“This is locked! Must be one of those rooms Mrs. Chandler talked about.”
Artie grabbed the knob in turn, tried to open the door.
“So it’s locked, so now how are you going to get it open? Recite something to it, maybe, like that guy in the fairy tale I read to my sister last night.” Artie stepped back, threw up his hands as if he were about to perform some feat of magic, and said in a deep voice, “Open, sesame!”
“You wait, you just wait!” Sig could not be defeated, not now, not with Artie grinning at him that way. He ran back to the front room and got a poker he had seen by the fireplace. But when he brought it back Artie looked surprised—not only surprised but frightened.
“Now look here, Sig, you go breaking things up and you’ll be in bad trouble. There were a couple of guys I heard about that got into a house and broke up stuff. And then they were arrested, and their folks had to go down to the police station and get them. I don’t want any part of breaking stuff up. It’s late, my mom will be wondering where I am. I’m going right now!”
“Go on,” Sig retorted. “Go on. You won’t get any of the treasure.”
“There’s no treasure, anyway. And you’re just asking for trouble, Sig Dortmund!”
Artie turned and ran. For a moment Sig was ready to follow him. Then, stubbornly, he went back to the door. There was a treasure, he knew there was. And he would have it all to himself now. Let Artie beat it; Artie was chicken.
Sig raised the poker awkwardly, but when he touched the door it just swung right open. It was not locked, after all. He dropped the poker, to use the flashlight. There were two windows, but they had shutters closed tightly across them. Sig had never seen shutters inside a house before. Usually they were hung for trimming on the outside. In fact, he had not known they could be closed. There was a table right in the middle of the room, a chair by it, and nothing else at all. Except a box on the table. Sig crossed to look at it.
Velvety dust all over, which he smeared away quickly. Then the flashlight picked up bright colors, so bright they seemed to glitter. There was a picture, or rather four pictures, for the top of the box was quartered into four sections. And the pictures—were pictures of dragons!
The dragon at the top was a silvery color and it had wings. It was holding up its clawed forefeet as if it were going to attack. Its red tongue, which was forked at the end like a snake’s, stuck straight out of its mouth, and its green eyes stared directly at Sig.
To the left below was a red dragon with a long tail which curled up and over its back, ending in an arrow point. The right-hand dragon was coiled up as if asleep, its big head resting on its paws, its eyes closed. It was yellow. The dragon at the bottom had the queerest of shapes. Its body was more like an an animal’s, with paws in front but hind feet like big bird claws. Its neck was long and held high, and its head was small, like a snake’s. It was blue in color.
Sig opened the box and his surprise was complete. It was full to the brim with parts of a jigsaw puzzle, queer-shaped bits all tumbled together. Except that they were so brightly colored, they glittered almost as if they were, indeed, diamonds, emeralds, rubies. Sig ran his fingers through the jumble of pieces and snatched them away. They had felt—queer! And yet now he wanted to touch them again.
He put the lid back on the box and picked it up, holding it close to him. He could not take it home, there would be too many questions asked. But he was going to keep it; he had found it after Artie had gone, so Artie had no claim on it.
But Artie was right about one thing—it was getting late. He would just hide this and come back tomorrow to look it over. Also, he had not explored the rest of the house.
Hide it—where? There were all those covers in the other room. Suppose Artie came back on his own or told someone? This was Sig’s treasure and he was going to keep it!
Sig crossed the hall and slipped the box under one of the sheeting covers. He left the door of the other room half ajar as he made his way out of the house. As he hurried down the drive he did not see that shadow within a shadow by the half-dead lilac bush.
