Spell of the Sorcerer's Skull (14 page)

"So what're we gonna do?" asked Fergie irritably. "Do we just stand around out here an' twiddle our thumbs while we wait for the prof to get his marbles back? That seems kinda dumb to me."

"Yes, dumb it would be," muttered Father Higgins. "However, I have a plan in mind: Do you remember that bottle of brandy I had you buy? Well, why don't you two wait here and make sure that our friend doesn't wander away, and I'll scoot back to the boat and get the brandy. It's Hennessy Five Star, and if he still has any of his old taste buds left, he'll
love
it! And once I've managed to pour enough of the old sauce into him, it ought to be a fairly simple matter to get our old pal into the boat and out of this miserable place. Whaddaya say, guys? Sound like a good plan?"

Fergie and Johnny nodded in agreement. Quickly the priest went barreling down the little cemetery road and vaulted over the turnstile with surprising agility. Then his bulky form was swallowed up by the dark, rainy night.

Fergie stood solemnly watching him go, his arms folded. "Boy, I sure hope he'll be all right!" he said with feeling.

Johnny turned to him, alarmed. "Why'd you say that, Fergie? I mean, what... whaddaya think could happen?"

Fergie shrugged gloomily. "I dunno. But this is all gettin' to be a pretty weird business, and I keep thinkin' that
anything
is liable to happen! There's that run-in you had down behind the library, for instance. And here's the prof, sittin' in there not knowin' who he is. And there's that skull that you said came back and showed up in your pocket after you threw it away. So like I said, I get the feelin' that the mullygrubs might come and get us any second now." Fergie laughed nervously. He shivered in the drizzle and buttoned the top button of his leather jacket. "By the way," he went on, "what was all that about it bein' the prof's birthday? It isn't, is it?"

Johnny shook his head. "Nope, it sure isn't! I dunno
what
he said that for! But what worries me is, he acts like he's waitin' for somethin' to happen. Whatever it is, I sure hope it doesn't happen till we get him away from here!"

Fergie glanced at the closed chapel door. "I hope we can get him away. Period!" he said, and he bit his lip nervously.

The wind began to blow harder. An old bent elm tree grew in the field that lay beyond the graveyard wall, and they could see it waving its spindly, loopy arms. As the rain poured down, the boys squeezed themselves in against the chapel wall. There was no porch, but the edge of the roof hung out a little over the front of the building, and this kept them a bit drier than they would have been otherwise. Time passed. Every now and then Johnny would glance to his right, at the pool of lamplight that lay on the gravel outside the open window. There was no glass in the window, so he could hear the professor stirring around inside. He heard him sniffle and cough and get up and shuffle around. Then the professor went back and sat in the rocker, which creaked noisily as he moved to and fro. Johnny wanted very much to hammer on the door and demand that the professor let them in. But somehow it seemed wiser to stay outside, even though the rain was giving him and Fergie a good soaking. If the professor's mind was unbalanced, Johnny didn't want to do anything that would push him over the edge into total, screaming madness. Better to wait for Father Higgins to show up with his bottle of Hennessy Five Star. But the minutes ticked on, and Father Higgins did not come back. Johnny switched on his flashlight and peered at his watch, which said five after nine. He wasn't sure when the priest had left, but it seemed like it was an hour ago. Johnny was soaked to the skin, and his sprained ankle burned like fury. And on top of everything else, the chill had gotten into his bones. When he opened his mouth to speak, he found that his teeth were chattering.

"F-Fergie," he stammered, "wh-where do you think F-Father H-Higgins has go-gone to?"

"You got me. He's had enough time to go back to Duston Heights by now. I'm worried, John baby. I think one of us oughta go down to the boat and check up. You wanta do it?"

Johnny grimaced and shook his head. "I better not. I sprained my ankle real bad while we were runnin' across that field out there, an' it's all swelled up now. I think I might faint if I tried to run."

Fergie looked at him in astonishment. "Oh, great! Just great! I thought you said you were okay after you stepped in that hole! Why didn't you tell us about this before, for God's sake?"

"I didn't want you guys to make me go back," said Johnny miserably. "And anyway, I thought it might get better. But it hasn't—it feels awful!"

