“Before anyone starts pushing or shoving,” said Jonathan, “we have to find the island first. And I think my magic is at least strong enough to let me detect any ordinary spell of concealment.”
Lewis couldn’t stand it. He slipped off his chair and went into the front parlor. Rose Rita followed him. “They’re going to leave us out,” she said grimly. “I know they are.”
Lewis rested his chin on his hand. “They think they’re protecting us.”
Rose Rita sat on the sofa and crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to put up with it. I’m going to tell my mom and dad that Grampa wants me to come up to the island and help him out around the house. Mom worries about him a lot. I think she’d let me go on the bus, especially if Grampa was expecting me.”
Lewis stared at her in disbelief. Was Rose Rita planning to abandon him too? “But Ishmael Izard and his magic—I mean, what if something happens?”
Rose Rita shrugged. “My folks don’t know anything about old Whosis and his magical whammy,” she pointed out. “So they won’t worry. And I plan to be very extra-special careful. I won’t let anything happen to me!”
None of that helped Lewis’s feelings. “I’ll be left here by myself,” he said unhappily.
Shaking her head, Rose Rita said, “No, you won’t. Either your uncle will stay, or Mrs. Zimmermann will. Now I’ve got to call Grampa and persuade him to ask my folks to let me come up for the rest of the summer. That shouldn’t be hard. He always says I’m his favorite relative!” Suddenly Rose Rita gave Lewis a stern look. “Hey, you’ve got to keep this quiet, understand? If your uncle or Mrs. Zimmermann found out what I’m planning, they’d be sure to heave a monkey wrench into the works.”
“I don’t know,” began Lewis. “It seems wrong—”
“Look, Lewis,” Rose Rita pointed out, “we’ve got to keep an eye on whoever goes up there. I know you wouldn’t want your uncle to be snooping around that mysterious island when nobody knew where he was going or what he was trying to do. And I certainly want Mrs. Zimmermann to be safe. I know it’s kind of lousy of me to run off and leave you here, but somebody’s got to go. And because my grampa is already there, I’m the logical choice. Promise me you won’t say anything?”
Unwillingly, Lewis muttered, “Okay. I promise.”
Before many days had passed, everything fell into place. Uncle Jonathan would go to the Upper Peninsula and see what he could discover about the vanishing island. Lewis would stay in Mrs. Zimmermann’s guest room and help her research the spells and magic that might provide protection.
And, though neither of the adults knew it, Rose Rita would leave for Porcupine Bay on a Greyhound bus a whole day before Uncle Jonathan got started. When he arrived, she would already be on hand. She promised Lewis that she would stay in touch and let him know of any developments.
That left Lewis worried and far from satisfied. Still, it was the best they could do, and he had to settle for it. On Saturday morning, he stood on the curb in front of his house and waved as his uncle drove away in his boxy old Muggins Simoon. As he watched the car chug down the hill, Lewis couldn’t help wondering if he would ever see his uncle—or Rose Rita—alive again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That same night, much to Lewis’s surprise, Jonathan telephoned from Porcupine Bay to say he had arrived. It was about half past nine when Mrs. Zimmermann answered the phone. She handed the receiver to Lewis, who heard his uncle’s voice.
“That was sure a fast trip,” Lewis said.
His uncle chortled. “Let’s say I made a beeline for the Upper Peninsula. Don’t worry. I was careful and didn’t break any speed limits. Not badly, anyway. Despite what Florence says, there’s plenty of life in the old Simoon, and I am a pretty good driver. And since I didn’t stop to eat, I made very good time, thank you. Speaking of Florence, I need to talk to her again.”
Lewis handed the phone back to Mrs. Zimmermann. After a short, soft conversation, she hung up and smiled at Lewis. His expression must have showed how anxious he was, because in a reassuring voice, Mrs. Zimmermann said, “Lewis, please don’t worry. Your uncle can take care of himself, and he’s fine. Jonathan says he’s found a little fishing cabin to rent up there in Porcupine Bay—”
“He’s not staying with Mr. Galway?” asked Lewis, blinking in surprise. He had just assumed that Jonathan would go back to the mansion on Ivarhaven Island.
