Revenge of the Wizard's Ghost

by John Bellairs

  "Greetings, Byron!" said the professor, smiling sadly. "Well, here we are, the two would-be explorers. We didn't do so well, did we? But as they say, tomorrow's another day, and maybe during the night one of us will have a brainstorm and solve the riddle of Ensign French and the Urim and the Thummim. Until then I suggest that we play chess. There's nothing more that we can do tonight."

  Fergie won the first two games, but the professor was pretty good at chess, and he came back to win the third. By that time it was pretty late, and the professor began to yawn a lot. He decided that it was time to hit the sack. But Fergie was not sleepy yet, so he sat up in the easy chair by the window and read the book on heraldry. Time passed. It was almost midnight when Fergie happened to turn his head and glance out at the deserted town square below. Deserted? Well, not quite. Not far from one of the benches, a man was standing. He was near the edge of a pool of lamplight, so Fergie really couldn't get a good look at him. But he looked old, and he had gray hair that hung down to his shoulders. He's probably just an old bum, thought Fergie, and he was about to go back to his book when something else attracted his attention. The old man was standing very still, and he seemed to be staring straight up at the window Fergie was looking out of. And by some trick of the lamplight, the old man's eyes were glowing red. Fergie shuddered, and he stared hard. Then he closed his eyes and turned away, and when he looked again the old man was gone.

  When Fergie woke up Sunday morning, bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows and he could hear church bells ringing. The professor was sitting in the chair by the window, and he was wearing his blue pin-striped suit. In his hands was a small paperback edition of Five Tragedies by William Shakespeare. The professor was really wrapped up in the book, and he never noticed when Fergie stared at him and coughed two or three times to get his attention. Finally the professor looked up, and he smiled faintly.

  "Oh, hello, Byron," he said in a vague, dreamy tone. "Can I help you with anything?"

  Fergie didn't know what to say. Should he tell the professor about the old man with the glowing eyes? He decided not to. Fergie liked to think that he was a tough kid who didn't scare easily. If he told the professor that he had been frightened by an old bum, the professor would kid him, and Fergie did not want that. Then he thought about Johnny again, and—in spite of being a tough guy—he found that he was having trouble keeping back the tears. "What . . . what the heck are we gonna do, professor?" he asked in a cracked, weary voice. "Do we just pack up an' go home, or what?"

  The professor laid the book down on a table. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You would ask hard questions like that, wouldn't you?" he said with a wry chuckle. He put his glasses back on and glared defiantly at Fergie. "I'll tell you what we are not going to do, in case you were wondering," he said in a voice that rose steadily in pitch. "We are not-going-to-give-UP! The Urim and the Thummim are out there at that rotten estate, and we are going to find them if we have to tear Zeb Windrow's church and his mansion down stone by stone!"

  The professor paused. He saw that his ranting had startled Fergie, so he forced himself to smile in a reassuring way. "Look, Byron," he said in a milder tone. "I didn't mean to take your head off, but I'm just as angry and frustrated as you are. When you woke up a minute ago, I was trying to forget about my troubles by reading Shakespeare. But it seems that everything I read leads me back to the puzzle of Ensign French. I was reading Othello, and at the very beginning of the play Iago calls himself an ancient. I had forgotten what the word meant four hundred years ago, so I glanced at the footnotes, and I saw this." The professor picked up the book and read aloud: "Ancient: ensign, the third officer in a company of soldiers. So ancient meant ensign at one time. Isn't that interesting?"

  Fergie shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. But like my mom says, what does that have to do with the price of fish?"

  The professor chuckled. "It may not have anything to do with anything, but it set me to thinking. And my thoughts led me off along some rather strange paths. All of a sudden, I started to wonder: Could it be that there never was an Ensign French at all?"

  Fergie's mouth dropped open. "Huh? What are you talkin' about?"

