Chessmen of Doom

by John Bellairs

  "Now, wait a minute—just wait a minute!" growled the professor irritably. "Do you mean to say that this creep with the chessmen has taken over some kind of hocus-pocus that my brother began?"

  Dr. Coote sighed. "Yes, Roderick. That is exactly what I mean. You have that diary that you found disguised as a cookbook in your brother's library. You have these letters that an Englishman named Edmund Stallybrass sent to your brother. It's pretty clear now that Perry was trying to frighten mankind into peacefulness by making comets zoom past the earth. It's a pretty crack-brained scheme, but your brother was not a terribly sane person, was he? All right, then. Your brother dies, and then this Englishman who stole the chessmen comes to America to put Perry's mad plan to work. However, I will bet you that our friend Stallybrass isn't interested in scaring mankind into peace. I think he has something a good deal more sinister in mind. It really is too bad that your brother chose to let this lunatic in on his plans, but I guess he needed him to steal the chessmen. I did a little digging and I found out that this Stallybrass used to be an assistant curator at the British Museum. It would have been easy for him to sneak into the museum at night."

  The professor coughed and paused. "But see here, Charley," he said at last. "How did those two figure out that they could use a set of medieval chessmen as part of a magic ritual? It's not the sort of thing you read in museum guidebooks."

  Dr. Coote sniffed. "No, Roderick, it most certainly is not! It beats me how they figured out their ritual, but . . . well, the British Museum has lots of old scrolls and books tucked away—things that no one has ever read. Maybe Stallybrass stumbled across something like that and then he wrote to Perry, and then the fun began!"

  "Fun indeed!" growled the professor. "My brother should have been horsewhipped for even thinking of such a scheme! Well, now we have a crisis on our hands, but what can we do?"

  "Roderick," Dr. Coote said slowly, "it seems clear that when you and the boys saw the comets vanish you must have seen a failed attempt. Or maybe it was just a trial run. But the question is, when will Stallybrass try again? I have combed through your dear brother's diary till my eyes ache, and I think I've finally figured out what all those astrological drawings were for."

  "Astrology!" snorted the professor, "Leave it to my crackpot brother to believe in such rubbish! I told him many times—"

  "You're forgetting something, my friend," said Dr. Coote, interrupting. "I will admit that the daily horoscopes in the papers are idiotic, but astrology was part of medieval magic. If we are going to stop Mr. Stallybrass, we have to take astrology seriously. Now, then—as far as I can figure out, Perry's magic ritual can only be used in a month when there is an eclipse of the moon, and when Jupiter and Saturn hang in conjunction in the house of Mars. I know that sounds like gobbledygook to you, but those conditions existed in August when our friend did his little magic routine. The planets won't be favorable again till mid-January, so we have a little time to plan a counterattack!"

  Professor Childermass swore under his breath. "So we have time, do we?" he grumbled. "Time for what? Time to find out who Crazy Annie is? Do you know I have racked my brains, and I have even let myself be hypnotized, in order to find out who that woman is? But it's no good. Why on earth couldn't my brother's ghost have been a little clearer about what he meant?"

  "Come now, Roderick," said Dr. Coote mildly. "You know as well as I do that ghosts have to speak in riddles—it has been this way ever since the dawn of time. The rules are ancient and must be observed."

  "Hmph!" said the professor. "It seems to me that it is time the rules were changed! However, our problem remains: We have to go up to that wretched estate in the middle of the winter, and we have to fight without any weapons. What do you think our chances of winning are?"

  "Pretty slim," retorted Dr. Coote with a weary sigh. "But at least we have a little time to think. We need to go over this Crazy Annie business from every possible angle. You know, Crazy Annie could be a thing and not a person. Mons Meg was a cannon, and Jack-in-the-Pulpit is a flower. Do you see what I mean?"

  "Yes, I do," the professor answered fiercely. "But I have combed the dictionaries and encyclopedias, and I can't find any plant or mineral or object whatever that is called Crazy Annie!" He sighed and blew his nose. "I'm not trying to be nasty, Charley," he went on in a milder tone, "but I'm afraid we're up against a big fat brick wall. Still, I'm not going to let Stallybrass have his way—not without a fight. I'm going to Perry's estate on January fifteenth. Will you come with me?"