Fergie groaned. He stared helplessly up at the rain. "Well, then, I guess I better go!" he said, heaving a disgusted sigh. "You stay here 'n' make sure the prof doesn't turn into a bat an' fly away! See you later, John baby!"

And with that, Fergie took off, running. Imitating Father Higgins, he vaulted the turnstile and went galloping off into the gloom. Johnny watched him go. Now both of his friends had vanished into the night. Johnny felt the sick taste of fear rising in his throat. What if they were gone for good? What if something was swallowing up the people on this island, one by one? No, no—that couldn't possibly be! He was allowing his imagination to run away with him. Fidgeting and peering anxiously around, he limped back and forth in front of the chapel door. With each step he took, it felt as if somebody were shooting red-hot needles into his ankle.

Oh well,
thought Johnny,
it'll take my mind off of the other stuff I'm worried about.
But he couldn't get rid of his worries that easily—as soon as he stopped walking, they came flooding back. Feverishly he went over in his mind things that could possibly have happened to Father Higgins. What if he had wandered into the ocean
accidentally and had gotten drowned? Johnny was a very good worrier. He could dream up dozens of ghastly things that might have happened to Father Higgins. Minutes dragged past. The wind blew, and more rain pelted down. Johnny thought of the song the professor always sang when it was raining:

 

When and that I was a little tiny boy
 

With hey ho, the wind and the rain,
 

A foolish thing was but a toy
 

For the rain it raineth every day!
 

With hey ho, the wind and the...
 

 

"Oh, come on, somebody!"
Johnny yelled into the wind.
"Please, come back!"
No answer came. Johnny was in an agony of indecision. What should he do? If Fergie and Father Higgins were in trouble, shouldn't he go and rescue them? Around his neck he wore the silver crucifix with the fragments of the True Cross imbedded in it. This was what had saved him from a horrible death just a few short hours ago. It was hard to believe that Father Higgins had come out to this island with his pockets crammed full of sacred things that would ward off evil forces and demonic shapes. So maybe he, John Dixon, was the only one who could save the day. Maybe he ought to dash back to the boat. It wouldn't take long... or would it? He remembered his bad ankle. What if it was not just sprained but broken? What if he collapsed from the pain on the way to the boat? Hundreds of
what if's
came leaping into Johnny's mind—he was so nervous and frustrated and frightened that he wanted to scream. Unzipping his jacket, he reached inside and closed his hand around the lump of cloth that held the silver crucifix.... And at that moment Johnny heard a sound behind him, a strange unearthly sound that was like the hinges of a hundred doors creaking and men and women and children groaning in agony. Johnny's hand relaxed its grip on the crucifix. Slowly he turned around. And what he saw gave him the shock of his life.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

 

The chapel was gone. In its place stood a dignified old Victorian mansion with a mansard roof and deep-set attic windows. The ground-floor windows were long and had heavy drapes on the inside. The drapes reached all the way to the floor, and they had been pulled tight so that no glimmer of light could be seen. Over the front door was a fanlight, and flanking the stout oak portal were two flat pilasters with scrolled capitals on top. At Johnny's feet lay a semicircular slab of stone that served as a front stoop for the house. And on the stone lay little wandering white trails of
snow.
Johnny gasped. He staggered back, awestruck. And he saw, off to the left, a light shining. In a dreamlike trance, trembling and holding his breath, he moved around the corner of the house toward the lighted window—and then he got his second shock.

