hot water a few steps away from her.

  “This isn’t what we’d agreed,” she says. “I was supposed to meet Mr. Heremit—”

  Jacob Mahler’s hand shoots out of the water. “Never say that name.”

  “What nonsense,” the woman retorts.

  “It isn’t nonsense.”

  As her only reply, she sinks down into the water. When she rises back up to the surface, the man is still there, perfectly still, beside her.

  “I don’t have time for jokes,” the woman states bluntly, staring at him through strands of her wet hair. “I’ll be setting sail soon.”

  “Your ship can wait a few more hours.”

  “I need to go on a long journey.”

  “Spitsbergen Island, Norway; Kamchatka, Siberia; the Bering Strait. A long voyage through the cold.”

  “I love the cold. It preserves the past.”

  “Spoken like a true archaeologist …”

  “I’m not an archaeologist,” the woman says.

  “A few years ago, a tribe of Siberian Evenki found a mammoth that had been perfectly preserved in the ice. They boiled it and ate it piece by piece before anyone could even study it.”

  “Food is the first basic human need.”

  “What’s the second one?” he asks.

  “Power.”

  “Which is the reason we’re meeting.”

  “I don’t need to talk to you, Jacob Mahler.”

  “He won’t leave his skyscraper. But he wants to know. If you don’t want to talk to me, that means you’ll have to come see us.”

&nb
sp; The woman doesn’t reply. She wipes her hair away from her forehead.

  “In Shanghai,” Jacob Mahler continues. “Once you’ve finished your expedition. We can greet you with something nice and hot. Plus excellent music.”

  “Do you play?”

  “A little. The violin.”

  She stares at the man’s hands as they skim the surface of the water like strange, drifting animals. She thinks it over a moment and then answers. “Tell your boss I’ll come.”

  Mahler nods. “We’ll be expecting you.” He smiles. With this, he sinks down into the cobalt-blue water and disappears.

  Five years have passed since then.

  1

  THE ROPE

  THE SUBWAY’S 3 TRAIN OPENS ITS DOORS, AND HARVEY MILLER steps off. His long, messy hair hanging down over his eyes, Harvey waits for the crowd of passengers to disperse. Then he grouchily shoves his hands down into his pockets and walks over to the stairs leading outside. On the street, the air is filled with a strong burning smell. The asphalt glistens with rain. The sky over the rooftops of Harlem looks fragile.

  The boy pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the address. There are potholes in the street. A tangle of roads makes its way down to the river.

  New York, January, northern Manhattan.

  Harvey walks along. At the address he was looking for he finds a brick building with a basement. Closed windows sealed off by thick curtains. On the wall, graffiti. A family sitting at the top of the stairs waiting for who knows what. On the corner, some abandoned trash. Farther down, other stairways, other closed windows.

  All around it are old, anonymous, grim-looking buildings. Farther down the block, a bar, a greengrocer’s, a Middle Eastern diner. On the lampposts on the corner, posters for Black History Month are splattered with white paint. Harvey breathes in an air that’s filled with anger. The perfect neighborhood for a boxing gym.

  It isn’t hard to find. The gym’s name is written in big letters on a dark awning. On the first floor, there are a labor lawyer’s office, a few numbers and some indecipherable initials. There’s no mistaking it. Number 89. The same number he’s got written down. Still, Harvey hesitates. He walks partway past the building, leans against a rusty railing and stares at the door to the gym for a few moments. All the lights are on in the basement. Harvey checks his watch. It’s five o’clock. The sky is almost completely dark.

  What should he do? He can’t decide…. He doesn’t have an appointment, and he doesn’t need to see anyone in particular. But he’s had that address in his pocket for a week now, ever since he saw the black-and-white poster plastered to a column in the Columbus Circle station. At the top of it was the drawing of a guy wearing shorts and a sweatshirt. Written on his boxing gloves were the words:

  OLYMPIA GYM—BOXING AND

  GRECO-ROMAN WRESTLING

  He’d liked the poster and had copied down the name and address. The idea of coming all the way here had been stuck like a pin in his head ever since. He’d imagined himself throwing punches, and the thought of it had made him smile. It was a good idea for him to learn to defend himself and be sure he could take on a stranger. Especially after what happened in Rome at New Year’s.

  Harvey rolls up on the balls of his feet and straightens his back, like he does whenever he has a problem.

  Not far away from him, an old crow flies down and perches on a railing. It has a pointy beak and one eye is in terrible shape.

  Harvey ignores it. He heads back and tries going down the flight of stairs leading to the basement. At the last step, from the other side of the door, he can hear the squeal of gym shoes on linoleum. Voices of people talking.

  He’s found the gym.

  He knocks, spots a doorbell, rings it.

  He waits. He glances back at the street above him.

  The crow is still perched, motionless, on the railing. It scratches at its cloudy eye with one foot. Then, when the gym door starts to open, it flies off, disappearing among the rooftops.

  Standing in the doorway is a young black woman. “I don’t know you,” she says to Harvey with a hint of a smile. She’s very pretty. Short hair, damp with perspiration on her forehead, and big hazel eyes. Her slightly crooked nose gives her a rough-and-tumble look. She’s wearing a gray sweat suit, a sweatband of the same color around her head and a pair of bright, lilac-colored kneesocks. She doesn’t have shoes on. And she’s really heated up.