  Dr. Coote paused. "I'd love to, Roderick," he began nervously, "but as you know, I have bad legs and—"

  "Oh, to the devil with your bad legs!" snapped the professor impatiently. "Bring a cane, for heaven's sake! I'm not asking you to be an Olympic runner, I'm just asking for moral support."

  There was a longer pause. "Of course," said Dr. Coote. "Though I can't imagine what either one of us can do."

  "Neither can I," said the professor gloomily. "It'll just be the old college try, the goal-line stand with two seconds remaining in the game." He added, in a voice that was thick with emotion, "Thanks for being my friend, Charley."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The months rolled by, and the seasons changed. The maple leaves turned red and yellow and fell to the ground, and the cold winds of November whistled through the bare branches. In the first week of December snow fell on Fillmore Street, whitening the branches and piling little pointed caps on posts and fire hydrants. Mid-January was near, a lot nearer than Johnny and Fergie liked to think. Many times they had talked over the things they had heard while eavesdropping in the professor's attic. But now, as the fateful time got closer and closer, they realized that they didn't have a ghost of a plan. They wanted very much to help the two old men, but they didn't know how. Of course, the professor and Dr. Coote didn't have a plan either—all their hopes were pinned on finding out who Crazy Annie was. But what if they couldn't solve that riddle? Then the evil Mr. Stallybrass would be free to do whatever he liked, which was not a pleasant thing to think about. The boys felt hopeless, but they also felt determined. They wanted to be in on the adventure, even though it seemed like a very dangerous one.

  They hashed over dozens of plans. They thought about stowing away in the trunk of the professor's car, but they realized that they would probably get locked in and have to bang for help in order to get out. If they hid in the backseat, one sneeze would betray them. So, one idea after another got shot down. But on a gray December afternoon, as the boys were gobbling hot fudge sundaes in their favorite booth at Peter's Sweet Shop, Fergie came up with the best scheme so far—they would take the train to Stone Arabia.

  Johnny was startled by the idea. He held his dripping spoon in the air and stared in amazement at Fergie. "Do you think the train stops there?" he asked. "I mean, it's a really small town, and—"

  "Be not worried, big John!" said Fergie with a confident grin. "I got a Boston and Maine timetable, and the choo-choo does stop there. We can hop the train the night those two old geezers drive up, an' then we can take a taxi out to the estate. They'll have to put us up for the—"

  "Wait a minute!" said Johnny suddenly. "Where are we gonna get the money for all this?"

  Fergie licked his spoon and looked smug. "From you, big boy. Remember when the prof gave you some money to start your own bank account? Well, if you haven't spent it all on chewing gum and Cracker Jacks, there oughta be enough left for a couple of train tickets and a taxi ride."

  Johnny nodded weakly. But then another problem occurred to him. "What about our folks? We can't just say that we're taking off for Maine. What'll we tell them?"

  Fergie grinned slyly. "I've got that one figured out too. You tell your gramma and grampa that you're stayin' over at my house for the night, an' I'll tell my folks that I'm stayin' at your house. They'll never check up on us, an' the next day we'll hitch a ride back with the prof and old Whosis. Nobody'll ever be the wiser."

  Johnny paused and stared thou
ghtfully at the melting ice cream in his dish. "You don't think anything's really gonna happen when we go up there to the estate, do you?

  Fergie shook his head. He seemed calm and confident. "Naah, I really don't! That red-faced crumb blew it once when he tried all that abracadabra with the skull an' stuff. He might try again, but I think the prof and Dr. Coote will fix his clock. An' we're gonna help!"

  Johnny looked at his friend doubtfully. Was Fergie just being brave, or did he honestly think that they could go up to Maine and face an evil magician without being harmed? The professor and Dr. Coote thought there was danger, and so did Johnny. And Johnny was not thrilled by Fergie's great big plan for fooling the Dixons and the Fergusons. Something could very easily go wrong. Gramma might call Mrs. Ferguson for a recipe, and then the beans would get spilled. But Johnny would not let his friend down. When Fergie climbed on the train, he would be with him, no matter what.