He found that he was peering in at a horribly familiar room. It was the dollhouse room, the one he had seen in his midnight vision at the Fitzwilliam Inn. There was the fireplace, the red Oriental rug, the built-in bookshelves, the table with the oil lamp and the Bible on it—everything. And in the black leather chair sat Professor Childermass. He was still dressed in his ragged shabby clothes, and he appeared to be asleep. His hands were folded in his lap, and Johnny could see his chest moving in and out as he breathed. Icy terror gripped Johnny's heart. This was the death room. Without being told, he somehow knew that a dark shape would soon appear in the doorway off to the right. The unearthly thing that had snuffed out Lucius Childermass's life would be returning, and it would put its hand over the professor's face, and...
"No! No!"
yelled Johnny, and he rushed at the window. With all his might he banged and slammed on the glass. He pounded with his fists till his hands stung. But he might as well have been pounding on sheet metal, for all the good it did. The professor slept on, and the firelight flickered over the red carpet, and the pendulum on the mantel clock wagged. Johnny stumbled back, eyes goggling. Then blind panic seized him, and he turned and ran. He was at the bottom of the hill before he knew it, shoving his way through the creaking turnstile. On over the dark, rainy field he ran, limping badly. He never knew, afterward, how he managed to make it down to the shore. But he did, and only when he had stopped running did he gasp, because of the unbelievably fiery stinging. Madly Johnny looked around. There was the boat. Rain pelted down on the tarpaulin that had been thrown over the food and the other things. Nearby, under a tree that grew close to the shore, lay Father Higgins. As Johnny moved nearer, flashlight dangling from his limp hand, he saw a heavy tree limb that lay near the priest's inert body. Father Higgins didn't move a muscle. Was he dead?

Johnny stumbled closer and dropped to his knees. He played the beam of his flashlight on Father Higgins's head, and he saw a clotted sticky mass of blood in his hair.
Oh, please no!
Johnny prayed desperately.
Please no, not this, not this....
Father Higgins groaned. He opened his eyes and stared blearily up at Johnny. "We're surrounded," he mumbled thickly. "Pinned down... rifle fire... can't get out. Gotta take out those mortars! Got any grenades left? Here... lemme try."

If Johnny had been able to break down and cry, he would have. But as it was, he just felt numb. Father Higgins's mind was wandering back to the island of Guam, during the Second World War. Johnny put his hands over his face.
"What do I do now?"
he muttered through his fingers. They were all going to be killed, here on this little hunk of rock and sand. People would find their bodies weeks from now and wonder what had happened. Johnny wanted to give up. He wanted to throw his body down on the sand beside Father Higgins and just wait for the end. But with a violent effort he shook off despair. He was still alive, and he was
not
going to give up! Johnny dragged himself to his feet. He tried to force his weary brain to think calmly. Where was Fergie? He had come down to find Father Higgins, but apparently he had never made it. What could... A twig snapped. Bushes rustled. Turning suddenly, Johnny peered off into the dark mass of bushes that loomed nearby, right at the edge of the beach. By straining his eyes he could just make out a shadowy human shape.

"Fergie?" Johnny called in a faltering voice. "Hey, Fergie, is... is that you?"

More crackling and snapping. The shape shuffled closer. Johnny felt a deathly chill, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had a sudden vision of the scarecrow thing that he had seen on the ferryboat. In a flash Johnny plunged his hand in under his shirt and gripped the silver crucifix. The shape halted. It hovered menacingly for a second or two, and then it melted back into the dark bushes. The chill passed away, and Johnny somehow knew that the thing was gone... for the time being.

And now what was he going to do? Johnny didn't know. He lifted the crucifix's chain off his neck and played the flashlight's pallid beam over this odd, magical object. At the place where the arms of the crucifix crossed was a tiny dome of glass, and under it were the two holy splinters. This blessed talisman could ward off evil, but it couldn't help him to rescue the professor. No, something else was needed for that. But what? Johnny wished that he was a sorcerer, with reams of powerful curses and incantations rolling around in his head. A great wizard like Albertus Magnus or Count Cagliostro would be able to fight magic with magic. But he was just John Michael Dixon, of 23 Fillmore Street, in Duston Heights, Massachusetts. What could... And then a very odd, unlikely thought came floating into his mind. Father Higgins had told him once that some of the Latin phrases in the Mass were thought to have magical powers. Johnny was an altar boy, and he knew a lot of church Latin by heart. But there was a better source than his poor befogged brain—he would use Father Higgins's breviary, the little prayer book that he carried in his coat pocket. The breviary was full of prayers—some in English and some in Latin—and one of them just might do the trick for him. Once again Johnny knelt down. He took off his rain-soaked jacket and folded it up to make a pillow for Father Higgins's head. Then he fumbled in the right-hand pocket of the priest's clerical jacket. Nothing there but loose change. With a sinking heart Johnny tried the other pocket... and his hand closed over a small book. This was it! He had found it!