“Be careful!” shouted Rose Rita.
She heard the faint click of the door opening, then a slam. And then nothing. Rose Rita counted to a hundred. Then she started toward the base of the stairs. But a sound stopped her short. It was the distant sound of an outboard motor. Suddenly all was quiet. Immediately Rose Rita dashed to the base of the tower. She hid behind it as someone approached. Peeking around she could just make out a figure in the dusk. It was a tall thin man dressed entirely in black. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and clapped his hands together. “So the fly has come to the spider,” he said softly. “Now my revenge will be complete!” And he ran up the unrailed stairs, taking them two at a time.
At the top he knocked on the door. “Comfortable, Jonathan Barnavelt? Enjoying your visit, Florence Zimmermann?” he called in a sneering voice. “By now you have discovered that the door cannot be opened from the inside—not without a word of power that only I know. But to make doubly sure, I will cast a nice little paralyzing spell on the two of you!” He chanted in some foreign language, and Rose Rita heard the door open and close again.
Rose Rita ran down the path toward the boats. But before she had reached the clearing and the cottage, she stopped. Izard had mentioned Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann, but not Lewis. Did that mean that Lewis was still free? Was he a captive somewhere else on the island? Or had something awful happened to him?
She hesitated so long that she heard footsteps approaching. Rose Rita left the path and, in the darkness, blundered into the woods. She crouched as Ishmael Izard passed by, grumbling to himself. “No book of spells! What could the witch have done with it? No matter, no matter, they’re harmless now, and after noon tomorrow they will have no power. I’ll—”
Rose Rita backed away from the path and stepped on something soft. “My hand!” yelped Lewis.
He came surging up out of his hiding place as Rose Rita stumbled and fell.
“Who’s there?” barked Izard.
Rose Rita heard Lewis’s frantic attempt to run, and she heard him hit the ground hard. “Help!” he shouted.
“Got you!” yelled Izard. “Who’s this, who’s this? The nephew of that miserable Barnavelt! Well, well, you have until tomorrow before they come for you, after all. You might as well spend your last night with me! Maybe you can tell me something I need to know!”
Rose Rita heard Lewis whimpering, then the sounds of footsteps on the path. She got to her knees. Feeling around in the dark, she found a rough blanket. Then she pushed through the underbrush, hoping she was heading toward the path. A twig lashed across her face, stinging her cheek. She almost lost her glasses. But finally she came onto open ground. She had to grope her way downhill. At last she saw a yellow rectangle of light, the single window in Izard’s cabin. Dropping to all fours, she sneaked up to the wall. The window was open about six inches or so. Through it she could hear Izard’s voice: “I am weary now. Lie on that bunk. Lie on it! You will sleep. I will let you sleep until your last hour has come. And then I will watch your sufferings! Sleep now. I command it. Sleep. . . .”
To her horror Rose Rita felt her eyelids droop. She backed away from that hypnotic voice. Too late! She barely had time to creep to the side of the cabin before sleep overcame her and she fell into unconsciousness.
For Lewis it was as if he had fallen into a bottomless pit. One moment he lay on the cot, struggling, and the next he was dead asleep. And then, somehow, he was awake again. A ray of daylight came through the window. Lewis raised himself up and became aware that Ishmael Izard was standing in front of him, arms folded. “Your time is almost up, boy,” purred the evil magician. “It is the fifteenth, and the appointed hour of your passing! But you have one hope for my mercy. I gave you the runes, and no doubt they have since vanished. They have a way of doing that, you know! He who holds the runes is powerless against the forces of shadow. But I am a magician. I could hold back your doom. I could let you live.”
“Wh-what?” asked Lewis. “Where’s Mrs. Zimmermann?”
Izard laughed. “I will take you to see her, if you cooperate. Yes, and let you stay with her and with your foolish uncle while the world is cleansed of all but my followers. On this island, and here alone, will you be safe from the coming destruction. But your life is draining away, as sands trickle through an hourglass! Tell me, if you know—where is the witch’s book?”
