One Tuesday early in May Johnny was called out of school to help serve at a funeral. Johnny went to a Catholic school, and for him, going to church was very much a part of school life. The church stood right next to the school, and Johnny had been trained as an altar boy. Altar boys help the priest when he says Mass: they light candles and bring him books and cruets of water and wine. To serve at an ordinary daily Mass only two boys are needed. But at a funeral Mass you need at least five: two to carry candles, one to carry the tall gilded cross that is mounted on a pole, and two to carry the censer and the incense bowl as the priest walks around the coffin and offers incense smoke to it. After the service one of the boys rides out to the cemetery with the priest and hands him the holy water sprinkler and the prayer book when the priest says the final prayers at the edge of the grave.
On this particular day Johnny rode out to the cemetery in a big black Cadillac that belonged to the Digby and Coughlan Funeral Home. The driver was a solemn-looking young man in a black suit. Johnny sat in back with Father Higgins, the pastor of St. Michael's church, who was a tall, glowering man with grizzled gray hair and a squarish jaw. He was an old friend of the professor's—Johnny had seen them playing pinochle and arguing many, many times. During the Second World War, Father Higgins had been an army chaplain, and he had been wounded in a battle on the small Pacific island of Guam, which he always pronounced Goo-ahm. The war had given Father Higgins a permanent case of bad nerves and a violent temper, and half the kids at St. Michael's school were scared to death of him. Johnny had always gotten along with him, however; partly it was because he was mild-mannered and never gave Father Higgins a hard time. And partly it was because Johnny really knew his Latin and could rattle it off at a furious pace during the church services, without stopping or stumbling over words. As he sat next to the priest in the car an odd notion came floating into Johnny's mind: Maybe he could get Father Higgins to help him find the professor.
At first this thought seemed so ridiculous to Johnny that he almost laughed out loud. But the more he thought, the more logical the idea seemed: after all, priests were involved in magic. The rituals they performed in church were sort of like magic rituals, and they recited long incantations in Latin that were almost like spells. And Johnny knew that Father Higgins believed in ghosts, witches, vampires, and things of that sort—he was always telling stories about weird and uncanny things that had happened to friends or relatives of his. Unlike Fergie, he would not insist on having everything proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. Anyway, it was worth a try—anything was worth a try at this stage of the game. So later, as they were driving back to the church, he decided to take the plunge.
"Uh... Father?" he said hesitantly.
Father Higgins was reading his breviary, which is a small black book full of prayers. He looked up, startled. "Hm? Oh! Yes, John? What is it?"
Johnny screwed his face up into several funny expressions. He was just too afraid to tackle this question head-on. Instead he approached it in a roundabout way.
"Father? Er... what would you do if you had lost something really valuable and you wanted to get it back?"
Father Higgins closed his book and smiled thoughtfully. "Well," he said, "I know it's just a superstition, but I would pray to Saint Anthony. I lost my keys in the rectory one day, and I prayed to Saint Anthony, and I found 'em right away. You're not really supposed to believe in stuff like that, but all the same... well, I'd give it a try if I were you. I really would."
Johnny was startled. He really hadn't expected a suggestion of this kind. Of course, he knew about Saint Anthony: He was the patron saint of lost objects. Johnny's grandma was always praying to the saint to help her find pins, needles, and lost money. But could Saint Anthony help you find a lost person?
There was silence in the car for a while. Father Higgins laid the book down on the seat and dug his hand into the pocket of his black overcoat. He pulled out a stubby briar pipe with a silver band on the stem. With an odd smile on his face, he turned the pipe over in his hands. Then he glanced suddenly at Johnny—it was a keen, piercing, unnerving glance.
"Of course," he said in an insinuating tone, "if you're looking for lost people—lost professors, for instance— there is a ritual that folks use. It's full of hocus-pocus and it's totally unreliable, but it might just be worth a try."
Johnny looked at the priest and blushed. Father Higgins had read his thoughts. The priest was laughing, and Johnny did too. It was a relief to laugh—he had been pretty tense about this whole business.
"I ought to've known that I couldn't put one over on you, Father," said Johnny shyly.
"Darned right you can't," said the priest, still chuckling. "And anyway, the professor is my friend too. I miss him a lot." He paused and added sadly, "I think he was probably one of the few real friends I had in the whole wide world."
Johnny was only half-listening to what Father Higgins was saying. He was all worked up about the "ritual" that Father Higgins had mentioned, and he wanted to quiz him about it. "Father?" he said hesitantly. "What about... I mean, you mentioned a ritual of some kind. I wondered if maybe—"
"Ah, yes!" said the priest, cheering up suddenly. He began to study the bowl of his pipe as if there were dark secrets hidden there. "I did mention something of that sort, didn't I? Well, I know I'm going to sound like a superstitious old Irishman, but I think I would leave a petition under the base of the statue of Saint Anthony in our church. You know the statue I mean, don't you?"
