The Legend of the Rift (18 page)

Now I was listening. “You do?”

One of the group members, a girl with purple hair and three nose studs, pointed straight upward. “There,” she said with a grin.

We all looked up, into a clear sky with fluffy clouds. “Where?” Eloise replied.

The entire group burst out laughing again. “I know, I know, you think we're weird,” Cooper said. “Okay, we're on a pilgrimage to all the sites. To show that the Seven Wonders are the proof of . . . wait for it . . .”

“We're waiting,” Marco drawled.

“. . . Extraterrestrial life!” Cooper said.

“Extraterrest— whoa, you guys think the Seven Wonders came from outer space?” Marco said.

“Ka-ku, ka-ku,” Cooper said. “Just kidding. But, yes. Seven other planets . . . seven wonders. Coincidence?”

“I don't think so,” said the girl, who shared a high five with Cooper.

“According to the carvings discovered by our founder, each Wonder contained a magical sphere,” Cooper went on. “These, we're pretty sure, were made of cosmic matter . . . wait for it again . . . from each of the other planets of the solar system! Seven planets, am I right?”

“Did the Greeks even know there were seven planets?” Cass asked.

“Not according to history, smart guy,” Cooper said, “but we're sure some of the mystics knew. We just haven't found the docs yet.”

Now the guide was calling out to us, looking at her watch. “Erm, I believe we shall begin the tour!”

“Sooo psyched!” said Cooper. “Hey, we have open
membership. Our meetings are fun, and we have chapters all over the place. Here's our contact info. Farouk, our founder? Awesome. Lives in Alexandria, dives for shipwrecks. Coolest way to make a living, ever.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card:

The Seesaw members were already following Sima toward the citadel entrance. “Think about it,” Cooper said, turning to follow.

“Ka-ku, ka-ku,” I said.

“F
AROUK NOT THERE,”
Torquin said, shoving his phone back in his pocket.

“Bummer,” Marco said.

We had found a cab just outside the citadel and now were riding down the so-called mole, the land connector back to town.

“Two . . . three . . . four . . .” Cass was counting.

“What are you doing?” Eloise asked.

“Measuring out stadiums,” Cass replied. “I'm curious how long a
heptastadion
is.”

“About three-quarter mile,” said the cabdriver.

“I still think we should have taken the tour,” I said. “We would have learned something.”

“We're not here to
learn
,” Marco said, as if
learn
were a synonym for
have our fingernails pulled out
. “Well, we are. But not to learn about castles and museums. This guy Farouk dives for wreckage, right? He's probably found stuff we can use!”

“If we have to go to Mars, will Torquin have to drive the spaceship?” Eloise said.

“The Seven Wonders did not come from outer space!” Cass said. “Those guys were a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. I mean, come on—‘ka-ku, ka-ku'? Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”

“Never,” Marco drawled. “Because the Loculi of Flight and Invisibility and Strength and Healing and Language and Teleportation are so reality based.”

“Hah!” Torquin rumbled. “Tushy.”

“I think you mean
touché
,” I said.

The taxi went left at the main harbor road, which led along the Mediterranean. I checked the card Cooper had given me. On the back he'd written Farouk's local address.

Soon we were winding through the streets in an industrial part of town, outside the tourist area. There, the road was pocked with holes and the buildings were huddled close together. Cats watched lazily from doorsteps, and every few feet a different spicy smell would waft into the cab windows. Seeing us, a group of kids gave chase, shouting in Arabic until the driver sped up. As he wound
through ever-narrower alleyways, the smell of fish became overpowering.

Finally he pulled up to a small dock, where the crew of a sturdy boat was hauling in a net full of squirming, silvery fish. As we got out of the cab, they'd begun dumping their haul into big buckets. Some of the fish spilled over the bucket sides and slid along the decks, where a big, burly dockworker caught them and tossed the escapees in with the others.

“Farouk?” Torquin called out.

Three men looked up.

“Guess it's common name,” Marco murmured. “Dudes! 'Sup! Anybody here speak English?”

“How can I help you?” the big dockworker said, turning our way. He had a massive chest that seemed to be in competition with his belly, and a beard so thick you could imagine small animals hiding inside. “I am Naseem.”

He stuck out his right palm, which was enormous and covered with calluses. Fortunately Torquin stepped forward to shake it, and I escaped having my hand crushed. “Looking for Farouk Assad,” Torquin said.

“Ohhh,
Crazy
Farouk you want!” With a big smile, Naseem shouted in Arabic to the fishermen, who all laughed and went back to their catch. “Crazy Farouk shows up sometimes . . . sometimes no. Are you people . . . ?” He twirled a finger in a circle around his ear, rolled his eyes,
and made a “cuckoo” whistling noise.

None of this was giving me hope.

“No,” Torquin said.

Naseem looked at his watch. “My son and daughter run the bakery, up the street. It is Wednesday. Right now they are taking the last loaves of rosemary bread out of the oven. You like rosemary bread?”

“I don't know her,” Cass said.

“Well, Crazy Farouk does!” Naseem said. “Where is rosemary bread, there is Crazy Farouk.”

We thanked him and walked the short distance to the Citadel Bakery, which sat next to a weed-strewn lot. As we neared the building, the stink of fish soon gave way to the warm, yeasty smell of bread. People were appearing from around dark corners, heading toward the shop. “Forget Farouk,” Marco said. “I'm starving.”