  Christmas came, and Johnny got the usual presents from his grandparents—two white shirts, a tie, socks, and an outdoors novel called North Woods Whammy. The Dixons meant well, but they weren't very imaginative about gift giving. Then January arrived, with freezing gales and ice storms. The temperature dropped to near zero and stayed there for a week, and then it warmed up a bit and snowed. Now that the day for the professor's departure was getting closer, Johnny watched him like a hawk, listening for any hint of exactly when the trip would take place. He had said he'd go on the fifteenth, but he might get impatient and leave a day early. Finally, on the evening of the thirteenth, the professor casually told Johnny that he was going up to Durham the night of January fourteenth to visit Dr. Coote for a couple of days. As soon as he could, Johnny called Fergie and told him that the big trip was coming. The next morning, during breakfast, Johnny asked Gramma and Grampa Dixon if he could spend the night at Fergie's house. The next day was Saturday, and there would be no school, so Gramma and Grampa agreed.

  Johnny spent his day at school in a very nervous state, with his stomach all knotted up and worried thoughts flitting through his brain. After school let out, he went down to the bank, drew out some money, and bought two railway tickets to Stone Arabia. Then he went home to pack his overnight bag.

  Snow was falling steadily as Johnny stood on the yellow brick platform outside the Duston Heights railway station. He was wearing his old blue parka and red stocking cap, and he held a small black leather valise. He looked around nervously—where was Fergie? It was hard to believe that he would chicken out, but you never could tell. For the tenth time Johnny walked back into the heated station and peered up at the big electrical clock over the door. It said five minutes to seven. The train was due to be in the station at seven, and it would leave for Maine at ten after. "Fergie, you're cutting things pretty close," Johnny muttered under his breath. He bit his lip and looked around at the empty wooden benches and the potbellied iron stove. Maybe it would be a good thing if they did miss the train. Maybe the nervous voice that he heard in his head was his guardian angel telling him that this whole trip was a very bad idea, and that he'd better get out while he still had a chance. But just as Johnny was thinking that he should duck out the back door of the station and go home, Fergie walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting leather jacket with a ratty fur collar and a pair of bright red fuzzy earmuffs and he had a bowling-ball bag that was obviously stuffed full of clothes. Fergie's cheeks were very red, and he was breathing hard.

  "Sorry . . . to keep you waiting . . . John baby," he gasped as he sank down onto a bench. "My mom had a lot of chores for me to do, an' I thought I'd never get outa the house! Is the train in yet?"

  As if in answer a long mournful wail sounded in the distance. Soon the big steel locomotive came thundering into the station, shooting off jets of steam. Johnny smiled weakly at his friend—he didn't know whether to be happy or sad. "Glad you made it," he said, not very sincerely. Together they headed out the door to the riveted steel steps that had just been lowered from one of the cars.

  Johnny and Fergie sat in a smelly, dimly lit car and munched some candy bars they had brought with them. The only other passenger in the car was an elderly Catholic priest who was reading a small black book. Johnny put his head back on the wicker-covered seat and wished that he were asleep at home. This is all very crazy, he said silently. What are we gonna do once we get up there? How can we help the professor and Dr. Coote? Why did I ever agree to . . .

  Johnny's head slipped to one side and he went to sleep. He was in the middle of a dream about a giant candy bar named Crazy Annie when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

  "Huh? Wha—what is it?" mumbled Johnny thickly. He opened his eyes and found that a conductor in a navy-blue uniform was bending over him.

  "Stone Arabia, young man," said the conductor in a bored monotone. "Don't want to miss your stop. Lucky you fellas told me where you was gettin' off."

  As Johnny removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, the conductor reached over and shook Fergie, who was also asleep. Mumbling under his breath, Fergie came to life.

  "Thanks, pal," he said, grinning stupidly at the conductor. Then he glanced across at Johnny, and he laughed. Johnny's stocking cap was stuck on the back of his head, and his hair was a mess. His glasses were crooked on his nose, and he looked crabby.

  "Got your beauty sleep, didja?" asked Fergie with a chuckle.

