Harold and Dmitri shook their heads. “I have about five bucks in quarters,” Harold offered.
“That won’t even get us all on the Red Rocket!” 81 Brendan said in disgust. “I guess we’re hoofing it.”
There was no sign of Orcadia as they headed south, but Brendan didn’t want to take any chances. They wove a circuitous route through back laneways and side streets, but always heading southwest. Brendan kept a wary eye out for any sign of pursuit-he felt horribly exposed out in broad daylight but it couldn’t be helped.
At first, he was worried about how Finbar would manage. The man had suffered a serious head injury and been in the hospital, but as they moved closer to his home, he actually improved. His step became steadier and he seemed almost cheerful. Brendan wondered if Finbar could possibly have told the truth about how long he’d lived at his present home. He’s old, sure. But is he older than ninety? A hundred? He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on the route.
Half an hour later, following a nervous march across the heart of Toronto, they arrived at their destination. “There she is.” The old man pointed at a rough, red-brick building. “Home, sweet home!”
Brendan stood staring at the dilapidated building. “You live there?”
“I do.”
“What a dump,” Harold breathed.
The three boys took a moment to absorb what they were seeing. The building stood on its own surrounded by a chain-link fence. The windows were mostly boarded up or broken, and the only door they could see had two-by-fours nailed into it to keep people out. To drive the point home, a big sign hanging on the fence read DANGER: DO NOT ENTER.
The building was an odd shape, too. One side of the roof was higher than the other, as though the remaining structure had once been part of a longer one that no longer stood. A free-standing wall jutted out from the side of the building as though the decrepit building were reaching out to balance itself.
Condo towers rose all around the building, all perfectly proportioned, sleek boxes of glass and steel that made the red-brick building look like a misshapen, stunted dwarf standing among giants. The lawns and walkways outside the fence had all been painstakingly manicured and landscaped, while the little building sat in a muddy field, a few tools piled against the wall. A miniature bulldozer sinking into the mire made it look even more forlorn.
“You live there?” Brendan asked again. “In a condemned building?”
“It ain’t condemned,” Finbar said, annoyed. “They ain’t goin’ to tear it down. It’s to become a community centre or some such.”
“Looks like a fun place to hang out,” Harold puffed. He was bent over, sucking wind. He was fumbling for his writing pad and charcoal. “I’d love to meet other youths here for good clean fun.”
“The amulet is in there?” Brendan asked Finbar.
The old man grinned his gap-toothed grin. “Aye, she is, hidden from prying eyes.”
“How do we get in?”
“This way.” Finbar walked up to the fence and pushed on a section of the chain-link. He looked back at the boys and smiled. “Comin’?”
“You guys are free to go,” Brendan said to Dmitri and Harold. “This isn’t your problem. You’ve been great, but I don’t want to put you in any more danger.”
Dmitri and Harold exchanged a glance. Dmitri folded his arms. “I think we’ll stay.”
“Yeah,” Harold said. “I’ve almost crapped my pants about ten times but it’s been pretty cool.” He started to carve the blank sheet of his sketch pad with his habitual lump of charcoal. “Besides, nerds gotta stick together.”
Brendan looked at his friends, and he felt a fierce surge of pride. They were great friends: the best! They had helped him out, putting themselves in danger. He couldn’t ask them to do any more even if he didn’t want to face the next part alone. He knew he had to let them go for their own safety.
He concentrated on what he wanted. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them a moment later, he made a sincere request. “Harold and Dmitri: go home and forget this day.”
The two boys blinked. Without a word, they turned and walked away. Brendan watched them until they disappeared around a corner before turning to Finbar.
The old man watched him with his pale blue eyes.
“That must have been a hard choice.”
“I wanted them to be safe.”
Finbar smiled and ruffled his hair. “Yer a good lad.” He went to the fence and pulled a section of the chain-link aside, holding it for Brendan. “After you, Yer Highness.”
“What?”
“It’s your name, son.” Finbar smiled. “In the old tongue Breandan means ‘Prince.’”
“Huh,” Brendan said. “I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot of things ye didn’t know, lad. Now let’s hop before that mad banshee rears her head.”
Brendan took a deep breath and stepped through the hole in the fence.
81 The streetcars in Toronto are nicknamed “Red Rockets.” They cruise up and down the streets on fixed tracks, drawing power from electrical lines overhead. Motorists find them a little annoying because they’re a little slow and no one likes getting caught behind them. One day, all cars will fly and the speed of the streetcars will no longer be an issue. Unless there are flying streetcars, which will cause the same problem, only in the air.
THE AMULET
Brendan’s foot sank ankle deep in mud.
“Gah!” Brendan tried to pull his foot out but he only succeeded in losing a shoe.
“Watch yerself.” Finbar chuckled. “It’s a mite muddy.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Brendan glowered.
The old man nimbly climbed through the fence and stepped onto a rock, avoiding the mire. He hopped from stone to stone until he stood on a grassy patch of sod by the wall of the building. “C’mon, lad. Look sharp.”
Grumbling, Brendan fished his cold, wet, mud-caked shoe out of the muck and gingerly slipped it back onto his foot. He hopped from stone to stone as Finbar had done until they stood beside a heavy wooden door. The door was secured with a steel padlock.
“Do you have a key?” Brendan asked.
“No need.” Finbar kicked the door, and the hasp pulled away from the wooden surface. The door swung open, and Finbar stepped through into the darkness. After a quick look over his shoulder, Brendan followed.
He found himself in almost total darkness. The wooden floor creaked underfoot, making him wonder about the structural soundness of the entire building. He could dimly make out a staircase going up on one side and a corridor that stretched out in front of him.
“Welcome to St. Bart’s.” Finbar’s voice rasped from the darkness. “Formerly the chapel of Toronto Central Prison. It’s all that’s left of that fine institute of moral correction. I spent some time there as a resident, paroled in 1915 when they shut the old place down.”
“You…” Brendan stared at Finbar in disbelief. “That’s impossible. That would make you…”
“Old.” Finbar smiled sadly. “Older than you can imagine.” He looked up around the room and waved an arm at the gloom. “The Sisters of St. Bartholomew got this building for a song. I came and worked as the caretaker. For over ninety years now, it’s been my home.”
A match flared, casting shuddering shadows on the peeling wallpaper of the walls. Finbar’s face was eerily lit from below as he used the match to light an old-fashioned oil lantern. The lamp caught, and the warm yellow light grew stronger as Finbar fiddled with a knob on the side of it. Satisfied, the old man lifted the lantern by a wire handle and held it high.
He pointed. “Up those stairs, the children slept. The nuns as well. The Mother Superior had her office there too. I worked for a few. The kindest was Sister Cecilia, the last of the Mothers Superior: a good Irish lass and a kind hearted lady, God rest her soul.’Twas her that took you in that night so long ago.”
Brendan looked up the stairs into the darkness. I’ve been here before? He couldn’t remember this place but, of course, he’d only been an infant.