  The professor paused dramatically. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat, took out a box of Balkan Sobranie cigarettes, plucked out a black-and-gold cigarette, and lit it. "What am I talking about?" he said, cocking his head to one side and smiling weirdly. "Just this: All the information we have about Ensign French comes from the guidebook that Charley Coote sent away for. The guidebook was made up by the group of people who bought the Windrow estate. And where did they get their information? From old Windrow family records, records that were probably kept by our friend Zebulon himself." The professor paused and took a drag at his cigarette. "We have not found the tomb of Ensign French—right?" he went on, in an excited tone. "All we found was a fake sign, a door leading to some ghastly caves, and a false tomb slab. So I ask you—isn't it possible that Ensign French never existed? What if old Zeb made up all that stuff about a naval officer who married into the Windrow family?"

  Fergie's brain was whirling. He began to wonder if maybe the professor's mind had been affected by the frightening adventure that they had had in the salt caves under the church. "Hey, prof, that's really batty!" he said at last. "I mean, why would anybody make up somethin' like that?"

  The professor wrinkled his nose. "I can only think of one reason, my friend: Old Zeb wanted to make it harder for us to find the Urim and the Thummim. Think of it this way: If there isn't any Ensign French, then we have a word puzzle. The key to the puzzle is in the name Ensign French, or in one of those phrases that are painted on windows or carved on walls at the estate: Ensign French Is the Boss, Ensign French Is the Unfortunate Traveler. Do you follow me?"

  Fergie jumped out of bed. He paced up and down, bit his lip, and thought hard. Suddenly he whirled and pointed a finger at the professor. "I follow you, sure!" he said excitedly. "But what if you're wrong? What if Ensign French is buried someplace else on that estate? Upstairs in the church, or out on the back lawn, or . . . or maybe they cremated him an' his ashes are in a vase on the mantelpiece in that big old house. Couldn't that be true?"

  The professor sighed and nodded glumly. "It could indeed be true," he said. "You have found a big fat hole in my clever explanation. We may just have to go over the whole estate with a fine-toothed comb till we find where they've buried dear sweet Ensign French. Argh! The thought of doing all that exploring makes my bones ache." With a sudden motion, the professor ground out his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. He sprang to his feet. "Byron, I am sick and tired of chewing over this Ensign French business!" he announced as he brushed some lint off his coat sleeve. "Let's go for a walk on this lovely Sunday morning! Get some clothes on, and I'll meet you by the statue of the fireman in the middle of the town square in about ten minutes. All right?" Without waiting for an answer, he dashed across the room and out the door, slamming it behind him.

  A few minutes later Fergie arrived at the town square. He was wearing a plaid shirt and corduroy trousers, and his hair was neatly combed. On a bench at the base of the statue sat the professor. He was reading a newspaper and humming quietly to himself. Pigeons were strutting on the grass, and groups of well-dressed people strolled by on their way to Sunday-morning services.

  "Ah, my friend, you have arrived at last!" sighed the professor, putting down his paper. "Byron, you look resplendent! And you will be fascinated to know that there is a Catholic church over on the far side of the square—I asked the desk clerk, who seems to know everything. Will you go along with me? I know your folks are Baptists, but . . ."

  Fergie shrugged. "I'll go. Far as I'm concerned, one church is just as dull as the next one—but don't tell my mom I said that, or she'd take my head off!"

  The professor got up and led Fergie across the sunny square. Beside a row of chestnut trees stood a red-brick church built in the Gothic style. The sign outs
ide said ST. MARGARET'S CATHOLIC CHURCH, and there was a list of Mass times. They were just in time for the ten-o'clock service, so they went into the dark, cool church. The professor paused inside the door to dip his fingers in the holy-water font and make the sign of the cross.

  "We seem to be spending a lot of our time in churches these days," he whispered. "Perhaps it will make us more holy."

  Fergie snickered, and a middle-aged lady who was passing turned and glared at him—apparently she didn't approve of laughing in church. Taking Fergie by the arm, the professor led him into a pew near the back of the church, and the two of them sat down to wait for the service to begin. Minutes ticked past. Fergie took off his watch, wound it, and put it back on. The professor fiddled with his Phi Beta Kappa key and looked around. On their left was a row of tall stained-glass windows, but as far as the professor was concerned, they were not terribly interesting. The glass was dull green and yellow and smeary brown, for the most part, and at the bottom of each window was a square plaque that told who had donated it. The professor let his eyes wander. Hmm . . . down the aisle a bit was a window with a shield in the middle of it. The shield was like the one the professor had noticed in the heraldry book. It had silver lilies on a blue background, but instead of having just three lilies, this shield was covered all over with lots of tiny lilies—the whole design was like a wallpaper pattern. Suddenly something clicked inside the professor's mind. This was the ancient French shield he had been trying to remember the name of. All right now, what was the name? It was . . . it was . . .

