The Secret of the Smoking Mirror

Dedication

To the memory of my father and mother;

and to my sister, Anne-Marie.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

PART I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

PART II

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgments

Several sources were invaluable to me in my research for this novel. Chief among them were The Legends of the Plumed Serpent by Neil Baldwin, The Rise and Fall of the City of the Gods by John Carlson, La Selva Lacandona by Gertrude Duby Blom, and Mexico by Michael Coe.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Judi Miller, professor of writing at New School University in New York, whose praise and criticism were of great help to me in bringing this novel to fruition.

Perhaps my greatest source of inspiration came from three sixth graders who read an early draft of my novel with enthusiasm and made suggestions that were very helpful to me. Thank you, Lauren Silverman, Dustin Silverman (Lauren’s cousin), and Matthew Petzold.

PART I

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Chapter One

When Peter Collins woke up, he knew right away there was something strange in the room with him. It was too dark to see what it was, but he sensed a heavily breathing presence standing at the foot of his bed. There was just enough light coming through his bedroom window for him to make out a form the size of a grown-up person.

Mom? Ben? Is that you? But he knew it wasn’t his mother. She wouldn’t just stand there, without saying anything, and frighten him like that. He wouldn’t put it past Ben to want to scare him, especially if his stepfather had been drinking. But Peter could see enough of what was in the room with him to know it didn’t have Ben’s big, pointy ears or humongous beer belly. Besides, it didn’t have Ben’s thick arms—or any arms at all, for that matter.

The intruder made a low, hissing sound, and then Peter thought he heard something like a maraca shaking under his bed. Was he dreaming? He knew he was in his own bed, in his own room, the room that had been his ever since he was eight years old. Almost four years. But he’d been fooled before. Sometimes he would run away from a monster in a dream, like the lady with the huge, spinning eyes and the snakes in her hair. Just as he was about to be caught, he would wake up, or think he did, feeling safe and sound in his bed, until the closet door opened and the snake lady jumped out at him, yelling, Gotcha! Then he would really wake up, his face clammy with sweat and his heart pounding, as it was now.

Suddenly, the night visitor made a sound like a bird rustling its feathers. Peter could see a squarish head with feathers in shadow. Whatever it was had a long neck and was swaying from side to side. Was it a giant bird? Then the hissing started again.

Peter wanted to call out to his mother and Ben, who were sleeping downstairs. Ben would love the opportunity to try out his new assault rifle, but something told Peter that would only double his chances of being killed. Then it seemed the visitor was trying to say something, but Peter couldn’t make out what it was. Maybe the thing could talk. Peter decided his only hope lay in finding out what it wanted.

W–who are you? W–what do you want? He forced himself to speak, his voice shaking. Are you for real? Are you part of a dream? He really didn’t expect an answer to the last question, as a dream never announced itself as such. Then Peter felt something slimy grip his right foot and give it a tug. He wanted to scream, but his fear had sucked the wind out of him. His heart banged violently against his chest.

The grip on his toes was slowly released and Peter found his voice again. All right, you’ve made your point. You’re not a dream, he said with nervous laughter. But what are you? Tell me! The great shadowed head bobbed up and down, this time almost touching the ceiling. The creature again uttered sounds Peter couldn’t understand. Maybe it spoke a language other than English.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught sight of a star casting its light through his window. He knew it was Venus, the Morning Star, but he had never seen it shine so brightly. He watched the light fall upon objects on his desk, his schoolbooks, world globe, clock radio, and the outline of his sweatshirt draped over a chair.

Then he heard the hissing again and quickly turned toward it. Peter thought his heart would burst through his chest. Now he could plainly see what was in the room with him. The light from the star was like a laser beam, spotlighting a giant snake wearing a suit of green-and-blue feathers. It was sitting on its coils and swaying its head back and forth. The feathered snake had bottle-green eyes, fangs like a tiger’s, and a long, forked pink tongue that fluttered out of its mouth. It was Peter’s worst nightmare come true, more terrifying than the recurrent dream of the snake lady. But this was no dream. Or was it? Somehow, that question no longer mattered.

Now, the snake formed itself into the position of a striking S, arcing over Peter’s bed and fixing its bottle-green eyes on him. Peter didn’t dare turn away or cry for help but locked his eyes with those of the fantastic beast. They stared at one another for what seemed like forever.

