Freedom Fire, page 20
The howitzer is a short-barreled smoothbore mobile artillery cannon that could fire shells of twelve, twenty-four, and thirty-two pounds in a high trajectory. They were used as defensive weapons and to flush enemies out of their entrenched hiding places.
“Sierra? What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, Manny.”
Blatant lie. Sierra glanced down from the scaffolding to where Manny the Domino King stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “You sure?” he said.
“Yeah.” Sierra looked back at the mural. She hadn’t been making it up: a single tear glistened at the corner of Papa Acevedo’s painted eyes. The tear wasn’t moving — of course it wasn’t moving: It was paint! But still: It hadn’t been there yesterday or the day before.
And the portrait was fading; it seemed to disappear more and more every hour. This afternoon when she arrived at the Junklot to work on her own mural, it took Sierra a few seconds to find the old man’s face peering out from the brick. But fading murals and crying murals were totally different flavors of weird.
She turned back to her own painting, on a much newer concrete façade adjacent to the old brick building from which Papa Acevedo’s face stared out. “Hey, Manny,” Sierra said. “You sure the people who own this building won’t be mad about my mural?”
“We’re sure they will be,” Manny chuckled. “That’s why we asked you to do it. We hate the Tower. We spit on the Tower. Your paint is our nasty loogie, hocked upon the stupidity that is the Tower.” He grinned up at Sierra and then turned back to an old typewriter he’d been tinkering with.
“Great,” Sierra said. The Tower had shown up just over a year ago, totally unannounced: a five-story concrete monstrosity on a block otherwise full of brownstones. The developers built the outer structure quickly and then left it, abandoned and unfinished, its unpaned windows staring emptily out into the Brooklyn skies. The Tower’s northern wall sat right on the edge of the Junklot, where mountains of trashed cars waited like crumpled-up scraps of paper. Manny and the other old guys who played dominos in the lot had immediately declared war on it.
Sierra dabbed dark green paint along the neck of the dragon she was working on. It reared all the way up to the fifth floor of the Tower, and even though most of its body was just an outline, Sierra could tell it was gonna be fierce. She shaded rows of scales and spines, and smiled at how the creature seemed to come to life a fraction more with each new detail.
When Manny first asked her to paint something on the Tower, she’d refused. She’d never painted a mural before, just filled notebook after notebook with wild creatures and winged, battle-ready versions of her friends and neighbors. And a whole wall? If she messed up, all of Brooklyn would see it. But Manny was persistent, said she could paint anything she wanted, said he’d set up a scaffolding. He added that if her old Grandpa Lázaro was still talking in full sentences instead of laid up from that stroke he’d had, he would’ve wanted her to do it too.
That last one sealed it. Sierra couldn’t say no to even the idea of Grandpa Lázaro. And so here she was, on the second day of summer break, adding a few more scales along a pair of dragon wings and worrying about crying murals.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her best friend, Bennie:
party at sully’s tonight. First of the summmmmer!!!!
Imma meet you at your house be ready in an hour.
The first party of the summer was always amazing. Sierra smiled, pocketed her phone, and started packing up her supplies. It was nine p.m. The dragon could wait.
She looked back at the mural of Papa Acevedo, barely visible now against the crumbling brick wall. It wasn’t just that there was a new tear on his face; his whole expression had changed. The man — the painting, rather — looked downright afraid. Papa Acevedo had been one of Grandpa Lázaro and Manny’s domino buddies. He’d always had a kind smile or a joke for Sierra, and whoever had painted his memorial portrait had captured that warmth perfectly. But now, his face seemed twisted with shock somehow, eyebrows raised, the edges of his mouth turned down beneath that unruly mustache.
The glistening painted tear trembled and slid out of the old man’s eye and down his face.
Sierra gasped. “What the —!”
The scaffolding shivered. She looked down. Manny had one hand on a support beam, the other cupped around the phone earpiece he always had in. His head was bowed, shaking from side to side.
“When?” Manny said. “How long ago?”
Sierra looked one last time at Papa Acevedo and climbed down the scaffolding.
“You are sure?” Manny looked up at her and then back down. “You’re sure it was him?”
