Spell of the Sorcerer's Skull (13 page)

Johnny could not for the life of him imagine how all this was going to end. But as he sat there with the motorboat hurtling along under him, he knew that he was getting more nervous by the minute. Part of this was because of his fear of riding in a speeding boat, but there was more to it than that. Johnny kept thinking of the skull—he couldn't keep his mind off it. The grinning evil, little object was gone again—it had vanished back into the void, where dark things wait, until witchcraft calls them forth. Without a doubt the silver crucifix had driven the skull away—but could it
keep
the skull away? What if the skull reappeared at some time, when he least expected it? Johnny brooded about the skull. He closed his eyes and wished fervently that he had never heard of the Childermass clock, or Cemetery Island, or Penobscot Bay.

"There it is!" Fergie yelled, pointing into the darkness ahead.

Johnny forced his eyes open and twisted his head around. Looming closer and closer was a dark shadowy mass. He couldn't make out any details—it was pitch black out here in the middle of the bay. The drone of the motor grew softer as Father Higgins aimed the boat in toward the shore. Then the engine noise died altogether, and they coasted in. Johnny felt a rough shudder and heard a grumbling of sand under his feet. They had landed.

Awkwardly the tall priest stood up and swung himself out of the boat. He was calf-deep in water, but he didn't seem to mind. Fergie leaped nimbly out and began tugging at the gunwales of the boat. But then he noticed that Johnny was still sitting there, rigidly staring at nothing.

For a second Fergie looked worried, but then he grinned, reached up, and slapped Johnny hard on the knee. "Hey, Dixon!" he said loudly. "Off your duff and on your feet! How're we gonna drag the boat in if you sit there weighin' it down? Come on! Afraid to get your feet wet? Your gramma tell you you'd catch cold if your toesies got damp?"

Fergie was being nasty and sarcastic on purpose. He was a bit scared of the way Johnny was acting, and he figured that it might be best to jolt him into action.

"Huh? Oh... oh, yeah," muttered Johnny in a dazed, thick voice. He lurched to his feet and clambered over the side of the rowboat. The icy cold of the water gripped his legs, and he winced. But he bit his lip to keep from yelling—he wanted to prove that he was just as tough as the other two. Moving to the front of the boat, he gripped the iron ring that hung from the prow, and he tugged. The others were shoving too, and the boat slid up onto the gravelly beach.

They walked a few steps over the wet sand and then stopped to stare at the island. Pine trees grew close to the shore, and beyond rose shelves of granite. The wind was picking up now, and the pines waved to and fro, making an eerie keening noise. Then lightning flashed again in the distance, and Father Higgins swore under his breath.

"We're gonna get rained on, gentlemen!" he growled. "I'm kinda glad I thought of that tarpaulin—we might just possibly be in need of it." He turned, put his hands on his hips, and peered into the murky shadows of the island. "Well, prof," he said loudly, "I sure hope you're here! Comin', ready or not, like us kids used to say!"

After this little speech Father Higgins turned abruptly, went back to the boat, and fumbled under the tarpaulin. He came up with the three flashlights, and with a jaunty flick of his wrist, he sent one flying into Fergie's outstretched hands. Johnny caught the other one.

"I wonder if we ought to've brought our raincoats," said Johnny fretfully as he switched on his light. He had a fear of dampness, and he was always fussing about it. Fergie snickered, and Johnny bit his lip ruefully. Why did he say things like that? Like most timid people, Johnny wanted to be brave and resourceful and cunning. Why couldn't he just shrug off fears the way other people did? Then he reminded himself that he was here on the island, after all, with the other two. So maybe he wasn't quite as cowardly as he thought he was.

With flashlights shining, Fergie, Johnny, and Father Higgins tramped up the beach and plunged into the scrubby little clump of pines. They found a narrow winding path that was covered with dead pine needles and decided to follow it. On the other side of the pine grove, the rugged uneven ground of the island opened out before them. It was too dark to see much, but here and there were dark blotches that might be bushes. And there were rocks—Johnny kept tripping over them as he picked his way along. The three of them marched on in silence for some time while the wind whistled around them, and big splatting raindrops started to fall. Suddenly Father Higgins let out an exclamation.

"Hey! Wouldja look at that? Up there!"

