Shadowshaper (5 page)

Sierra had never seen so many books.
Economic Development in the Third World
, one title proclaimed loudly from a display table.
Studies in Puerto Rican Literature
said another. It’d never even occurred to her there was such a thing as Puerto Rican literature, let alone that it would be worthy of a thick volume in a Columbia University library. A smaller paperback was called
Debating Uncle Remus: An Anthology of Essays and Stories about the Historic Southern Folktales
.

Stay focused, girl
, she told herself, imitating her godfather’s voice.
Do what you came here to do.
She found a sprawling map and ran her finger along it till she found the area called Anthropology Archives. “Subbasement Seven?” she said out loud. “Great.” She passed through a loudly clanking doorway and went down two flights of concrete stairs that reeked of clove cigarettes and perfume.

Subbasement Seven looked more like a warehouse than a library. Metal shelves stretched into the darkness of a vast gray hall. Churning machinery hummed somewhere close by. They must’ve had the AC cranked up all the way, because Sierra had to wrap her arms around herself for warmth as soon as she walked in.

“Can I help you?” said a girl sitting behind a desk. She looked only a few years older than Sierra. She had a scarf wrapped around her neck and a knit cap pulled over her curly black hair. The name tag on her button-up shirt said
NYDIA OCHOA
.

“I’m doing some research,” Sierra said. “For a project I’m doing in anthropology class. For summer session.” She fished a little scrap of paper from her jeans pocket and put it on the desk. “I’m studying a professor who used to work here? His name was Jonathan Wick.”

Nydia’s face lit up. “Oooh!” she said, smiling conspiratorially. “Dr. Wick! Juicy stuff.”

“You know Dr. Wick?”

Nydia shook her head. “No, he’s been gone since, like, two semesters ago. He, um …” She leaned over the desk and lowered her voice. “Well, no one knows what happened to him. No —” She threw herself back into the swivel chair. “Check that. He completely vanished from the known universe. Like, poof. I asked everyone. I can’t help it that I’m curious, you know? But Ol’ Denton — the guy I took over for when they brought me in to run the archives —”

“Wait.” Sierra put up a hand. “You
run
the archives?”

“Well, the Anthropology Archives, yeah.”

“But aren’t you like … twenty?”

Nydia let a warm smile spread over her face. “Thirty-three, sweetheart.” She held up a framed photo of two grinning boys with dark brown skin and big afros. “And I got a seven-year-old and a nine-year-old. But thanks for the compliment. Black don’t crack, ya know? And anyway, we Boricuas age at our own dang pace. You Puerto Rican, right?”

Sierra nodded.

“I love books and I wanna be around ’em all day, even if it’s in some dingy basement at a stuffy old university on the Upper West Side.” True to her heritage, the head librarian talked a mile a minute. “Eventually, Imma open my own library up here in Harlem, but like a people’s library, not just for academics. And it’ll be full of people’s stories, not just jargony scholar talk. This is like practice, really, and to boost my standing in the eyes of certain potential funders.”

“You have a whole plan, huh?” Sierra said. She’d never met anyone like Nydia before.

“Yeah. Anyway, Ol’ Man Denton told me all kindsa mysterious crap about this Wick guy. He was a big anthro dude, specifically the spiritual systems of different cultures, yeah? But people said he got
too
involved, didn’t know how to draw a line between himself and his” — she crooked two fingers in the air and rolled her eyes — “
subjects
. But if you ask me, that whole subject-anthropologist dividing line is pretty messed up anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ugh, you ask me these questions like it won’t end up with me unloading a dissertation into your ear until three o’clock in the morning. Imma control myself, though, because I’m sure we both have other things we need to be doing. I’m just saying: Who gets to study and who gets studied, and why? Who makes the decisions, you know?”

“I don’t know at all,” Sierra said.

“Right! Most people don’t. It’s a whole messy bureaucracy of grants and … oy, see? Anyway, Wick was sort of beyond that for a while, the way I understand it. Or he thought he was. He’d go in and learn a whole bunch about some group and their rituals, and then, like, disappear for a while and learn actually how to do … you know …”

“What?”

“Magic. Stuff with the dead. Whatever.”

Sierra’s eyes widened. “Word?”

“I mean … That’s what people say, yeah.” Nydia shrugged. “Me? I dunno. People side-eye guys like Wick on account of all that old-time medical anthropology type of research way back when, and you know that’s some icky ish this grand ol’ institution was into, grave robbing and worse …”

“Um … I didn’t know that.”

“But Wick was against all that, from what I hear. He was like, down for the cause or whatever. But lemme stop runnin’ my big mouth and get you your files.” Before Sierra could even digest the avalanche of information she’d just heard, Nydia had turned and disappeared into the stacks.