“You okay?” Sierra whispered.
“I’ll be right there. Ya. Ya vengo, ahora mismo. Dentro de … quince minutos. Okay.” Manny poked the button on his earpiece and stared at the ground for a few seconds.
“What happened?” Sierra asked.
“Reporter stuff,” Manny said. He closed his eyes. Besides being the self-appointed Domino King of Brooklyn, he published, wrote, and delivered the Bed-Stuy Searchlight, churning out the three pages of local gossip and event updates from a little basement printing press over on Ralph Avenue. The Searchlight had been coming every day for as long as Sierra could remember.
“Somebody you know?”
Manny nodded. “Knew. Ol’ Vernon, we called him. He’s gone.”
“Dead?”
He nodded, shook his head, nodded again.
“Manny? What does that mean?”
“I have to go, Sierra. You finish this painting, you hear me?”
“What? Tonight? Manny, I …”
“No! Ha.” He looked at her, finally smiled. “Of course not. Just, soon.”
“Okay, Manny.”
In a flurry of jangling keys and heavy breathing, Manny shut down the industrial lights and let them out of the iron fence around the Junklot. “Have a good time tonight, Sierra. Don’t worry about me. But be careful!”
Sierra’s phone buzzed as she watched Manny rush off into the Brooklyn night. It was Bennie again.
You comin right?
Sierra texted a quick yeh and pocketed her phone. An early summer breeze wafted through her hair as she fast-walked past brownstones and corner stores, rounded the corner onto Lafayette, and headed home. She had to get ready for the party and check on Grandpa Lázaro, but all she could think about was Papa Acevedo’s teardrop.
Grandpa Lázaro sat up in bed when Sierra walked into his apartment on the top floor of their brownstone. He regarded her with a concerned shake of his head, the jowly folds under his chin waving back and forth, his clawlike hands clutching the sheets. The old man had barely said anything since his stroke, but occasionally he’d blurt out random boleros from back in the day. Today he seemed different, though: his gaze was sharper and his lopsided mouth curved into a frown. “Lo siento lo siento lo siento,” he muttered.
“What, Abuelo?” Sierra said. “What are you sorry for?”
Lázaro looked away, scowling. Ceiling-high windows around her grandfather’s bed made the room feel like the crow’s nest on some urban pirate ship. Outside, streetlights blinked to life along the streets of Bed-Stuy as the swirling orange clouds gave way to dark blue. All over Brooklyn, folks were heading out to their stoops and strolling the avenues to take in another warm New York night.
Sierra’s phone buzzed again. Bennie was probably trying to rush her along so they could get to the party at Sully’s. Sierra double-checked that Lázaro’s meds were all in order, his glass of water filled, his slippers by the bed.
“Lo siento lo siento lo siento,” Grandpa Lázaro muttered again.
Another buzz. Sierra growled and looked at her phone.
You comin??
Ya mama down here talking my ear off Sierra cmon girl
if you dont come ya ass downstairs in the next 2 minutes im OUT i sweartagawddd sierra
She rolled her eyes and pocketed the phone. “You good, Abuelo?”
The old man looked up suddenly. His dark brown eyes locked with Sierra’s. “Ven acá, m’ija. I have to speak with you.”
Sierra stepped back in shock. His eyes were clear and serious. Lázaro’s stroke had left him with full movement of his body — he could take care of himself for the most part — but this was the first time he’d made any sense in a year.
Grandpa Lázaro lifted a skin-and-bones arm and waved Sierra closer. “Ven acá, Sierra. Quickly. We don’t have much time.”
She crossed the room. His warm brown hand wrapped around her wrist. Sierra almost yelped. “Listen to me, m’ija. They are coming. For us.” Tears appeared in Lázaro’s foggy eyes. “For the shadowshapers.”
“The who? Abuelo, what are you talking about?”
“I’m so sorry, Sierra. I tried … to do right. ¿Entiendes?”
“No, Abuelo, I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“¡Oye!” María, Sierra’s mom, called from downstairs. “Sierra, you coming? Bennie’s here and she says you’re late!”
