The Scholar and the Sphinx

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

It takes only one reckless decision to change a life—to better it, worsen it, or end it. It takes only one decision to make someone a hero, or a fool. And it was that kind of decision that led a young man to journey into the Curtain, outwit a predator, befriend a shapeshifter, face the test of an ancient spirit, confront a goddess, and be loved by one of the most infamous monsters in the world. This is how it happened.

Surrounded by his citadel stacks of books, David Sandoval devoured words on a printed page as one consumes the most treasured of treats. Much like the biblical king for which he was named, he ruled over his designed realm of knowledge, a kingdom constructed from everything he found engrossing, from swordplay, to history, to languages, and most devotedly, to the tales of the supernatural and magical.

No one could understand why folklore and fairy tales fascinated David so—his family considered it “impractical,” and concluded it was only a phase—but his stories of mythical beasts and enchanting spirits had given him quite a reputation in Cervera. He always tried to sneak something unusual into any conversation or give advice to others based on what a legendary hero would do. He wrote his ideas and stories down in journals, away from disapproving glances or patronizing gossip. Unfortunately, David experienced none of the excitement that he wove into his stories, for nothing frightening or wonderful happened in his hometown.

He came from a long line of tradesmen, less whimsical, more practical people. His father was a hard worker who was adequate enough at his job for his family to live comfortably. It had been hard times in Cervera, since its famous university had been relocated to Barcelona when David was six years old, and this had triggered a great economic strain on the city. The Sandoval family was not in dire straits, however, and could not rightfully complain—even if it made David’s parents crestfallen that their children would not as easily get the advanced education they had hoped for before losing the university.

David’s father, being a pious man, was the one responsible for naming David after the Biblical king that had overcome the giant Goliath, setting the expectation that his son should always conquer any insurmountable obstacle that life would present. David held pride in being named after a king, as he knew from the old tales that one’s status in life, and his prosperous future, were tied to having a meaningful name.

The opportunity for a prosperous future arrived in the form of a letter shortly after David’s sixteenth birthday, one of the many milestones he anticipated for the year 1852.

He tore ecstatically into the letter, knowing it was a reply to his request for an apprenticeship in Paris. He was to study under the renowned architect Antoine Roland, a long-time friend of the Sandoval family.

This is an exciting time for Paris, as it is undergoing a grand modernization, Monsieur Roland wrote in his eloquent and loquacious letter to the Sandovals. Napoleon Bonaparte III has great plans to rejuvenate the city, and under the direction of Baron Haussmann, I am one of an exclusive selection of engineers commissioned to help with new layouts for Paris’s streets and public parks. Such a large-scale endeavor is a great opportunity for any aspiring architect, and I know that David would be the perfect apprentice to assist me in this project.

This is an exciting time for Paris, as it is undergoing a grand modernization,Napoleon Bonaparte III has great plans to rejuvenate the city, and under the direction of Baron Haussmann, I am one of an exclusive selection of engineers commissioned to help with new layouts for Paris’s streets and public parks. Such a large-scale endeavor is a great opportunity for any aspiring architect, and I know that David would be the perfect apprentice to assist me in this project. David was inflated with a burst of delight at these words. This was his ticket to an admirable career of which his father and brothers could only dream. His delight, however, was abruptly deflated once his mother told him that they had sent for the eldest son of their neighbors, the Guerreros, to be David’s traveling companion.

“No! Not Pablo!” David begged. “Mother, he hates me!”

“Of course he doesn’t hate you. Pablo has nothing but respect for you,” his mother insisted. “It is dangerous for a boy as young as you to travel on his own. There are thieves on the roads, and swindlers in the towns. Pablo is older and stronger.”

Pablo was a bulky braggart of a fellow, strong in arms but not so much in brain, which was a severe contrast to David’s lean, limber stature and erudite mind. While Pablo wasn’t smart, he could be charismatic when he desired to be, and he often deceived Señora Sandoval into thinking he was an upstanding boy. David knew better, as all the childhood years of Pablo flicking him behind the ears, giving him hard punches in the shoulder, and tripping him into mud puddles were not forgotten nor forgiven.

“Madre, have I not proven that I am mature and smart beyond my years?” David asked. “I know how to protect myself. I will always keep my belongings in my sight. I will send letters home every day if you want me to, and I will not take any detours. Please, mother, I’m not a child! Give me a chance. If I am to prove myself to Monsieur Roland, I need to show him I can take care of myself and be responsible. How can I do that if I need to be chaperoned to Paris?”

It took several days of insistence and the consent of his father.

“I was traveling on my own when I was his age,” Señor Sandoval noted—and David’s mother finally relented. She made him promise to send letters home at every stop along the way, and she made no promises not to send Pablo after him if her mother’s intuition should alert her to trouble.