She came back a few minutes later and placed a thick file of papers on the counter. “Here you go, hon. This’ll give you a good introduction to Wick’s work. Thing is, you gotta photocopy ’em. You can use the copier over there, just swipe your ID like a credit card.”

“Thing is …” Sierra mumbled. “I don’t have my ID.”

Nydia stopped sorting through the file and took a long look at Sierra. “I thought you looked kinda young.”

“I can explain.”

The librarian held up a hand, which Sierra was grateful for because she really had no idea how she was going to explain. “No need. I see you’re up to something interesting. And I’m curious. And I like your style. Here.” She fished around in some hidden desk drawer and then handed Sierra a laminated card with a pin on the back. “It’s a temporary ID, the one I give to my interns. We can get you a real one later if you wanna keep coming through. You can use it on the copiers and it’ll get you past security.”

“Wow,” Sierra said, admiring her gift. “Thanks. I don’t know what to say.”

“De nada.” Nydia smiled. She separated a smaller file of papers from the rest. “This is the good stuff anyway — his journals and notes. Most of the other crap is like research and equations and blah blah. Anyway, here’s my cell.” She scribbled a number on a yellow Post-it note. “Lemme know if you find out anything interesting about Wick.”

“What was in the briefcase?” Sierra asked her godfather.

Neville either ignored her or couldn’t hear her over the old funk song he was happily singing along to as they cruised down the West Side Highway.

Sierra clutched the file to her chest. The world seemed to get stranger and stranger by the hour, but the waning afternoon stayed stubbornly beautiful. The setting sun played hide-and-seek with some purple clouds stretched out along the Jersey City skyline, and a warm summer breeze swooshed in through the open Cadillac windows and made a mess of her hair. “Neville!” she said.

“Get up get up get up!” he yelled, honking the horn on the one.

Sierra clicked off the radio. Neville shot her an irritated glance. “What was in your briefcase?”

“Nothing.”

“What you mean nothing?”

“I mean not a damn thing. I emptied it out before we left.”

“Why?”

Neville looked proud of himself. “I always roll with a empty briefcase. In case I gotta leave it somewhere.”

“Why’d everyone go running and security get all upset?” Sierra said.

“Cuz a black man put a bag down and walked away.”

“But …”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“But you coulda got arrested, man!”

Neville scoffed. “For being forgetful? For needlessly troubling the good people of lost and found? I wish they would. Did you get what you needed?”

“I mean, yeah … But you were sittin’ out in the car that whole time. They coulda …”

“I woulda left if it got hot and just called you to meet me somewhere else. I do have a cell phone, you know. But it’s a good thing things didn’t come to that. Got my sawed-off in the trunk.”

“Sawed-off shotgun?”

Uncle Neville just laughed and turned the radio back on. Sierra could never tell when he was kidding about things like that.

Uncle Neville screeched to a halt on Throop Avenue. Sierra thanked him, grabbed a pack of gum and an icey at Carlos’s bodega, and then leaned against the wall in the shade of the red awning. She pulled the Wick file out of her shoulder bag. Most of it looked to be journal entries, all scrawled out in elegant script. There were a few pictures and diagrams — a lot of the human body, and some overlapping circles that Sierra couldn’t make heads or tails of. She skimmed through some more pages. Somewhere in here was the hidden history of her grandfather’s weird secret society, she was sure of it.

Sierra’s eyes caught the word
Lucera
and she flipped back to that page.
Back in Brooklyn. Amazed, humbled by the beauty and devotion of this community to its local spirits. The art of commemorative regeneration is strong here, a thrilling collision of artistry and spirituality. The shadowshapers’ mythology revolves around an archetypal spirit named Lucera, who apparently vanished mysteriously a few months back, not long after I entered the fold. There are whispers that without Lucera, the murals that are touched with shadowshaper magic will eventually fade and the connection to the spirits will be obliterated.

“Wow,” Sierra said out loud. She bit open the plastic wrapper of her icey and sucked the cool blue slush out of it.

The vacancy has left them struggling, but still one can feel the buzzing of spirits in the air, the power of a collective imagination manifesting its devotion to ancestry across the walls and inner sanctums of the city.

Laz says the secrets of the shadowshapers are not understandable to the outside mind. And I had to suppress that old urge to defend myself, my field, the ugly collective history, you know. He smirked when he said it, as if realizing it would rile my deepest insecurities. I suspect there is some wiggle room in this arrangement. We shall see …

Her grandfather’s name in this strange professor’s journal. She wanted to read more but it was getting dark, and Robbie and the domino warriors were waiting for her at the mural. She shoved the file back in her messenger bag, tossed the empty icey sleeve, and headed off.

Vincent’s mural still looked cold and determined. Old Drasco limped past her, mumbling his own endless stream of riddles, and his parade of cats marched along behind him as always. Across the street, some white chicks in bikinis lounged on a billboard for something — maybe a car dealership, or some kind of cigarette? Sierra couldn’t tell and didn’t care that much either way. Below it, women with big, pastel-colored hats filed in for a night service at a storefront church, and a whole other congregation cluttered into the liquor store next door.