He began running. But as he got near, a thin young woman in a head scarf bustled out of the shop carrying a basket with a loaf of bread wrapped in paper. Wordlessly, she set the basket down on the dock, directly in front of Marco. Giving him a quick glance, she turned and went back in.

Marco's face exploded with a smile. “Whoa—thanks!” he said, kneeling down to take the basket. “When people see Marco the Magnificent, they can't help themselves.”

“That's not yours!” Eloise said.

Marco took a deep sniff, then began unwrapping the paper. “So maybe this was an offering to the fishies? I don't think so. Dang, it smells good—”

A rock whistled toward Marco from the empty lot. “Whoa!” he said, stumbling backward onto the pavement.

We looked to our right. A woman, shrouded in gray scarves, stood next to a small structure made from branches and old patched sheets. “Hands off the bread,” she said.

“Sorry!” Marco replied. “I was just smelling it. Awesome.”

The woman had silvery hair pulled back tightly into a bun. Her skin was dark and leathery, as if she'd spent her entire life outdoors without sunscreen. As she strode across the junk-strewn lot, she fixed each of us with a sharp, green-eyed gaze. It wasn't until she was halfway across that I realized she was wearing flippers.

“Um, excuse me? Do you happen to know someone named Farouk Assad?” I asked.

Snatching up the basket with one hand, she ripped off a hunk of bread with the other. “I am Farouk Assad.”

“Oh,” Eloise said. “We thought Farouk was a man's name.”

Farouk nodded. “That's one of the reasons they call me crazy. Also, the flippers. Eh. What do they know?”

With a shrug, she stuffed the bread into her mouth and held out the rest of the loaf toward us. “Rosemoof burr?”
she said, which I assumed was “rosemary bread?” with her mouth full.

Marco was the first to accept her offer, but Cass and Eloise gave me wary looks.

I was too hungry to resist. The bread was steamy, spicy, and warm. It tickled my nose as I ate it. We all sat on the edge of the thick wood rail that lined the harbor, dangling our feet over the water. “We met some of your group members at the citadel,” I said.

“The Americans,” she said. “They are strange.”

“Ohhh yeah!” Cass said, laughing with relief. “They believe the Seven Wonders came from outer space! Haaa-ha-ha-ha—”

Farouk swallowed her bread. “They did.”

Cass fell silent. My heart thumped. Torquin's face was turning pink and I could hear a few random squeaks coming from him, which meant that he was on the verge of laughter.

Ask a few questions,
I told myself,
and if she's a total wacko, cut your losses and move on.
“We hear you are a diver, and we're searching for—”

“The Lighthouse of Alexandria, of course,” she said. “And, like everyone else, you are looking in the wrong place.”

“But . . . this
is
Alexandria,” Cass said. “And we were just at the island of Pharos—or what
was
the island. That's
where the Lighthouse used to be, right? So where else would we look?”

Farouk gave me a deep, appraising glance. Then she quickly stood. “I have work to do. Please feel free to finish the bread. It is my gift to you.”

As she turned to go, I called out, “Wait! Does this mean anything to you?”

I was wearing a baseball cap, which I now took off, and then turned around, fluffing my hair to be sure she saw the
Λ
.

She cocked her head, then grabbed my hair with her fist and yanked hard. “Yeow!” I cried out.

“Hey!” Torquin said, reaching for her arm.

“It's real!” Cass said. “Not sprayed on or anything. We all have it!”

Farouk let go. “I left a very good job in banking to pursue my dream. To learn about the Seven Wonders of the World. I put all my money into diving and excavation and archaeological digs. I took a vow of simple living. It took years to find more believers, to form SEESAW. If you are here to mock me, to write about me in sarcastic terms—”

“We are descendants of the royal family of Atlantis!” I shouted. “We have been searching for the Seven Wonders ourselves. We think you may have some clues left by a prince named Massarym. Please. Work with us. We need to find the remains of the Lighthouse!”

“Massarym . . .” Farouk thought for a moment and then threw her head back.
“Atlantis?”
She burst out laughing, an obnoxious jackhammer-like sound that echoed up the alleyway.

“What's so funny?” Marco said.

“You're just as crazy as I am!” she retorted.

“Farouk, please,” I said. “We're not here to mock SEESAW. But we've seen a lot. We've been in contact with some ancient scholars. And if we don't have your help, we'll die. All four of us were taken to a remote island. We are part of a mission to solve this ancient, deadly problem. We all have this gene called G7W—it causes the white lambda on the back of our heads. What it does is—”

Farouk abruptly held up her hand. “This gene . . . I would like you not to talk about it right now.”

“But it means everything to us,” I said. “It will—”

“Kill you. I know this.” Farouk's face was darkening. From a tattered pocket she pulled a cell phone, tapped something out, and held it to us. The screen showed a faded image of a grinning, black-haired boy. “My son, also Farouk, had the mark.”

Had.
Past tense.

“I'm sorry,” I said softly.

Farouk pocketed the phone. “We have different theories. But I know what is in store for you. And I would never forgive myself for denying you the chance to realize your quest.”

She turned and began walking toward her ramshackle tent. “Are the relics . . . there?” Marco asked.

She laughed. “No, my boy. If you would like to see the remains of the Lighthouse, we must go by ship. I will get some equipment. It is a long journey. And I warn you, you may not like what you see.”

“Wait. So the Lighthouse was taken from the island?” Eloise asked.

Farouk began crossing the street, her flippers slapping the pavement. “Not exactly,” she said. “The island took the Lighthouse.”