Johnny and Fergie looked. Far ahead, in the darkness, was a tiny yellow blot of light. A lamp in a window, maybe.

"Come on, boys!" yelled Father Higgins, waving them ahead excitedly. "This miserable little hunk of real estate isn't supposed to have anybody living on it. But where there's light, there's life, or so they say. Let's go see!"

The three of them walked faster now. Fergie and Father Higgins swung right along—they did not seem to be having any trouble with the uneven stony field. But it was another story for Johnny: He banged his shin on a tree stump, and a little later he stepped into a hole that gave his ankle a vicious twist.

"Ow!"
yelled Johnny as his foot sank into the hole. "That hurts, it
hurts!"

Father Higgins and Fergie were a few paces ahead of him. They stopped and turned their flashlight beams on their friend.

"Hey, John!" Fergie called. "Are you okay?"

Johnny did not reply immediately. He yanked his foot out of the hole. Then he took a careful, gingerly step—and sucked in his breath with a sharp, painful hiss. It was agony to walk. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take another step. The second step felt just as miserable as the first had, but at least he could move. Hobbling, he made it up to where the other two were standing.

Father Higgins laid his hand on Johnny's arm. "How are you, John? What does it feel like?"

Johnny forced himself to stare straight into the priest's eyes. "It's... it's okay," he said in a strained voice. This, of course, was a lie. His ankle felt as if somebody were toasting it over a bonfire. But he wasn't going to be left out of the search. A long time ago somebody had told him that your ankle wasn't broken if you could still walk. Well, he could walk. That was all that mattered, for now.

"You sure you're all right?" asked Father Higgins. He sounded worried.

"I'm fine, Father. It... it hurts a little, but not much."

Father Higgins gave Johnny a friendly pat on the back. "Okay, then—we're off! Forward at the gallop, as they say in the cavalry movies!"

The three of them tramped on. The long white beams of their flashlights picked out a low fieldstone wall, and behind it long rows of pale white slabs that marched up a hillside—the graveyard for which Cemetery Island was named. Beyond the wall the ground rose steadily. Johnny could see a rutty little road rising into the darkness. At the top was the shadow of a building—a chapel maybe. And there was the lighted window. As Johnny watched, a shadow passed before the light. Somebody was in there, moving around!

"Holy Saint Patrick!" whispered Father Higgins in an awestruck voice. "I wonder if... Well, come on! What're we waiting for?"

At the entrance to the cemetery was a rusting iron turnstile. It creaked and squealed loudly as the three of them shoved through it. Hobbling badly now, feeling agony in every step and sweat streaming down his face, Johnny struggled to keep up with his friends. Up the road they ran. As they got nearer to the top, they could see that the building was indeed a chapel, a tiny brick church with quatrefoil decorations on the front and a pointed door with a cross over it. One of the long, narrow windows was boarded up, but the other was open, and light was streaming out of it. Father Higgins got to the door first. He jerked it open, and a bar of light fell across the road. Then the priest took a step backward and just stood there, dead still. Johnny and Fergie crowded in next to him to look.

The inside of the little chapel was a mess. Wooden pews were stacked in a corner, and everything seemed to be covered with gritty dust and dirt. The altar at the rear had been used as a dinner table: a checkered tablecloth was thrown over it, and on it lay a dirty plate with a half-eaten piece of bread and a battered tin cup. Near the cup and plate stood an oil lamp that cast a yellowish smoky light. A few paces from the altar stood an old-fashioned iron cookstove, and in one corner was a dirty striped mattress with an old threadbare blanket wadded up on it and a rust-stained pillow with no pillowcase. Pulled up near the stove was a rickety, cane-bottomed rocking chair, and in it sat a little old man. He wore a very soiled and wrinkly white shirt and a scubby brown sweater with egg stains on it. His pants were coated with floury patches of white dust, and the upper parts of his shoes were starting to separate from the soles. You could see his toes through the holes—he wasn't wearing socks. On the old man's head was a wild mess of white hair with bits of twigs in it. His sideburns needed trimming, and his face was smudged with dirt. Perched askew on the man's reddish nose was a pair of rimless spectacles. His fingernails were broken and dirty, and he was clutching a tattered newspaper. Professor Childermass looked up at the priest and the two boys who were standing in the doorway.