  Harvey takes an almost imperceptible step back, thinking he’s made a mistake. What’s a woman doing in a boxing gym?

  “My name’s Harvey Miller and—”

  Something crashes to the ground behind her. She whirls around and shouts, “Michael! You be careful with that punching bag or I’ll make you buy a new one!” Then she turns back to Harvey and says, “Sorry. You were saying?”

  Harvey runs his hand through his thick tangle of hair. “Never mind …,” he grumbles, feeling an irresistible desire to get out of there. “I guess I just misunderstood and …”

  “What is it you think you misunderstood, Harvey Miller?” she replies, looking him up and down. Her tone of voice is sharp. Typical of someone who likes to provoke people. “Did you misunderstand because you don’t really want to be here or because you realized you don’t have the guts?”

  “Hey!” Harvey protests. “I didn’t say that….”

  As her only reply, she takes a little step to the side, letting him see a dirty gray linoleum floor, a wall lined with two rows of empty hooks, a few jackets and a wooden bench with gym bags resting on it. “You didn’t say anything, but your face did. Want to come in?”

  Harvey’s head sinks down between his shoulders and he hunches over suspiciously.

  “You look shorter standing that way, Harvey Miller.”

  “You sound just like my mother.”

  “Your mother’s right.”

  Harvey stands up straight, offended.

  “That’s better,” the woman remarks. “Well?”

  Harvey throws his hands up. “Well, what? What do you want me to say? I just came by to take a look.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “I see you standing in the doorway!”

  “So you came here to a boxing gym to see a woman standing here in a doorway?”

  “No!” Harvey snaps impatiently. “I came here because I wanted to see a boxing gym!”

  She nods for him to come in, a perfectly satisfied look on her face. “Rule number one,” she says, “whoever loses his cool and his concentration loses the match. Rule number two: If you want to come to a boxing gym, you come wearing sweats and a T-shirt, not dressed up for school. In any case, I might have something to lend you.”

  “But I—”

  “You don’t need to pay for the first lesson. If you like it, you can keep coming. Otherwise, no hard feelings. Follow me.”

  A little confused, Harvey steps into the gym.

  “And shut the door!” the woman yells without turning around. “You want us all to catch colds?”

  Inside, the gym is pretty big. It’s lit up by rows of white neon lights. No machines. No mechanical equipment. Just dozens of blue mats lying on the floor, wooden chin-up bars on the walls and a bunch of punching bags in all different sizes hanging from the ceiling. A teenager with his face hidden beneath the hood of a gray sweatshirt is jumping rope, crossing it beneath his feet.

  In the center is the ring: a white platform encircled by thick ropes. Two people wearing blue and red foam rubber headgear are duking it out in a practice match. He can hear their gloves hissing through the air and the smacking thuds of their blows hitting their padded helmets.

  The moment he sees them, Harvey stops, fascinated. The two have on tight-fitting shirts, silky-looking shorts and socks trimmed in dark blue. They’re moving around on their tiptoes like ballerinas, but what they’re doing isn’t a dance. It’s a battle.

  “Terence and Evelyn are going to have their first real matches in a month. Both featherweights, bu
t different tournaments, naturally,” explains the woman, a few steps in front of Harvey.

  “Evelyn?” he asks, noticing only then that one of the boxers is a young woman.

  “Yeah, Evelyn … who happens to pack the strongest punch in this place.” Then, noticing Harvey’s surprise, she adds, “Did you think boxing was only for guys?”

  When Harvey pulls his eyes away from the ring, he sees that the woman is holding her hand out to him. “Nice to have you here, Harvey Miller. I’m Olympia. I run this gym.”

  Olympia is leaning against the wall outside the men’s locker room. Harvey can see her silhouette through the door’s frosted glass panel. The walls of the room are covered with graffiti written by other boxers. The only shower seems to have lost its mixer tap long ago, and the overall smell is a combination of mildew, sweat and clogged drains.

  Sitting on the wooden bench, Harvey anxiously puts on a pair of worn-out gym shoes. He slides his thumbs around inside the heels to stretch them out a little as he shoves his feet in. He checks out his reflection in the mirror. He looks ridiculous, partly because nothing he’s wearing is exactly his size. None of it is exactly clean, either. But he doesn’t care.

  He comes out of the locker room and walks over to Olympia, who doesn’t bother with small talk. “We can start now if you want.”

  “How’d you know I was going to stay?” Harvey asks, following her over to the mats.

  “Some things I can tell at first glance.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “You came alone. No dad dropping you off, telling me he was a boxer when he was your age, before he joined the army. No mom sniffing the locker room, letting me know the gym’s too dirty.”

  “Yeah,” Harvey remarks, thinking of his parents.

  “We’re here to box, not to do housecleaning,” the trainer continues. Then she leads him over to the opposite corner of the gym, where a giant black punching bag is hanging from the ceiling. She hugs it and shows it to Harvey. “This is going to be your enemy. But before you learn how to hit him”—she shoves it at the boy, bashing him square in the face—“you need to learn to take his punches.” The bag gently swings back into her hands. “And before you learn to take his punches, you need to learn to dodge them.”