S–say something! Peter blurted out at last, realizing it was silly to expect a reptile, especially one with feathers, to speak.

Then he heard clicking sounds coming from inside the snake’s head. It was as if switches were being turned on and off. There was more feather rustling, and then the rattling started up. Still, the beast did not attack. Peter dared to sit up, even while his knees were knocking under the covers.

Look, you can’t scare me more than you already have, but don’t grab my foot again, please. Why don’t you just tell me what you want? Peter wanted to sound brave, but he couldn’t stop his voice from squeaking like a cornered rat.

"Pedro, escúchame," the creature said in a soft voice, the hiss curling around the words.

What are you saying? Peter asked. What he heard sounded like the Spanish the Latino kids in school spoke. I don’t understand Spanish, not really. Can’t you speak English?

"Pedro, te regresaré," the snake said, now in a low, wispy voice. Early morning sunlight was beginning to fill the room. The feathered snake began to fade, voice and all, and then it was gone.

Peter realized he was lying in a pool of his own sweat, and it was getting cold. He wanted to run downstairs to his mother, but he knew Ben was with her and would say he was acting like a baby just because he’d had a bad dream. He lay in bed, wet and shivering, until sleep overcame him. When he woke up, he looked over at the clock radio on his desk. There was no time to do his homework before going to school. He had never before slept so late on a school day. Then he remembered the snake.

It must have been a bad dream, he told himself. But when he pulled back the covers to get out of bed, a blue-and-green feather fell out. The feather was more than a foot long and seemed to shine with its own light. This was not part of some dream! Where could the feather have come from? There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe it belonged to his mother’s feather duster? He would ask her at breakfast.

Going to the bathroom, Peter washed his hands and face while looking at himself in the mirror above the sink. He ran a hand over his chin. Not quite, he thought, but soon he would be old enough to shave. He wondered, as he often did, where he got his thick, black hair and olive complexion. People told him he got his blue eyes from his mother. He didn’t know where the rest of his looks came from, as he had never known his father. His mother said she would tell him when he was old enough. Well, he was going to be twelve in two days. How long would he have to wait?

At breakfast, he showed the feather to his mother. Is this yours? he asked her.

She took it in her hand, turning it over and examining it with her kind, blue eyes. She had a fair complexion, a round, youthful face, and blond hair that shined like a young girl’s. I haven’t seen it before, she said at last, giving the feather back to him.

You haven’t? Peter gasped for breath. Are you sure it isn’t yours?

Yes, but it’s beautiful, his mother answered. Where did you get it?

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. He was suddenly dizzy and felt as if he was going to faint.

Peter, your face is all pale, his mother said, leaning over and putting an arm around him. Are you okay, honey? Here, drink some of this water.

Oh, I’m just fine, he said, taking a sip. I just had a bad dream, that’s all.

Ben looked up from his breakfast and snorted. He’s always having bad dreams, he said, shaking his head. Always afraid of what isn’t there. It’s those books you give him to read.

Having bad dreams is part of growing up, Peter’s mother said to him, ignoring Ben. They’ll go away as you begin to mature.

Ben laughed a short, high-pitched laugh. Don’t count on that happening anytime soon. He was cutting up a pile of sausages on his plate and wolfing down the food with quick thrusts of his fork. Ben had a pudgy face with skin like old leather, a Porky Pig nose, big pointy ears, and no neck to speak of. His small eyes narrowed whenever he looked at Peter, making the boy feel like a bug that had crawled on the table and was about to be squashed.

It’s bad enough the kid’s afraid of his own shadow, Ben said. Now he’s afraid of feathers. Well, you could knock me over with one! Hah! He laughed his short laugh again. I told you, Louise, you spoil him too much. He’s a mama’s boy. How’s he going to handle himself in the roughhouse games normal kids his age play? He’s even afraid to fire a hunting gun. Ben had a habit of talking about Peter in the third person, even when the boy was sitting right under his nose. I took him hunting last Sunday, right? We see this deer standing on a rock, up real close. I step aside and tell Pete the deer is his. So what happens? Your brilliant son freezes and the deer gets away. Ben shrugged and opened his hands wide.