  "Holy H. Smoke" roared the professor, and he stood straight up in the pew.

  He had done it! He had figured it out!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "By the eternal powers!" the professor crowed, swinging his fist in the air. "I knew I could figure it out, and I did!"

  Everybody in the church turned and looked at the professor. Alarmed, Fergie jumped up and started pushing the professor out of the pew.

  "Come on, for gosh sake!" he whispered excitedly. "We gotta get outa here! They'll call the police or somethin'! Come on!"

  The professor was still grinning like a fool as he sidled out of the pew and walked quickly out of the church, followed by Fergie. Halfway down the sidewalk, the professor turned and grabbed Fergie by the shoulders. His eyes were wild and bulging, and his face was getting very red.

  "Byron!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "Don't you understand? I did it! I was right when I guessed what old Zeb was up to! Ensign French isn't a person, it's a code! Do you want to know what it means?"

  Fergie was thoroughly alarmed by now. He had been worrying lately that the professor might be losing his marbles, and now he was sure of it. But he had heard that you ought to humor crazy people, so he forced himself to smile politely.

  "Uh . . . that's nice, sir," he said nervously. "Why . . . whyn't we go back to the hotel an' . . . an' talk? Okay?"

  The professor let go of Fergie's shoulders and gave him a disgusted look. "Oh, come off it, Byron!" he growled. "You think I've flipped my lid, so you're trying to be nice to me till you can call the boys with the white coats. But I'm not insane, and if you'll give me five seconds, I'll prove it to you!" He took a deep breath and let it out. "Look," he began, holding up his forefinger, "while we were in that church, I saw a shield in one of the windows. The shield has a name, and it's called France Ancient. You follow me so far? Good! Well, earlier this morning I was reading Shakespeare, and—as you may remember—I mentioned that ancient used to mean ensign. So if you take the name Ensign French and change the first part of it, you get Ancient French, don't you? And if you flip-flop that name, you get French Ancient, which is almost the name of the blue shield with the silver lilies all over it. Do you see?"

  Fergie felt a bit dizzy after this explanation. "Yeah, I . . . I guess so," he said slowly. "So do we hafta go back to that church out at the estate an' look for a shield like the one you saw in this church here?"

  "Yes," said the professor, nodding solemnly. "That is exactly what we have to do. Heraldic shields are often used as decorations in old churches, and we will have to hunt until we find the right one. We'll go out there tonight, but first I think we'd better go back to the hotel room and do a little planning. Also, we'll give the Dixons a phone call to find out how Johnny is getting along. Come on."

  Fergie and the professor walked quickly across the square to the hotel. They paused in the lobby to use the pay phone, but the Dixons didn't answer.

  "They're probably down at the hospital with Johnny," said the professor glumly as he hung up. "I don't know what that means, but—for the time being—we'd better try to keep the poor lad out of our minds. We have to concentrate on other things."

  At a little after seven o'clock Fergie and the professor were standing outside the huge old stone church on the grounds of the Windrow estate. They were both dressed in their scruffy "exploring" clothes, and near them on the ground was their tool bag. As Fergie fiddled with his searchlight and shone the beam around, the professor puffed on one last cigarette. When it was finished, they were going into the church to hunt for the France Ancient shield. Overhead the stars shone, and a chilly night wind was blowing. It rustled the leaves of an oak tree that grew next to the mansion.

  "You know somethin', prof?" said Fergie thoughtfully. "That shield we're lookin' for might not even be in the church. It might be someplace else."

  The professor grimaced and blew smoke out through his nose. "I know, I know! he muttered irritably. "There isn't any logical reason why we should be looking for the shield in the church. If it exists at all, it might be in the mansion, or even in that little round temple over there in the woods. But the church seems to be a, good place to start. Any objections?"

  Fergie shook his head.