Lewis became uncomfortably aware of the weight in his jeans pocket. “Wh-what book?” he asked.
“A book of spells, she said,” returned Izard. “It is my only minor worry. A trifle. I thought your uncle had it, but he did not. You have one chance. Tell me where the book is—or I let you die among the shadows!”
The light in the cabin began to flicker. Lewis cast a fearful gaze at the window. The daylight was fluttering, as if the wings of some creature were blotting it out. “The book!” yelled Izard. “Fool of a boy! Do you think Mrs. Zimmermann would rather see you die? Your last chance!”
Lewis couldn’t fight the overwhelming fear. Now bits of shadow were flittering through the screen, through the slightly opened window. They were no larger than moths, fragments of darkness that swirled in the air, that moved toward him. “Here!” he screamed, yanking the little volume from his pocket. “Here it is!”
Izard raised his right hand, and the shadowy forms flowed back through the window. “Very well, boy,” he said calmly. He opened the door. “We will walk to the tower together. Come with me.”
Lewis felt his legs moving. It was as if he could not control them. He stood and followed Izard to the pathway. It was a clouded day, with winks of sunlight appearing and disappearing through strange, swollen, rolling clouds. From the height of the sun it seemed like very late morning, almost noon, in fact. Lewis still had the little book clutched in his hand.
“You must give me the witch’s spell book,” Izard said. “I will not force you. You have to do it of your own will. But if you do not, then I will let the spell work itself out. You will die. The book, if you please.”
And then, for the first time, Lewis remembered that the slip of parchment was inside the book. He held the volume out. Izard took it from him with an air of triumph. He opened it and looked down. Then he glanced sharply up again. “What trick is this?” he snarled. “This is not—”
Something white fluttered from between the pages of the dictionary. “You took the runes back,” said Lewis.
Izard’s face jerked in terror. “Fool!” he shrieked. “You will take it back!” He grabbed for the parchment, but it blew from his grasp. He ran to chase it—
And Rose Rita barrel-rolled from beneath a bush, tripping him! The parchment soared away, over the trees. Lewis backed away. “Look out!” he screamed to Rose Rita.
The air was full of those whirling shadows again. Izard rose to his knees. He screamed. With madness in his eyes he turned toward Lewis. “Stop them!” he yelled. “Without me the world will end and there will be no master to rebuild it! The Doomsday Clock is running! Stop—”
The shadows closed in. They covered Izard like a ragged cloak. He fought his way to his feet and lunged toward Lewis. His clawing hands emerged from the darkness, but they had become transparent, like shadows themselves. “Stop them!” wailed the magician in a muffled, moaning voice. Then, with a horrible tearing sound, the shadows pulled apart. They left nothing behind. They spun like a whirlwind, from which Izard’s awful howls of anguish spilled. Then they rose into the air, higher and higher.
“Quick,” Rose Rita said, grabbing Lewis’s arm. “We’ve got to save your uncle and Mrs. Zimmermann!”
Something fell to the path in front of them with a plop. It was what remained of the dictionary. The pages smoked, charred, and, one by one, blew away on the rising wind.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lewis had no time to feel sick at the terrible fate that had overtaken Ishmael Izard. “You heard him! The clock is still ticking!” shouted Rose Rita. “We’ve got to find it and shut it off!”
; “B-but we’re safe here on the island,” objected Lewis. “H-he said so!”
Rose Rita gave him a fierce look. “Sure, we may be safe. But what about Grampa Galway? What about Mom and Dad? What about every friend of ours in the world? If we don’t stop this thing, they’ll all be fried!”
Lewis knew she was right. “But where is everyone?” he asked.
“I know where they are. Follow me!” snapped Rose Rita.