Johnny nodded. He knew it well. It was a large painted plaster figure that stood on a pedestal in front of one of the pillars in St. Michael's church.
"Well, then," the priest went on in a conspiratorial tone, "how about if you arid I meet in the church this coming Wednesday night, after the service? This was something that I was going to try myself, but I kept thinking that it was an idiotic notion. However, now that you've put the flea in my ear, I'm a bit more eager to try. I have a few little extra—hrrumph!—things to throw in, just to make the ritual more, uh, effective. Not that I think we'll get any results worth writing home about, but—as they say—it can't hurt."
Johnny believed in superstitious practices and magic more than the average kid did. And it seemed logical to him to think that maybe the professor could be located and saved by a magical rite. After all, his disappearance had been surrounded by strange supernatural omens and signs. If magic had snatched him away, maybe magic could bring him back.
And so, when Wednesday evening came around, Johnny went off to St. Michael's church. Every Wednesday night during the month of May special services were held in the church in honor of Mary, the mother of Christ. Normally Johnny did not go to these services, so Gramma and Grampa Dixon were quite surprised when he told them he was attending. Gramma would have gone with him, but she had a cold, and she was afraid the night air would make it worse. Johnny was immensely relieved that she wasn't going: he felt nervous and embarrassed about what he was doing, and he wanted as few spectators as possible when he and Father Higgins did their mumbo jumbo. All through the service his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking, Will it work? Well, he'd know fairly soon.
The service ended, and the people filed out of the church. When Johnny was sure that he was alone, he got up and walked to the front of the church and stood before the statue of Saint Anthony. It was about six feet high, and since it stood on a tall pedestal, it towered over him. The statue showed Saint Anthony as a monk in a brown robe. He was holding a book in one hand; the other hand was raised in a blessing. There was a gilt halo behind his head, and on his face was a blank, wide-eyed stare. Before the statue stood an iron rack with flickering candles in it. People had lit them in honor of the saint, so that he would answer their petitions.
Johnny fidgeted and glanced around. He felt silly, but he reminded himself that Father Higgins was in on this too. But where was he? Probably he was in the sacristy, which was the room where the priest got dressed for Mass and other services. Maybe he had decide
d that the whole thing was a bad idea and had therefore gone home. Johnny hoped that this was not the case. He fidgeted some more. He drummed his fingers on his legs and walked back and forth, humming softly under his breath. At last he heard the sound of the sacristy door opening and closing. He looked up and saw Father Higgins walking toward him. He was wearing a long white gown called an alb, and around his neck was a kind of embroidered purple scarf called a stole. In one hand he carried a tarnished silver holy water sprinkler. In the other he carried a small pad of paper and a pencil. Johnny was surprised to see that the priest was just as nervous as he was—he kept glancing toward the back of the church to see if anyone was watching.
"Here," said Father Higgins gruffly, and he shoved the pad and pencil at Johnny. He turned toward Saint Anthony and bowed and then walked closer to the statue, raised his hands in a gesture of supplication, and rattled off a prayer in Latin. Johnny did not understand much of it, but he heard the words Sanctus Antonius several times, and he figured that the priest was calling on Saint Anthony to hear their prayers. Raising the sprinkler, Father Higgins shook drops of holy water over the base of the statue. Some water fell on the burning candles, which hissed loudly. Again the priest bowed, and once more he turned to Johnny.
"All right, here's what you do," he said brusquely, tapping the pad with his finger. "Write down your petition, fold the paper over twice, and hand it to me."
Johnny raised the pencil and wrote:
Dear Saint Anthony:
Please help us to find Professor Childermass. Please hear us, and do not fail us. Amen.
Yours truly,
John Dixon
Johnny tore the sheet from the pad and folded it twice. He handed the note to Father Higgins, who asked him to hold the holy water sprinkler for a minute. While Johnny watched, the priest edged in between the candle rack and the statue's pedestal. Reaching up, he placed a brawny hand on the front of the statue and tilted it slightly back. With his other hand he stuffed the note in under the base of the statue. Then, gently, he lowered the statue back down. Johnny heard a soft chink as the statue came to rest on its pedestal again. Grunting a little, Father Higgins squeezed himself out from behind the candle rack and walked back to where Johnny was standing. He took the sprinkler from Johnny, showered the statue with more water, and then said another Latin prayer.