  "Good!" snapped the professor, and he threw his burned-out cigarette to the ground and stamped on it. "I think that at last I am ready to — Oh, no! You don't suppose, do you, that. . ." The professor's voice trailed off, and he dropped to his knees quickly. As Fergie watched in bewilderment, he unzipped the top of the tool bag and plunged his hand inside. "Double phooey!" growled the professor as he stood up again. "I left both of my stupid flashlights on the backseat of the stupid car! How could I have been such a nitwit! Well, I guess I'll just have to go back and get one of them."

  Fergie gave the professor an exasperated look. He had been living with this cranky old man for three days now, and he was beginning to get fed up. "Aw, come on, prof!" he said. "Are you gonna go all the way back to the car just to get a dinky little flashlight? This one here's all we need!"

  The professor took a deep breath and let it out. He was trying very hard to keep from losing his temper. "Byron," he said in a strained voice, "I know you think your searchlight is the greatest invention since the wheel, but my old nickel-plated flashlights are perfectly decent, and I've used them for over twenty years. I like them, and we may need them both before we're through. It'll only take us about three minutes to scoot out to the car and get one little bitty flashlight. We'll be back here before you know it. How about it?"

  But Fergie was feeling stubborn. He folded his arms and turned away. "You go ahead if you want to, prof!" he muttered sullenly. "I'll just wait here for you. I'm not scared of the dark. Go on."

  The professor stared at Fergie in sheer exasperation. "Byron," he said, "have you flipped your wig? Think of the strange things that have happened to us out at this place. We oughtn't to split up—it'd be very dangerous! Come on with me."

  Fergie glared defiantly at the professor. He knew in his heart that the old man was right, but he did not want to give in. "Nah, you go ahead," he said with a careless shrug. Then he added, "Why don'tcha leave me the holy water bottle? If any monsters come outa the woods to get me, I can spray the stuff at 'em. You know, like Black Flag insect spray? C'mon, just give me the bottle."

  The professor clenched his fists. "Oh, very well!" he growled, and he plunged his hand into the pocket on the front of his sw
eat shirt. He pulled out the plastic bottle and handed it to Fergie. "Here! Hang onto this! I'll be right back."

  Snatching the searchlight from Fergie's hand, the professor stomped off into the darkness. For a few minutes Fergie stood watching the spotlight's beam as it bounced along the ground. Then the professor passed behind some trees and the light was gone. Fergie was alone. Whistling softly, he paced back and forth for a few more minutes, and then he sat down on a stone bench that stood near the church. He turned the holy water bottle over in his hands, and he laughed. Holy water! The idea of spraying this stuff in the face of some ghost was . . . well, it was just too funny for words. For a while Fergie had believed in ghosts and the magical Urim and Whatsis, but now his skeptical side was coming out. Fergie told himself that all the things that had happened out here could be explained. Even the rushing wind and their flashlights acting funny... those things might be caused by electromagnetic forces, or X rays. He began to wonder why he had ever let the professor drag him along on this trip anyway. There wasn't anything to find out at the crudely old estate, and suppose they did discover something, it wouldn't—

  Suddenly Fergie sat up straight. What was that? What had he heard? It was a thin wailing sound and it seemed to be coming from the dark grove of trees that grew near the little stone temple. There it was again! With a shock, Fergie realized it was the professor's voice, calling for help. Yes, there was no mistake about it. But what was the professor doing over there? Why wasn't he out at the car, getting his flashlight? As Fergie sat wondering, he heard the cry again. Fergie! Help me! Help! With that, Fergie sprang to his feet. He dropped the holy water bottle onto the bench, and he started to run.

  "I'm comin', professor!" he yelled. "I'm comin'! Hang on!"

  Across the grass he pounded, arms swinging, legs pumping up and down. It was not hard to see where he was going, because the moon was rising and the sky was full of stars. In no time at all Fergie was at the edge of the dark grove. He found the white flagstone path and began to pick his way along it. All around him the trees were rustling, but he did not hear the professor's voice anymore. At the foot of the steps that led to the bronze doors, Fergie stopped. He could not see very well in this place, but it looked as if one of the doors was ajar. Could the professor be—