“Finish the mural, Sierra. Finish the mural quickly. The paintings are fading …” His voice trailed off and those old eyes blinked a few times. “Soon we’ll all be lost.”
“Abuelo! What do you mean? The mural in the Junklot?” Manny had just said the same thing to her. But it wasn’t anywhere near done. “That’s gonna take me all summer. I can’t finish anytime so —”
Lázaro’s eyes sprung open again. “¡No! ¡No puede! You must finish it, Sierra. Finish it now! As soon as possible! They are …” He squeezed her wrist tighter. She felt his hot breath on the side of her face. “They are coming for us. Coming for the shadowshapers.” He released her and slumped back against his pillows.
“Who’s coming, Abuelo? What are the shadowshapers?”
“Sierra?” María called again from the first floor. “You hear me? Bennie says …”
“I’m coming, Mami!” Sierra yelled.
Lázaro shook his head. “The boy Robbie will help you. Ask him for help, Sierra. You need help. I can’t … It’s too late.” He nodded his head, eyes closing again. “No puedo, m’ija. No puedo.”
“Robbie from school?” Sierra said. “Abuelo, how do you even know him?” Robbie was a tall Haitian kid with long locks who had shown up midyear with a goofy grin and wild drawings covering every surface of his clothes, his backpack, his desk. If Sierra had been the kind of girl who gave a damn about boys and their cuteness, Robbie the Walking Mural would find himself somewhere on her top-ten list.
“He will help you,” Lázaro whispered, his head drooping. “You need help, Sierra. They are coming for us all. We don’t have long. I’m … I’m sorry.”
“Sierra!” María called.
Lázaro closed his eyes and let out a loud snore. Sierra backed toward the door. Her phone buzzed again. She turned around and ran down the stairs.
“And so I looked at the headmaster,” María Carmen Corona Santiago said to Bennie as Sierra walked into the kitchen, “and I said, ‘Yes, my students will be reading that book today.’ ” She slapped the kitchen table. “And they did!”
“Wow,” Bennie said. María turned to face Sierra, and Bennie made a “help me” face.
“So you finally decided to show up!” María said. “I was just telling Bennie about the time they tried to ban those books.”
Sierra bent down and kissed her mom on the cheek. María was still in her crisp blue pantsuit. Her graying black hair was pulled back into a sharp bun and her makeup was immaculate, even at the end of a long day. “I’m sure she was thrilled to hear that story again,” Sierra said.
María swatted her away. “Who taught you to be so sarcastic?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“And why aren’t you changed yet? I thought you said you were ready.”
Sierra looked down. She was still wearing the same T-shirt with torn-off sleeves, pleated skirt, and combat boots she’d been painting in, and her fro stretched magnificently around her in a fabulous, unbothered halo. She’d stopped by her room just long enough to throw some extra bangles around her wrists and beaded necklaces over her head, and that was that. “I mean …”
Bennie stood. “I think you look great, Sierra!”
That was definitely not true: Bennie and Sierra had almost opposite styles, and they never got tired of letting each other know their opinions. Tonight, Bennie had on creased gray slacks and a button-down maroon top that matched her tortoiseshell glasses. “Well, it’s been lovely, Mrs. Santiago. C’mon, Sierra,” she said, smiling a little too hard. She took Sierra’s arm and led her toward the door. “We’re gonna be late.”
“Bennaldra! Since when you have taken Sierra’s side on a fashion issue?” María demanded. “You know what? Never mind. Have fun, girls. Be safe, okay?”
Sierra stopped at the doorway. “Hey, Mami, have you checked on Abuelo in the past day or two?”
“What’s that, m’ija?”
“He seemed upset just now. He was … talking. Whole sentences that made sense. Have you ever heard of the shadowshapers?”
Something happened in María’s face — the slightest clenching of her cheek muscles, maybe, or perhaps her eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. Whatever it was, Sierra had seen it happen again and again throughout her life: Ask the wrong question, mention some untouchable topic, just catch her mother at the wrong moment, and it was like some invisible barrier sprang into place.
“I don’t know what that is, Sierra.” María smiled, just a little, but her voice was ice. She turned quickly back to the dishes.