It was only a fawn, Peter said, his voice quaking. A baby. I wasn’t going to kill a baby.

Just listen to him. Little Peetie Sweetie wouldn’t harm a hair on the poor babykin’s head. Spoken like a real sissy! Ben stabbed a sausage and shoved it into his mouth. He was still chewing on it when he turned to Peter and spoke to him directly for the first time. Tell me the truth, Pete. Do you have it in you to kill any animal?

Peter looked away. I don’t know. His eyes were smarting, and he knew his face was turning red. Maybe if I was hungry and needed it for food, I might.

You’ll never go hungry as long as you have your mother around to stuff your face, Ben said with a snicker.

Ben, that’s enough! Mrs. Collins said, squeezing her napkin tight in her hand. She had kept her maiden name when she married Ben. Peter wanted to say Ben was the one with the stuffed face but said nothing.

My brother is a hunter, and he would never shoot a fawn, Peter’s mother said, her voice trembling.

That’s not the point! Ben threw down his fork that clattered on his plate. I tell you, Louise, the best thing we can do for Pete is to send him to military school when he finishes middle grade. They’ll make a man out of him or else.

Or else what? Peter’s mother said. I have nothing against military schools, but Peter will only go to one if he wants to. It’s not for you to say. You never did adopt him. You promised you would be a father to him when I consented to marry you. Peter never did know why his mother married Ben. Was it to give him a father? Surely she could have done better. But maybe Ben was nicer then. He wasn’t so bad-looking in the old photos.

Ben burped and sighed deeply. That’s what I’ve been doing. You just don’t give me a chance. I’m the one who had him sign up for the soccer team after school. I teach him to shoot. But he’s a wimp. Let’s face it, the boy wasn’t born with the right stuff.

Excusing himself, Peter got up from the table and ran upstairs to collect his books for school.

Chapter Two

Where are the pyramids? the teacher asked. Peter was hoping Ms. Binns wouldn’t call on him, because he hadn’t done the reading assignment that had been part of the homework. Ms. Binns’s eyes roamed over the rows of student heads and waited for a volunteer to answer the question. She was a thin, fortyish woman with a pinched face and wore her hair in a tight bun. She wasn’t as mean as she looked, but she was strict. Peter knew she would keep him after school if she discovered he hadn’t done the assignment.

To Peter’s relief, Pauline Fishbinder and Larry Rivette raised their hands. They were the smartest kids in class and the most popular. That is, Pauline was the smartest. She was also very pretty, with shiny blond hair, green eyes that sparkled like marbles, and a smooth, creamy complexion no pimple would dare disturb. Just about every boy in class had a crush on her, including Peter. He knew he didn’t have a chance with her, as she was always hanging onto Larry after class. Larry wasn’t as good a student as Pauline, but he was the star athlete—the best there was at intramural soccer. Everybody wanted to be his friend, girls as well as boys.

Just then, Rosa Guzman raised her hand. Peter was surprised, as Rosa never volunteered for anything. She was new to the school as of September and was from Mexico. Rosa never seemed to understand much of what went on in class. She was never able to answer questions when called upon. Larry and Pauline had to explain to Rosa that China was in Asia and France was in Europe, stuff everybody else had learned in third grade.

Peter had nothing against Rosa personally, but when students had to pair off for some reason—bus seats on a field trip or the buddy system for a class project—he felt insulted that he always got stuck with her. Nobody else would choose either of them as a partner. He was the class nerd, and she was the class geek. It was bad enough they sat across the aisle from one another in World History. Peter often heard Rosa mutter to herself in Spanish. He never knew what she was saying, but he caught the phrase gringos malos from time to time, and he had a pretty good idea what that meant.

Now, the teacher seemed as surprised as anyone else that Rosa had raised her hand. Rosa? Ms. Binns said. I’m so pleased you raised your hand. Can you tell us where the pyramids are?

"Sí, maestra. Rosa sat up straight, brushing back her long, dark pigtails. Las pirámides estan—"

Ms. Binns interrupted her. Can you tell us in English, dear?

Rosa blushed. "Discúlpame. I mean, I’m sorry, Ms. Binns. I will try. The pirámides …" (She said the word that funny way