They ran up the zigzagging path to the dark tower. The sky overhead roiled with ragged black clouds. They left an opening, almost like a tunnel, for the sun, but its pale light only seemed to make the clouds more threatening. Lewis had a feeling that all around him the shadows were lurching and twitching, reaching out for the world. Under the trees dark pools shifted and surged, as if greedy to devour the light.
Rose Rita and Lewis burst out at the base of the narrow stairs that led up to the top of the tower. “I’ll go,” volunteered Rose Rita. “I’m not as afraid of heights as—”
“We’ll both go,” returned Lewis firmly. “You’re not gonna leave me alone down here!”
Rose Rita nodded and led the way. Before he had gone a dozen steps, Lewis felt his knees begin to shake. The stairs were very narrow and very steep. A wrong step, and he’d plunge over the side. Why hadn’t Izard created a railing? But as soon as he wondered that, Lewis knew the answer: The evil wizard had planned that only his enemies would ever make the journey up the stairs.
Halfway to the top Lewis felt his head spinning. He dropped to all fours and crept upward. “Go ahead,” he gasped. “I’m coming as fast as I can.”
“Don’t look down,” advised Rose Rita. She hurried upward, her steps firm. Lewis was only three quarters of the way to the top when Rose Rita reached the sealed door. “I’m going to try to open this!” she roared. “You pull while I push!”
Lewis heard his uncle yell something in reply. He forced himself up, fighting the terrible feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach. Step by step he crawled until finally he reached the platform where Rose Rita stood. It was wider than the stairs. In fact, it ran all the way around the top of the tower. Lewis dragged himself to his feet. “C-can I help?”
Rose Rita grunted. “Your uncle said some sort of magic spell, and I heard the door go ‘ping,’ but it didn’t open. This crazy latch is on some kind of strong spring. When I turn it, I can’t push, and when I push, I can’t turn it. I’ll try to open the latch. When I tell you, shove the door as hard as you can!”
“O-okay,” said Lewis. He hated to think of what would happen if he bounced off the door and took two steps back. They would be the last steps he would ever take. All around the top of the tower the clouds were swirling now, and the sun was almost directly overhead. They had only minutes left.
Rose Rita gripped the thick iron handle and twisted it with all her might. “Now!” she said through clenched teeth. “Hard!”
Lewis closed his eyes. He hurled himself at the door. His shoulder thudded against it—and the door swung open with a groan! Shouting in alarm, Lewis tumbled into a small round room. It held only two straight chairs, back to back. Uncle Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann were in the chairs, bound hand and foot.
“Attaboy, Lewis!” yelled Uncle Jonathan, who was facing the door. “Use your Scout knife and get us loose!”
“Hurry,” urged Mrs. Zimmermann. “We don’t have much time left.”
Rose Rita was holding the door open. She kicked off her sneakers. “This thing doesn’t have a doorknob inside,” she said. “I’ll jam it open with my shoes. Help your uncle, Lewis. I’ll untie Mrs. Zimmermann.”
“Careful,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “It’s wizard-rope. Tug the wrong way on a knot, and it’ll grab you!”
Lewis took his Boy Scout knife from his jeans pocket. He opened the blade and said, “Where should I cut?”
“Anywhere!” ordered Jonathan. “This is just regular clothesline! I don’t rate a special wrapping like Haggy Face here!”
Lewis sawed through a loop of the rope, then another. Jonathan tugged his arm free, then took the knife from Lewis and cut through the line on his left arm and his legs. He sprang up and said, “Stand back, Rose Rita. I’m pretty good with magic knots!”
He made some passes over the knots binding Mrs. Zimmermann’s right arm. They squirmed, then suddenly untied themselves. In a tone of relief Mrs. Zimmermann said, “Thank heavens! I’ll take it from here.” She made a gesture of her own, and then she pulled herself up, the rope first stretching like taffy, then dissolving into puffs of mist. “We’ve got to get my umbrella,” she said. “Old Droopy Drawers left it in the rafters of his cottage. Where is he?”