  Johnny gave him a dirty look. "Ho-ho," he muttered sarcastically. "You don't look all that great yourself!" He heaved a sigh and glanced out the window. The train was slowing down. "We're here," said Johnny in a voice that trembled. "I hope we can find a cab."

  The train stopped, and the conductor bellowed, "Stone Arabia!" Wearily the boys stumbled to their feet and walked to the ridged steel platform outside the door of the car. Gripping the handrail, Johnny made his way down the steep steps to the ground, and Fergie came leaping down after him. Not far away was a little old-fashioned train station with a scallop-edged wooden roof and a fancy cupola. A weathered wooden sign said STONE ARABIA.

  In the parking lot a taxi sat with its motor idling. Johnny grinned. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was at least eleven o'clock, and here was a cab waiting for them!

  "Hey, John baby, we swing!" chortled Fergie as he stumbled forward through the snow. "I'll bet we get out to the mansion before the prof and his friend do!"

  Johnny smiled wanly. He still had the front-door key that the professor had given him at the start of the summer visit, so they would be able to let themselves in. Nevertheless he was not happy about arriving at a cold, dark cavernous house in the middle of the winter. Gripping the handle of his valise tightly, he followed Fergie out to the waiting taxi. As they got closer to the cab, Johnny felt panicky, and he kept getting a strong urge to turn and run madly back to the train, which still stood in the station, blowing off clouds of steam. But Johnny told himself that he was being jittery over nothing, and he forced himself to plod forward through the white sparkling snow. As he stepped over a guard rail, he noticed that there was someone sitting in the backseat of the cab. At first this seemed strange, but then he thought, Oh, well, we're just going to be sharing a taxi ride with someone. As he reached forward to grasp the handle of the rear door, it was suddenly flung open.

  Inside sat a hunched, shadowy figure, his face lit by a halo of trembling green light. It was the nasty red-faced man with the waxed mustache, and he held a small black leather case on his lap.

  "Hello, boys," he said, sneering. "So nice to see you again!"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Before Johnny and Fergie could yell or run away, Mr. Stallybrass raised his left hand, and they were rooted to the spot. Their tongues stuck to the roofs of their mouths, and they could not speak. Moving woodenly, like two robots, the boys climbed into the back of the taxi. Mr. Stallybrass forced them to kneel on the floor and put their heads down on the seat. Then, with a triumphant smile, he told the driver where to go. For about ten minutes the taxi bumped and skidded along snowy roads until at last it turned
into a lonely churchyard that was surrounded by a low stone wall. Snow blanketed the graves and rimmed the tops of the headstones, and at the top of a low rise a brick church could be seen. The cab crawled up the narrow drive till it stopped by the side of the dark, gloomy building.

  "Ah, here we are at last!" said Mr. Stallybrass. He reached down and tapped each boy on the back. "Come on, lads! Let's go!"

  The driver, an unshaven old man in a tattered overcoat, got out and opened one of the rear doors of the car. Mr. Stallybrass snapped his fingers, and the two boys clambered awkwardly onto the snowy drive and stood waiting with empty, staring eyes and half-open mouths. Taking his time, Mr. Stallybrass followed them. He reached into his pocket, took out a large brass key, and led the way to a low pointed door on the side of the church. It was bitterly cold now, and the snow had stopped. Sticking the key into the door, Mr. Stallybrass twisted it. The door opened with a scraping shudder, and as Johnny and Fergie were hustled forward by the two men, they saw worn stone steps leading down into the darkness. The boys clumped down the steps and through a low archway, guided by the pale beam of Mr. Stallybrass's flashlight. For a few minutes they halted while the driver searched for an oil lamp that he found at last in a cob webbed corner. He managed to light the lamp, and a pale yellowish glow spread through the low-ceilinged chamber. The boys saw that they were in a burial vault under the church. Coffins lay in niches along the walls, and more were scattered on the rough earthen floor. Some of the coffin lids had brass plates that glimmered faintly in the light, while others had been smashed, so that you could see the bones inside. Two lidless coffins lay in the middle of the room, not far from the lamp. And in them Dr. Coote and Professor Childermass were laid out. Both were deathly pale and still, with folded hands and closed eyes. Were they dead?