Mrs. Zimmermann shook her head. “No. He doesn’t want to impose on Albert, and anyway, Jonathan thinks he can snoop around more if he’s on the mainland.” She yawned. “I beg your pardon! I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately, what with Izards and wizards and Final Hours and mysterious towers spinning around in my head! I promised Jonathan I’d see you got to Mass tomorrow morning, but after that, we can collect Rose Rita and run down to my cottage on Lyon Lake. I want to make sure that the carpenters I hired did a good job of taking down that wobbly old pier next to my property. It’ll be fun to combine a picnic with my tour of inspection.”
Lewis felt uncomfortable. “Okay. Only I don’t think Rose Rita can go. She said something about going out of town.” After a pause, Lewis added, “With her family.” It was true, in a way, he thought. Grampa Galway was part of her family. But Lewis was all too aware of how weak his excuse sounded, and of how his uncertain voice made it all the worse. He was no good at this kind of secrecy. Rose Rita was the one with the vivid imagination and the quick wit. Lewis had a hard time telling a simple fib or even keeping a secret.
To his relief, Mrs. Zimmermann didn’t seem to notice. “Very well,” she said. “Then you and I will make the trip. I’ll bake us a cake and we’ll have a regular picnic and laze away the afternoon.” She fought back another yawn, and then smiled in a sleepy way. “But right now I’m going to bundle myself off to bed. Don’t stay up too late reading.”
“I won’t,” promised Lewis. In fact, he had already finished the book he had been reading, a rousing sea adventure by C. S. Forester. He thought briefly of going next door and getting another book from his room, but then he stared at the dark windows. The night was black. Lewis couldn’t help shivering. He knew he lacked the courage even to cross the yard when the hairy thing might be lurking out there.
Maybe he could find something to read in Mrs. Zimmermann’s house. Lewis went to a plain walnut bookshelf that stood against one wall of the front parlor. Its shelves were crammed with dozens of volumes. Most of the books were about magic, but some of the newer ones on the top shelf were about travel to exotic places. One was partly pulled out from its place. Lewis tilted his head to read the title on the book’s spine: Celtic Lands and Peoples. Curious, he pulled it out.
The pages fell open at a bookmark. Only, Lewis saw, it wasn’t really a bookmark at all, but a smudgy typewritten letter on the very thin kind of paper called onionskin. The paper was so flimsy that it was almost transparent. Even with the letter folded, Lewis could make out part of one line: “. . . your young friend Lewis Barnavelt.”
Overcome with curiosity, Lewis unfolded the paper and read what it said:
14 July
Goldschmitt Str. 412-B
Göttingen
My dear Dr. Zimmermann:
What a pleasure it was to speak to you again. I have been investigating the runes you have described to me as having been given to your young friend Lewis Barnavelt. Here is a translation, so far as my regrettably faulty knowledge of Celtic runes is capable of making:
To Lewis Barnavelt: Azrael is summoned, and his servant of the night is loosed to follow low your steps and to number the minutes of life remaining unto you. You are granted forty-eight days.
As you say, my dear Dr. Zimmermann, this is puzzling in the extreme. However, in an article by Karswell (1890) I have found a reference to a form of sending practised by rogue members of the Temple of Thalestris, and this I fear is an example of such. This is a method of casting the runes, of calling disaster upon the unfortunate who receives it. Th
e mention of Azrael and the servant of the night is particularly troubling. The danger comes, if your statement of the dates is accurate, on 15 August.
I know of no counterspell, but if your young friend can pass the parchment back to the giver, that may keep him from harm. In the meanwhile, impress upon him the utter necessity of keeping the parchment safe. It will struggle to destroy itself, and if it succeeds, he is lost. By the way, in English you will find a fiction about such a spell in the writings of the great ghost-story author M. R. James. It might be worth reading.