2
Fafnir
Sig hung back at the bus stop the next morning, not wanting any questions from Artie. But when he got on the bus Artie was not there, and he settled down in a seat a little uneasily. Suppose Artie had told someone? He tried not to think about what Artie might have done or been doing. But when Artie was not in first-period class, and didn’t show up in math, either, Sig’s uneasiness grew. He had been dumb, letting Artie in on the secret at all. Tonight he would get the dragon box out of the house. Then—
The rest of the day was disaster added to disaster as far as Sig was concerned. There was a test in math, to see how well they had remembered things over vacation. And Sig discovered that he did not even know what some of the questions meant. Mr. Bevans had never taught them anything like that back at the Lakemount School.
And in the cafeteria—well, it was no fun eating alone. Everyone else in the whole place either was part of a crowd or else had at least one other guy to sit with. Except kooks like that Stevens kid and that Ras. They sat alone, but Sig was sure not going to join either one of them. Artie had not shown up, either, which meant he had not come to school today.
The afternoon dragged on and on. Sig thought it was never going to end. But at last he tramped back to his locker, stuck his math book and his social studies notebook into his book bag, and went for the bus. Five problems in math—and he still did not understand how you were supposed to work them. This Mr. Sampson sure was tough, and he thought you ought to get it right the first time when he scribbled something on the board and said real fast “This is . . .” and “That is . . .” Then he would look around and snap “Understand?” But his voice made it plain that he expected you to say “yes” whether you did or not. And Sig knew he did not.
He was no brain, he had always known that. But if he were given time and someone would go over it with him—well, he had not done too badly at Lakemount. Only everything had not been such hurry, hurry there as it was here at Anthony Wayne. He stared glumly out of the window and wondered if the whole year was going to be this way.
Ras balanced his big notebook on his knee and watched Sig in short, stolen glances from time to time. What had the big boy and Artie been doing in that old house last night? And why had Artie come out in such a hurry while Sig stayed in? Ras had not told Shaka about it yet. But now he wondered. Suppose they did something in the house to bring the police—who would be blamed? Ras nodded. Always the same thing, Shaka said. When the police looked around for somebody to blame for something, they picked out a black man first. Should he be bright and stay away, or should he follow Sig if he went in the house tonight? But why had Sig stayed last night after Artie came out in such a hurry? Ras had to know the reason for that. Yes, he would follow Sig if he went in there again.
Kim sat with his eyes on his book bag. Inside he felt lost and empty, almost as bad as he had in Hong Kong after the old woman had died and left him on his own. He had never known whether she was his grandmother or not. Sometimes she said she was, other times she had yelled mean things at him, called him a toad-faced nothing. But at least she had known he was alive. After she died there had been no one, not until he had gone to the mission one day, tagging behind some other boys hoping for a bowl of noodles.
And he had been fed. After that, things changed. First he stayed in the mission orphanage. Then he met Father, and came to America. But now he felt alone again, with no one caring at school, as if he, Kim Stevens, were not even there. Sometimes he felt as if he were invisible, like those demons the old woman used to frighten him with. What if he could turn into a demon, one of the red-faced monsters he had seen pictured on a temple wall? And did it right in class? They would know who he was then!
Should he go and pick up the dragon box tonight? Sig wondered. He wished he knew what had happened to Artie, if he had told anyone about last night. But supposing the Good Will people came soon
to take everything out of the house? Yes, he had better get the box tonight and find someplace to hide it. But why did he want it so badly? Sig was a little puzzled about his own feeling. He had never cared much for jigsaw puzzles before. Well, somehow this was different. And he knew that he had to have it.
He would do as they had last night, wait until the kids scattered away from the bus stop and then go in and get the box. He did not like the idea of being in the house alone, though. The rooms were so big and dark. And he had not brought the flashlight.
There were a lot of clouds, too. He would have to hurry to get home before the rain started. Or Mom would ask some questions harder to answer than the math ones were today. Luckily Sig could remember right where he had left the box, under a piece of sheeting on the seat of a small couch.
The bus was taking a lot of time, all those stops to let kids off. Sig kicked his heels against the floor and wished he could get out and run. That way he might get there sooner.