Sierra turned and walked into the Junklot.

In the open, dusty area between wrecked car mountains, Rutilio executed an off-kilter pirouette in time to his own breathy beatboxing. He landed in a squat with both hands out in front of him. He was mostly skinny, which made his enormous beer belly even more alarming. It didn’t do much for his balance either. He gingerly eased himself up, exhaling a slew of Spanish curses as he got to a full standing position, then swiveled his hips in a creaky circle, stomping forward arthritically.

Sierra, Manny, and Mr. Jean-Louise applauded. “Worst dance move yet,” Mr. Jean-Louise muttered.

Manny frowned. “Ah, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“You haven’t seen it with the music on: total disaster. Katastwóf.”

“You see?” Rutilio yelled. “So simple!” Then he winced in pain and clutched his lower back. “¡Ay, cojones!”

A monstrous dog — some kind of Saint Bernard mixed with pit bull mixed with Satan-spawn — bounded across the Junklot toward him, its huge tongue flapping to either side.

“No! Not you, Cojones!” Rutilio yelled. “It was an expression! No!”

The dog tackled Rutilio and gave his face a thorough tonguing.

“You really needn’t have named your dog that, Manny,” Sierra said.

“I know, but I thought it would be fun. And look, it is!”

Sierra nodded, conceding the point, as Rutilio struggled back to his feet and hurled a random scrap of metal for Cojones to chase after. “I hate that perro!” he shouted.

“Well, he loves you,” Mr. Jean-Louise chuckled.

“Y’all too much,” Sierra said. “Robbie started back in?”

Manny smiled at her. “Yep, and we turned on the industrial lights for you.”

“I see,” Sierra said. “Thank you.”

The domino warriors nodded and toasted one another with the evening’s first portion of rum.

“You ready to talk yet, bro?” Sierra said.

They had worked fast for the last hour. Sierra filled the whole dragon wing as the sky became a hazy orange around them. A few birds flitted past, and down below, families meandered by on the way to the park. Robbie had covered a huge chunk of the wall in white paint, and his skeleton now wore an elaborate dress and was grinning wildly. Papa Acevedo’s eyes seemed to glare off at some impossible enemy, and his colors had faded into an almost see-through wash since yesterday.

“Robbie,” she said when he didn’t answer.

“Hm?”

“What are they?”

“What are what?”

“What are the shadowshapers?”

Robbie sighed. The scaffolding shook violently, which meant Manny was on the way up. Sierra spoke fast. “Something’s going on and my abuelo was involved, and so is that creepy guy at the party and whoever Lucera is … Everybody in on this but me!”

“Oye, chicos,” Manny panted, climbing onto the platform with them. “I’m done for the night.”

“Manny,” Sierra said, “you knew this Ol’ Vernon guy that died, right?”

Robbie tensed.

“Yes,” Manny said, “a few years back. Those days are over now, Sierra.”

“But you and Vernon and my granddad were all close. What was it all about?”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, looking back and forth as if someone might be sneaking up on them.

Sierra narrowed her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Your abuelo could tell a mean story.”

“Oh.” She tried not to sound disappointed. “I mean, I knew that. Everyone talks about it. I only barely remember him telling stories, though. Like when we were really little, he used to.”

“Oh!” Manny held up one hand. “Let me tell you, este viejo … he used to have us
riveted
. Us, a bunch of old men, sitting there silent as a room full of escared children, waiting to see what happens next. The domino game would be on hold.”

That in itself was an impressive feat; the domino guys were notorious for continuing games unabated through all kinds of natural disasters and even, infamously, a shoot-out. “The shadowshapers, Manny,” Sierra said. “Tell me about the shadowshapers.”

The old newspaper man raised his eyebrows. “Ah.”

Sierra heard Robbie shifting back and forth on his feet behind her. “Ah what?” she said.

Manny sighed. “It was a social club, Sierra. A boys’ club. You know, a place for the guys from around the neighborhood to get together every now and then. Like these guys that wear funny hats and whatnot, except without the funny hats. Thank God.”

“But then who’s this Wick dude, and why’s he writing about it like it’s some kind of spiritual fellowship?” Sierra asked.

“That” — Manny smiled sadly — “is a question for another time. It’s not something I really talk about. Perhaps your friend Robbie here can explain further.” He wiped his hands on his slacks. “Alright, you two.” The whole scaffolding convulsed rhythmically as he made his way to the ground. “Buenas noches,” he called.

“Good night,” Robbie said quietly. His voice sounded a hundred miles away.

Sierra turned around and shot him a sharp look. “You can explain your end of things while you walk me home, buddy.”