If I may for a moment call you Florence and add a personal note, then I must say that I will ask as many of our colleagues as I can find to assist you. Good luck, and if you are ever in Germany, look in on your old friend.
Hermann Athanasius, D.Mag.A.
(Professor Emeritus, Universität Göttingen)
Lewis folded the letter with trembling fingers, and he slid the book back onto the shelf. After a moment of doubtful hesitation, he pulled out another volume from a lower shelf. This was a fat Encyclopedia of Supernatural and Occult Knowledge. Its pebbly maroon leather cover felt slippery in his grip. Lewis was breathing so shallowly that he was dizzy. He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to calm down. Then he sat in an armchair with a reading lamp beside it. After gathering his courage once more, Lewis felt ready. He opened the book to the A’s, almost hoping he would not find the entry. But there it was in black and white:
Azrael, Azri’al: In Jewish tradition, the name of one of the fourteen Angels of Death. In Islamic teachings . . .
From the corner of his eye Lewis saw something on the arm of his chair. It was dark, and it was right beside his wrist. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickled. For a terrible second he thought the dark gray splotch was a spider. An enormous spider, like one of the South American tarantulas that preyed on birds.
One of the spider legs moved. And then Lewis realized that the shape might be a hand—a bony, hairy hand—
With a stifled screech, Lewis leaped out of the chair and spun around. The dark shape was nothing more than the shadow of the reading lamp’s chain, which ended in a tassel.
But then, the shape in the King Solomon engraving had looked just like a shadow too.
Lewis fumbled the encyclopedia back into its place on the shelf. His teeth chattered as if he were freezing. He ran to the guest bedroom, locked himself in, and drew the curtains over the windows. Jumping into bed fully clothed, he lay there cowering. He tugged the covers over his face and in a hushed voice, he recited a Latin prayer over and over:
“Nam et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis non timebo mala . . .” It was from the book of Psalms in the Bible, and the words meant “Though I walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” But Lewis did fear. He feared what would happen on August 15. Did he have less than three weeks to live? He was so afraid that he could not go to sleep until very late. So late, in fact, that through the closed curtains he could see the first faint light of dawn.
Then, at last, he fell into a disturbed sleep, his dreams troubled by visions of a sneaking, hairy creature. He could feel its terrible yellow eyes staring at him. Made of shadows and hatred, it hovered at the edge of his vision, and whenever he turned his head, it had vanished. But Lewis knew it was there, just waiting.
The clock was ticking.
He had only until the middle of August before something dreadful happened.
“Rose Rita,” said Albert Galway, “I appreciate your wanting to help your old granddad, but you don’t seem to be having a good time so far.”
They were sitting at the breakfast table early on Sunday morning. Rose Rita sipped her cup of hot chocolate and gave her grandfather a weary smile. “I’m just tired out from that long bus trip. How’s everything going?”
“Fine, fine,” Mr. Galway said. He took a long drink of coffee. “Heard from Jim Marvin the other day. His yacht has performed well in the trials, so he’s going to be in the big race the middle of next month.” He shook his bald head. “You know, down in Australia it’s winter right now. I wouldn’t want to be out on those wild waters in a sailboat, even if it’s one of the best. No, I sailed around the Horn and around the Cape of Good Hope, and I know those harsh gales of the roaring forties. Lake Superior is more my speed!”
Rose Rita pushed her fried egg around on her plate. “Did you ever find out anything about that strange island?”
Grampa Galway set his cup down. “Found out the name of it. Maybe. Jake Brannigan—he’s the owner of the store over in Porcupine Bay, as well as the postmaster, justice of the peace, and chief cook and bottle-washer—what was I saying? Oh, yes, Jake says that he thinks it might be a place called Gnomon Island. Funny name for an island, if you ask me. There’s a fella named Clusko that comes in and picks up mail two, three times a week. Somebody once asked him where he was camping, and he laughed and said Gnomon Island. Nobody in Porcupine Bay’s ever heard of it, so Jake figures it might be the one we saw.”