It was so cloudy when the bus finally reached his corner that Sig knew he dared not try to go to the house. Artie—thinking of Artie gave him a new plan. It was almost as if someone had told him what to do, step by step. He was so pleased with his new idea that he did not stop to think past putting it into action. He made his way straight home.
As he went through his front door he felt a twinge of uneasiness. What he was going to tell Mom was not exactly true. But it might be the only chance for him to get the dragon box. And he had to take it.
“Mom?” There was no answer to his call. Sig went on to the kitchen.
On the table was a plate of cookies. As Sig reached for one he saw the note held down under the edge of the plate. Mom was not here, she had gone to Aunt Kate’s. There would be an hour, maybe more, before Dad got home. So he would not have to tell the made-up story about taking Artie’s homework to him. He could easily get the box and no one would know.
Cramming another cookie into his mouth, Sig got his flashlight and pulled on his slicker. It was already raining. All the better, nobody would be hanging around to see him go to the house.
He felt excited at the adventure and now he was glad to be alone. He bet that Artie, or Greg Ross, even, would be afraid to go into the house by himself in the dark. But he, Sig Dortmund, was not.
Many more leaves had piled up in the drive of the old house, and the rain plastered them to the broken concrete. Sig edged around to the back porch. It was harder getting the window up without Artie to help him. He propped it up with a loose brick from the back steps. Then he hurried across the kitchen, pantry, dark dining room, to the parlor where he had left the dragon box.
Only, the sheet cover was flipped back and the box was gone!
Artie! Sig felt hot with anger. Artie had come and taken it away. His hand clenched into a fist. He was not going to let Artie get away with this. It was his box, he had found it after Artie had left. Artie was going to give it back!
Sig paused in the hall. How had Artie known about the box? Maybe—maybe Artie had only pretended to go, had hidden somewhere and watched him, had planned to take the box as soon as he was gone! Well, Artie was going to give it back, if Sig had to go to his house to make him do it.
But Sig froze. A sound, a scraping sound. It had come from the room where he had found the box. Artie! Maybe Artie was still here and he could catch him!
Sig tiptoed down the hall to the half-open door. Artie could not have expected Sig or he would have hidden. So Sig could surprise him—
He paused by the door. The room was lighter than it had been yesterday. One of the shutters which crossed the window had been opened. And there he was by the table with the box!
“Got you!” Sig pressed the button on the flashlight and the ray caught that figure.
Only it was not Artie at all. It was that Ras guy. But he did have the box. Its lid was open and some of the pieces were spilled out on the tabletop. Of all the nerve!
“Give me that!” Sig moved quickly. “That’s mine! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Yours?” Ras grinned and Sig did not like that grin, nor the tone of his voice as he added, “Who gave it to you? Finders keepers.”
“It’s mine!” Somehow getting that box into his own hands again seemed to Sig the most important thing in the world. But before he could grab it Ras snatched it away, so that a lot of the pieces inside sifted over the rim and fell out on the dusty tabletop. Their bright colors sparkled as if they really were jewel stones, so brilliantly they glowed.
“Yours?” Ras repeated. “I don’t think so. I think you found it here and now you want to steal it. Yeah, steal it! It belongs to whoever owns this house, not to you. Isn’t that true now? You stole it, whitey. Just like your kind steal a lot of things. My brother, he’s got the right of it, whitey. Your kind aren’t any good.”
Ras deliberately shook the box again and a sprinkling of pieces fell over its edge. Sig cried out and tried to jerk the box out of Ras’s hold, but the other boy eluded him easily. Then Sig threw away the flashlight and launched himself in a tackle. He was clumsy, but he brought Ras down and the other dropped the box to defend himself.
Sig had been in fights before, but this was more real than any of those. It seemed as if Ras wanted to hurt, and Sig discovered that he wanted to hurt back. But, though they flailed at each other, few of the blows found their mark. However, Sig’s determined advance did herd Ras into the hall. Then that hot fury, which had been building in Sig ever since he had discovered the box missing, boiled over and he jumped at Ras in a blind rage.