Lewis swallowed hard. “Th-the s-shadows got him,” he said. “I g-gave him the parchment with the b-book, and he took back the runes.”
“Good riddance,” she said gruffly. “Let’s go!”
“I’m with you!” declared Jonathan, picking up his crystal-headed cane from under his chair. “Follow me, everyone!”
Lewis had thought climbing up the steps was hard. Going down was worse. Though no wind stirred, the clouds were rushing in a circle overhead, and the movement made Lewis feel as if he were pitching sideways. But with his uncle’s hand firmly on his shoulder, he forced himself to take one step after another until at last he reached the ground again.
“I’ll get my staff!” barked Mrs. Zimmermann. “You see if you can find this blasted clock! It’s only five minutes before noon!”
“I’ll go with you,” said Rose Rita, who had paused to tug her sneakers back on. She and Mrs. Zimmermann dashed down the pathway to the cottage.
Jonathan leaned against the tower, pressing his ear to the stones. “I can’t hear a blessed thing,” he groused, waving his cane wildly. “What did Izard do? Make a magical electric Doomsday Clock? That wasn’t his style!”
Lewis looked up the steep hill. All around the edge of it was darkness. The grass itself and all the weird sculptures were in the faint sunlight that streamed through the hole in the clouds. The shadows were blurred, and Lewis had the sick feeling that the sun itself was fading out.
Then he noticed something. The sculpture closest to the tower was a set of spears pointing upward from a concrete dome. One was in the center, surrounded by a circle of three, and a final circle of eight spears surrounded them. Lewis suddenly realized there were exactly a dozen. Except now that he looked at them, they looked less like spears and more like the hands of a gigantic clock. Could that be the answer? Twelve clock hands, twelve hours, twelve noon? His head spun. The answer seemed so close, and yet it slipped through his mind. He could no more hold on to it than he could pick up a handful of water.
Uncle Jonathan pointed toward the path. “Here come Florence and Rose Rita. Maybe they’ll have a bright idea.”
Lewis looked back. Mrs. Zimmermann had called upon her powers. The umbrella had become a tall ebony wand, a brilliant purple crystal at its tip throbbing and shooting out rays of light. Mrs. Zimmermann’s purple dress had become a billowing black robe with purple flames flickering in the folds of fabric.
And behind her, creeping up the crooked trail, was a shadowy, shaggy form! “Look out!” screeched Lewis in alarm.
Mrs. Zimmermann whirled. The shadow-creature suddenly reared, its arms spread wide in menace, its glowering yellow eyes flashing. Lewis saw Mrs. Zimmermann push Rose Rita behind her. Facing the wavery monster, she took step after step backward up the hillside. Finally she stepped into the circle around the tower. The horrible shape came right up to the edge of the circle and then started to prowl the edge, like a hungry jungle beast.
“We’re safe as long as we don’t go outside the circle,” said Jonathan. “But why didn’t that creature vanish when it took Izard? A wizard’s spells usually end when he dies!”
“Remember, he’s got lots of other wicked sorcerers helping him,” replied Mrs. Zimmermann. She cast a despairing gaze upward. “Less than two minutes!” she said. “Have you found the clock?”
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“No,” said Jonathan. “Help us look!”
Rose Rita yanked her gaze off the shadow-beast and said, “Maybe it’s hidden somewhere really obvious, like the purloined letter in the Edgar Allan Poe story. Could it be in one of those awful sculptures? In one of the crystal skulls, or—”
Lewis looked back up the hill. In the single patch of sunlight the shadow of the tower had shrunk to a very small dark pool. The shadow cast by the spire was almost touching the twelve spears—
And then he had it!
“It’s a sundial!” he screamed. “The whole hill is a sundial! We can’t see the clock because we’re standing right on top of it!” He pointed at the shadow of the spire. “When that touches the twelve—and there are twelve of those spears—the sun will go out and the spell will begin!”
The Tower at the End of the World (Action Packs) Page 11