“I wonder who built that tower,” said Rose Rita, trying to sound casual.
Her grandfather shrugged. “You got me. Might be an old abandoned lighthouse put up by the Coast Guard. Might have been built in ancient days by the Chippewa, for all I know.” He frowned. “One thing I do know is that the place felt bad to me. Whoever lives in that cottage doesn’t like visitors. I’m not planning on going back, anyway.”
Rose Rita didn’t think she should push the subject any farther. She got up and said, “I’ll do the dishes.”
Her grandfather laughed. “Much obliged, matey, but this place has all the modern conveniences.” He got up and helped her load the dishwasher. It was the first one that Rose Rita had ever seen, and she immediately decided that one day she would own one. She hated washing dishes.
After cleaning up, the two of them played a couple of games of Hearts. Then Grampa Galway had some chores to do. He left Rose Rita alone in the study, and she sat wondering why Jonathan had not shown up. She knew that he had planned to drive up sometime that weekend. And she wasn’t particularly looking forward to seeing him, because she knew very well that he wouldn’t approve of her snooping around.
But she also felt that she owed it to Lewis to find out everything she could. Mrs. Zimmermann and Uncle Jonathan would try to protect him, but they would do it the way grown-ups always did. For his own good they would keep things secret from him.
And Rose Rita hated not knowing secrets even worse than she hated washing dishes. She checked her watch. It was only 10:12. She picked up the phone, hesitated, and then dialed zero. When the operator came on, Rose Rita told her she wanted to place a person-to-person long-distance call and gave Mrs. Zimmermann’s number, but Lewis’s name.
The phone rang only once before Lewis answered: “Hello, Zimmermann residence.”
The operator asked if he were Lewis Barnavelt, and when he said yes, she told Rose Rita, “Go ahead, please.”
“You alone?” Rose Rita asked in a low voice.
“No,” said Lewis.
“Oh. Mrs. Zimmermann’s there nearby, huh?”
“That’s right.”
Rose Rita thought for a moment. It was probably better not to let Mrs. Zimmermann know where she was. “Listen,” she told Lewis, “remember what I’m going to tell you, and when you get a chance, write it down so you won’t forget. Okay?”
“That’ll be fine,” said Lewis.
“Okay,” replied Rose Rita. “First, the name of the island we saw might be Gnomon Island. I think that’s spelled g-n-o-m-o-n, but I could be wrong. Got that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Next, somebody named Clusko might—”
“Wh-what?” demanded Lewis, his voice suddenly tight and high.
“Clusko,” repeated Rose Rita. “Have you heard of someone by that name?”
“Uh, right,” said Lewis. “In the store.”
Rose Rita frowned. “The store in Porcupine Bay, you mean?”
“That
first day,” added Lewis.
Nearly bouncing out of her chair, Rose Rita said, “You saw him?”
She heard Lewis say something too soft to make out, and after a pause, he added quickly, “I told Mrs. Zimmermann I thought I smelled something burning. She’s baking a cake. Listen, there was a short little guy in the store when we first drove up there. He had wiry black hair, and he looked kind of creepy. They said his name was Clusko.”
“Okay,” said Rose Rita. “I’ll talk Grampa into going over to the store, and I’ll go along and ask some questions. When’s your uncle coming up?”
“Already there,” Lewis told her. “He’s renting a cabin. She’s coming back. I’d better go.”
“I’ll call back tomorrow,” promised Rose Rita. She hung up the phone. Despite Lewis’s fear and despite her own worries, she smiled. She loved detective shows on radio and on TV, and this was just like a deep, dark mystery. She decided that her next step would be to question the suspects at the general store in Porcupine Bay.
The Tower at the End of the World (Action Packs) Page 7