David was so thrilled that even his mother’s threat could not ruin his mood. He would be traveling to Paris, without parents or chaperones to tell him what to do. This was going to be the best time of his life.

David arrived in the city of Orléans, about 81 miles southwest of Paris, by carriage after a long, tiring week of travel. The carriage driver dropped him off at an inexpensive inn to spend the night, the Villa Valere, and David unloaded his baggage with words of thanks to the driver.

He entered the inn, where he was greeted by the innkeeper and his multitude of freely roaming dogs. A playful hound bounded up to David, almost knocking him over. David placed his baggage down to pat the dog on the head. While a young bellboy took his packs to his room, David settled down at a small table in the dining area, and ordered an inexpensive supper of bread and cheese, topping it off with a glass of wine. He did not normally drink wine, but how could he resist, now that Mother and Father were not there to dictate his decisions?

The whispers of music wafted into the inn from outside. It sounded strange to David, and he could not place the melody or the style. “Innkeeper, where is that music coming from?” he asked in French. He had done his best to brush up on his French before his trip, but his Spanish accent made it obvious that it was not his first language.

The innkeeper glanced up at him and turned his head towards the inn’s entrance. “A group of traveling performers set up their act at the end of the street. They pass through every now and then. Quite amusing. You should take a look.”

“Just keep your coin purse close. Got to be watchful of sticky fingers,” murmured a patron at a table in the corner of the room. He was a wiry old man, grizzled and gaunt, his head hovering just inches above the tabletop while his hand clutched desperately onto his wine bottle. Another man sat with him, buried inside a coat that was too large for him and a hat that swallowed his scalp, and observed the room in silence.

“Come now, Gustav. They’re harmless folk,” the innkeeper replied.

“Ha! Harmless, he says,” Gustav choked up a laugh, and took a drink. “Gypsies are never harmless. Rob you blind, at the least. Give you the evil eye, curse you with their black magic.”

The coat-cocooned man gave Gustav a light shove. “Hush, old man.” He turned to David. “Don’t mind him. He’s scatterbrained even when he’s not drunk.”

David shrugged. “I’m not afraid of them. They’re only people, like us.”

Gustav lifted his head, and a crooked grin sliced across his face. “Oh, you think so? I hear they like to steal children, straight out of their beds in the night. Turn them into animals or sell them to the witches and nasty spirits.” He raised his hands, waving his fingers at David in a spell-casting motion, and puckered his lips to let out a slurred, “Ooooooooh.”

Gustav’s friend gave him a hard smack in the shoulder. “No more stupid ghost stories.”

David shook his head. “Even if that were true, I have nothing to worry about. I’m not a child, after all.”

Gustav looked David up and down. “Not so much a man yet, either,” he snickered.

David glowered and turned away from the two men. He did his best to not appear bothered by the old man’s opinion of him. Eventually, his undeniable curiosity nipped his ankles to rouse him to his feet, coaxing him out of the inn and down the street. A wondrous display was set up: three massive painted wagons of brilliant colors and designs formed a triangle, with draperies and banners and paper decorations entwined together. Round flower-patterned lanterns illuminated the square, and music poured from the instruments of the minstrels wearing fine costumes. Dancers twirling scarves entertained passersby, and the women and children went about selling jewelry, bottles, ornaments, and charms from baskets. Two of the carts had been opened into stage platforms; upon one, a well-toned man juggled flaming torches, and on the other a young boy performed simple magic tricks. The caravan had drawn quite a crowd, and the townspeople threw coins and applauded the performing artists. Children came around to pet the six burly white horses that drew the caravan.

Even before having heard the drunken man’s warning at the inn, David was not entirely trusting when it came to these performing nomads. They were considered swindlers, con artists, and tricksters, and some people thought even worse of them. Many towns had already banned nomadism, but since the Romanis’ emancipation from slave b*****e, many nomads were migrating across Europe. Being the reader of paranormal tales as he was, David knew plenty of stories about minstrels and performers who were, underneath their pretty visages, witches or even were-animals. There was only one book that he had read that painted them in a kinder light, one by a French writer named Victor Hugo—it was a story about a hunchback who fell in love with a kindhearted peasant girl—but it was not as captivating as the shape-shifter folklore that David loved. Yet, he had to admit, they were fine artists. Their music was mesmerizing, and the dancers were—aside from inappropriately flirtatious—nice.

A dark-eyed Romani girl spotted David, and she walked over to him with a coy smile. Her outfit was adorned with colorful beads and jangling gold coins, and her long black hair blossomed with ribbons and silk flowers. She carried a basket full of random knick-knacks. “Bonjour,” she cooed in hesitant French. “Voulez-vous acheter?”