"Well?" he snapped crankily, leaning forward to squint at the three intruders. "Who are you, and what do you want? I don't like people bursting into my house without knocking. I asked you a question, and I expect an answer!
What the devil do you want?"

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

 

The professor leaned forward, waiting for a reply. But his visitors were too astonished to answer. Johnny and Fergie looked at each other, and they both glanced helplessly at Father Higgins, who was just standing there with his mouth open. After an awkward silence Father Higgins spoke. He sounded wary and uncertain, as if he really didn't know what would be best to say.

"Rod? Rod, don't you recognize us? It's me, Father Higgins, from St. Michael's church. And here's your old pal, Johnny, and his friend Fergie. We've been turning the countryside upside down looking for you, and we're so glad we've found you! Come on! Do... do you
really
not know who we are?"

The professor went on glaring suspiciously at his visitors. "I can see that you're a priest," he said sullenly. "Or rather, I see that you're wearing a clerical outfit. But I can honestly say that I've never met you before in my life. And the same goes for those two disreputable-looking kids you've got with you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like you to go away and leave me in peace. Today's my birthday, and tonight—if I'm good—something especially nice is going to happen to me. I wouldn't want to miss out on
that
now, would I? So please make yourselves scarce, the lot of you!"

Again Johnny was stunned. Stunned and horrified. Not only had the professor lost his memory, but he also seemed to be slightly insane. Johnny knew very well when the professor's birthday was: December 8. And what was this "something special" that was going to happen to him?

Father Higgins took a short step forward. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and he looked grim and threatening. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle and kindly.

"Sir? Is it possible that you're really not good old Rod Childermass? I mean, we may have come to the wrong house by mistake, in which case I beg your pardon. But you looked so much like Rod Childermass that... Well, would you mind telling us your name? "

The professor seemed a bit taken aback by this question. He put his fingers to his lips and pondered for a bit. "You know," he said in a sincere, matter-of-fact tone, "I can't honestly say
who
I am! But names aren't important, are they? They're like the labels on jars, and they may be misleading. On the other hand, I can tell you a great deal about history. I can tell you about the War of the Spanish Succession, and the Zimmermann Telegram, and the Ostend Manifesto. Would you care to hear a few words about these subjects? Ask me anything, anything at all!"

Tears sprang to Johnny's eyes. He felt utterly helpless and panicky too. If they had found the professor chained to a wall, they could have broken the chains and led him away to safety. But in the state he was in, it would be hard to get him to go away with them peacefully. Johnny threw a quick glance at Father Higgins, who loomed up in the doorway, big and strong. Every muscle in the priest's body seemed tense, and a wild thought leaped into Johnny's head: Would Father Higgins try to take the professor away by force? In his mind's eye Johnny saw the priest swooping down on the little old man and throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Johnny waited, and it seemed as if Father Higgins were gathering himself for a leap. But then he relaxed, stepped back, and turned to the boys.

"Come on, kids," he said softly, turning and putting his hand on Johnny's shoulder. "It's clear that this gentleman wants to be left alone. Let's clear out."

Reluctantly Johnny and Fergie let Father Higgins push them out the chapel door in front of him. When they were all outside, the priest gripped the iron ring on the door and pulled it shut. He squinted grouchily at the falling rain, and then he turned to the boys.

"Gentlemen," he said in a quiet, confidential tone, "we have got a problem on our hands. Something has clearly happened to the prof. Maybe he hit his head, or maybe some kind of evil sorcery is at work. At any rate, he won't budge. What the dickens do you think we ought to do?"

Fergie said what Johnny was thinking. "I think you oughta go in there and put a half nelson on him and drag him away. I mean, he's outa his jug, and that is just about the only way you're gonna get him to come, Father. Anyways, you're bigger'n he is, an' I don't think he'd give you too much of a fight."

Father Higgins rubbed his chin and pondered. "Hmm... you may be right, Byron. On the other hand, the prof is tougher than he looks. He works out with dumbbells, and he walks several miles a day. I could pin him down, but it'd be a real job draggin' him away. He told me once he learned to fight dirty in his college wrestling classes, and if he remembers any of his nasty little tricks... well, you might have a crippled priest on your hands, and no professor. And anyway, I don't feel right about hitting him—he's my friend, out of his mind or not."