“That’s weird,” Sierra said, “cuz you look an awful lot like you know what I’m talking about.”
“Sierra. I said I don’t know. I’ll check on your grandfather later.”
It would’ve been so much better if she’d just yell and scream like a normal mom. Instead, she didn’t even raise her voice. Sierra knew that was that — the conversation was over, the battle lost.
“Fine.” Sierra turned. “C’mon, Bennie.”
“Sierra, come back,” María called, but her voice sounded empty.
I am deeply grateful to Nick Thomas and Weslie Turner — we did it again!
Thank you to the whole team at Scholastic, who have been amazing throughout this process, especially Arthur A. Levine, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Tracy van Straaten, Rachel Feld, Isa Caban, and Erik Ryle.
Thanks to Erika Scipione, Gavin Brown, and Fay Koh who created the online Dactyl Hill Squad game, Rescue Run. It! Is! So! Awesome!
Nilah Magruder has once again brought Magdalys and the crew to life and it’s always such a breathtaking wonder to see her translate my words into images. Thank you, Nilah! And a huge thank you to Afu Chan for the terrific Dactyl Hill Squad logo and to Christopher Stengel for bringing it all together with such grace and precision.
To Eddie Schneider and Joshua Bilmes and the whole team at JABberwocky Lit: you are wonderful. Thank you.
Many thanks to Leslie Shipman at The Shipman Agency and Lia Chan at ICM.
Leigh Bardugo talked me through a key plot point on speaker phone as I drove in circles through the foggy streets of New Orleans late one night, and for that I am forever grateful. And Brittany Nicole Williams came through in the clutch and caught me trying to squeeze in an unearned reveal. Thank youuuu!
Dr. Debbie Reese was terrifically generous with her time and wisdom and analysis. She gave detailed notes after reading both this and Book One, and I’m deeply grateful. Her work at American Indians in Children’s Lit is always a crucial resource and necessary reading.
Thanks to Mark Norell and Derek Frisby! All incorrect historical or dinofactual matter is my own fault and it’s probably on purpose, unless it’s in the appendix and then it’s totally my bad.
Thanks to the kind clerks at James H. Cohen & Sons Inc, a rare antique weapons shop on Royal Street in the French Quarter, who were extremely helpful when this writer came in asking about which Civil War-era guns would be best shot from dinoback.
Thanks always to my amazing family, Dora, Marc, Malka, Lou, Calyx and Paz. Thanks to Iya Lisa and Iya Ramona and Iyalocha Tima, Patrice, Emani, Darrell, April, and my whole Ile Omi Toki family for their support; also thanks to Oba Nelson “Poppy” Rodriguez, Baba Malik, Mama Akissi, Mama Joan, Sam, Tina, and Jud and all the wonderful folks of Ile Ase. And thank you, Brittany, for everything.
Baba Craig Ramos: we miss you and love you and carry you with us everywhere we go. Rest easy, Tío. Ibae bayen tonu.
I give thanks to all those who came before us and lit the way. I give thanks to all my ancestors; to Yemonja, Mother of Waters; gbogbo Orisa, and Olodumare.
Daniel José Older has always loved monsters, whether historical, prehistorical, or imaginary. He is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books for readers of all ages: For middle grade, the Dactyl Hill Squad series, the first book of which was named to the New York Times Notable Book, NPR, and Washington Post Best Books of the Year lists; for young adults, the acclaimed Shadowshaper Cypher, winner of the International Latino Book Award; and for adults, Star Wars: Last Shot, the Bone Street Rumba urban fantasy series, and The Book of Lost Saints. He has worked as a bike messenger, a waiter, and a teacher, and was a New York City paramedic for ten years. Daniel splits his time between Brooklyn and New Orleans.
You can find out more about him at danieljoseolder.net.
Text copyright © 2019 by Daniel José Older
Art copyright © 2019 by Nilah Magruder
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While inspired by real events and historical characters, this is a work of fiction and does not claim to be historically accurate or portray factual events or relationships. Please keep in mind that references to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales may not be factually accurate, but rather fictionalized by the author.
