"Are you sure this is the place?"
"Warehouse 19, south side, deck 15," Scud mumbles, "Look, Nina, there's even that cross-shaped burn mark on the door-post."
Trent had blanched when he saw that sketch in the journal and refused to accompany us to the warehouse---at least, I'm pretty sure that's the reason. The warehouse looks shabby and unused, except for the gleaming padlock on the heavy double doors.
As a security device, padlocks are overrated; no serious thief is going to enter by the front door. A shiny new lock only draws attention to something interesting inside, which is good, because we have come a long way to find something interesting.
We have made the long trek up the coast to Newark without incident, following the instructions in my mother's journal. Newark is a cold ice-wept place. Up top, on the floating landmass, steam issues from vents in the paving, part of the corporate heating system. Down here, in the slums, heating is a scarce and keenly fought over resource.
A gaggle of wind turbines provide electricity to the slums. The better districts have built gigantic communal turbines. These reach far out into the air-streams which whistle round the base of the aerial island. Everywhere else, individuals make their own arrangements: a spiraling flock of mini turbines are bolted to any structure that might catch the slightest breeze, and connected to a jumble of naked electric cables which snake above every walkway, in the desperate scramble for heat.
Izzy's head appears around a corner of the warehouse. "This way, there's a broken window round the back."
A cheerless alley leads down the side of warehouse 19. Halfway along, Izzy has pushed together some rubbish bins below a small broken window---just large enough for four nimble youngsters.
I climb up and peer through the window, but the inside is badly lit and I can only make out vague shapes. I listen carefully for any sound of movement, then with my leather flight gloves I carefully pick out the remaining glass shards and wiggle through the window.
When entering through a window always go feet first---the drop inside is always worse than the climb outside.
"Machine parts," Scud declares, examining labels on the crates filling the rear of the warehouse. "Airship," he continues, "no destination address."
"The clue is in the belly of the beast," I recite the line from the journal. Maybe the warehouse is the beast and the clue is the machine parts or maybe the airship is the beast.
"There's a staircase over hear," Fernando calls softly, "do you think they might lead into the belly?"
It's worth checking out so I pad down the stairs. The place is deserted, well almost.
"Wow," Izzy gasps, "who is that?"
We descend into some sort of enclosed ceremonial chamber; concealed light shafts illuminate paneled walls, decorated with tapestries of land battles rather than the usual dogfights between airships, suggesting the hangings are ancient. On a low stage, a three meter golden statue of a pot-bellied woman dominates the room.
"The beast?" I quip, while my mind screams "belly."
Scud joins us as we wander around the statue examining it from different angles. "Gaia," he pronounces eventually with no further explanation.
I know, of course, that it's up to me to coax information out of him, because it will never occur to him that others don't know what he knows.
"Who's Gaia?" I ask.
"Mother Earth: worshipped since prehistoric times as the mother of creation, more recently used to represent the living earth---as though the planet itself is a single living organism. Hardly a beast."
That depends on who's worshipping her here. I scrutinize the idol's distended belly. "That is one massive stomach. Anyone see anything that looks like a clue."'
"It could be a metaphor," Fernando offers.
"For what?"
There are two ways to solve any puzzle: cryptically or literally. I prefer the latter---I like the beauty of simple, straight-forward and obvious answers. Scud prefers the former.
Fernando, impulsive and task orientated, gives up first. "It would help if we had some idea what we are looking for."
"You'll know it when you find it," I assure him, more to wind him up that because I believe it to be true. It's what people always say when they don't have a clue. Curiously, though I have often found it turns out that way. In this case, Fernando is right, it could be anything.
"She's holding a tree in one hand and that curved knife in the other," Izzy offers, hopefully. A strangely curved knife, I note.
Scud nods eagerly. "A metaphor for life and death?"
Ignoring the others, I stand back and study the idol for a while. The statue's stomach shows only one feature: a belly button. "In the belly of the beast," my mind screams. So I approach the statue, kneel down and, run my hands over its bloated stomach.
Ok, I realize I look silly kneeling in front of an idol carefully stroking its belly, but sometimes my mind operates on a level I don't understand, and once in a while, I have found going with the flow produces results.
There. Is that something? I close my eyes to enhance my sense of touch. Yes: a hairline crack, just above the belly button. I follow the crack with my fingertips until I come to a corner; down, back underneath the belly button again, and up. A rectangular draw. Instinctively, I jab my finger into the belly button.
Click.
Everyone freezes.
Click, click. Rattle, rattle, click, click.
"The padlock," Izzy hisses, "someone's coming."'
We cast about for somewhere to hide, but apart from the wall hangings the room is bare.
"Quick, up the stairs!" I order.
Before I leave, however, I can't resist another look at the statue. A small draw projects out of the idol's stomach. I should leave it and go, but I can't. This is it. I have to know what's in there. Gingerly, I pull the draw open all the way and peer inside.
Rattle, rattle, clunk. The padlock opens.
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