The other ran, as if something about Sig had suddenly frightened him so that he just wanted to get away. They crossed the hall, ran through the dark rooms. In the dining room Sig ran straight into a chair that Ras had pushed out in his path. He fell, and when he got to his feet again some of the anger was gone. But he still kept on. When he reached the kitchen Ras was already at the window, trying to get that stubborn pane up farther.
Sig sprang and caught handfuls of jacket near the other’s shoulders.
“No you don’t!” He tried to pull Ras back, though the boy held fast to the windowsill.
Then, outside, there was a vivid stroke of lightning, as startling as if it had struck the old house. Ras let go his hold, frightened by that flash in his very face. Sig staggered back from the window, pulling him along.
Ras jerked and pulled, wriggling free of Sig’s hold. But, as if he had been confused by the lightning, he now headed not back to the window but across the kitchen to the basement door. And he was gone through that before Sig could move.
Sig sat up. When Ras had pulled free he had overbalanced and landed on the floor. The door banged shut behind Ras. Sig looked around the kitchen. He had to get the box and pick up all those pieces Ras had dropped on the table and floor. But if he left the kitchen Ras could get out and go and tell—or else he would start fighting again for the box.
Sig got to his feet, sore in all those places which had hit the chair in the dining room. He limped to the table and began to push it across the dusty floor. It was big and heavy and hard to move, but at last he got it jammed against the basement door. Now Ras could just stay down there until he, Sig, was ready to let him out. And he would make him promise some things first.
Dimly Sig felt odd, as if this were not he, Sig Dortmund, who made such plans or did such things. As if something else or someone else had gotten into his body. But that was silly—it could not happen. No, he was Sig Dortmund, and he was going to get his box. It was his box! Then he would settle with Ras.
He went back to the other room. His flashlight, still turned on, had rolled back against the wall, the light a path across the floor. Sparkling in that light were a lot of the jigsaw pieces. The box lay on its side where the rest of the pieces had spilled out. Sig caught it up hurriedly to make sure it was not broken. If Ras had hurt it any—!
But it was all right. He began picking up its contents, restoring them as fast as he could. They felt smooth, an
d their colors were so bright. He cupped a handful, red, green, silver—the silver ones must be for the top dragon in the picture. And this red—for the red dragon, probably—and the blue—the yellow—
He had gathered up all the pieces on the floor now, using the flashlight to search carefully, to make sure he had not overlooked any. Some of the bits were pretty small and it would be easy to lose one. He even got down and crawled around on his hands and knees, stirring up dust enough to make himself cough. But at last he was sure he had them all.
There were more on the table. And how much time did he have? Dad would be home soon, and if he wasn’t there—well, there would be a lot of questions. He would just sweep the pieces carefully into the box now.
But when Sig straightened up to do that his hand moved slower and slower, and he stared at what lay there. He had seen puzzles before, only this one was different. Three of the sparkling silver pieces were already stuck together. They must be part of the silver dragon. And here was another bit. Yes, and it fitted in right there!
Sig sat down on the waiting chair, dumped out the box he had so recently filled, and began to hunt for silver bits, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Though the room was dark he did not need any light, because the pieces appeared to have a light of their own. Not only that, but as he fitted them together and the right ones touched, the light grew brighter. But to Sig that did not seem in the least odd.
Nor was he aware of time passing as his fingers combed through the piles of pieces to separate all those of silver, toppling the rest back into the box. For he was now intent on one thing, the putting together of the dragon. He had to see it complete.
Touch told him that this puzzle was far thicker than the ones he had known before, being mounted on wood. The reverse sides of the pieces had strange black marks across them which could be printing, except they did not form any word he had ever seen. They were like rows of small, irregular twigs. And when he looked at them closely they made his eyes feel queer, and he turned them over again, picture side up, hurriedly.