"There!" he said wearily, folding his arms and stepping back to watch the play of candle shadows on the statue's pallid face. "I didn't think I could remember all that razzmatazz, but I did! And if you ever tell anyone in the parish that we did this, I'll have your hide! I think Bishop Monohan would go through the roof if he knew I was such a slave to mummery and flummery!"
Johnny was genuinely grateful for what Father Higgins had done tonight. Whether or not the ritual worked, at least they had tried. However, there were still some lingering questions in his mind.
"What do we do now, Father?" he asked. "I mean, how do we know if what we did worked or not?"
Father Higgins sighed. "I might have known you'd ask that! Well, we're supposed to wait three days and then come back and see what—if anything—is written on the paper. If the saint answers us, he will answer us in that way."
Johnny looked at the priest doubtfully. "Has... has this ever worked before? Did anyone ever—"
"No," said the priest with a mournful shake of his head. "Not that I ever heard of, anyway. But as I told you the other day, there's no harm in—"
Suddenly there was a loud sound, like a pistol shot. A door at the back of the church blew open, and it banged loudly against the wall. A cold wind blew in, and the candle flames flickered. Johnny jumped. With a wild look on his face, he peered into the darkness, and then he turned and gaped at Father Higgins. The expression on the priest's face was absolutely unreadable, but his eyes were gleaming. And Johnny wondered: Was this a sign? Would their prayer really be answered?
CHAPTER FIVE
For the time being Johnny was not getting any answers. "Stupid door blew open again," muttered Father Higgins, and he stamped on down the aisle to close it.
Three days they had to wait. For Johnny, three days had seldom passed so slowly. Thursday dragged by, and so did Friday. On Friday evening, to make himself feel better, Johnny called up Father Higgins and had a long conversation with him. He had not wanted to talk about the ghostly jack-o'-lantern before for fear that the priest might laugh at him. But now he decided to lay the whole thing out on the table. He told Father Higgins what he had seen, and he described the night when he burst into the professor's house and found that he had vanished. And he added that he was afraid that evil supernatural powers had had something to do with the professor's disappearance. He also mentioned the Childermass clock and told Father Higgins a little about its strange history. But he did not mention the ghostly midnight vision he had had or the skull—these were things that he still wanted to keep secret. Father Higgins listened gravely to what Johnny had to say, and he did not scoff or laugh. He said that Johnny was probably right, that deviltry was almost certainly involved, and he added encouragingly that the powers of light might come to their aid. They'd know on Saturday night.
Finally Saturday evening arrived. There was no church service scheduled for that night, so Johnny said that he was going to light a candle in memory of his mother. When he got to St. Michael's church, he immediately scooted around the block to the rectory, which was where Father Higgins lived. He pushed the door bell, and soon the priest came, holding in his hand a bunch of keys to all the various doors and locked cupboards of St. Michael's church. Father Higgins looked tense and crabby.
"Well," he said, scowling, "I suppose we might as well go see what we can see. I warn you, though: There may be nothing written on the sheet at all—nothing, that is, but the message you wrote the other night."
Johnny had already prepared himself for disappointment. This was a silly, crazy thing they were doing, and he knew it. He told himself not to expect too much.
Father Higgins and Johnny entered the church by a side door. The old building smelled of wax and incense, and the air was clammy, as it always was, even in the middle of the summer. All around them the dark, empty church loomed. Half a dozen candles burned in the slanted, wax-encrusted iron rack in front of Saint Anthony. As Father Higgins walked toward the statue, Johnny could feel himself growing tense. The priest slid between the candle rack and the pedestal and placed one large, hairy hand on the front of the statue. Johnny heard him mutter something as he tilted the heavy statue back. His fingers were on the folded paper now, and he was yanking it out. Down came the statue again, gently clunking into place. Father Higgins squeezed himself out from behind the rack; he walked toward Johnny with the paper in his hand. The suspense was unbearable. Johnny clenched his fists and felt his nails digging into the palms of his hands. With maddening slowness Father Higgins unfolded the paper. He looked at it, and then he let out a loud exclamation.
"Good God! Come and look at this, would you!"
Johnny edged closer and peered over the priest's arm. Across the note that he had neatly printed was writing. It was large, scrawly, and loopy script, and it reminded Johnny of the marks he had made once when he'd tried to write while holding a pencil in his teeth. At first the writing looked like total nonsense, but Johnny soon realized that there were words and phrases. With a little effort he was able to make out what they said:
Where the bays run together
A great reckoning in a little room
Father Higgins's jaw sagged. "Lord!" he whispered. "I would never in my wildest dreams have believed—" Suddenly he stopped speaking. His eyes narrowed, and he turned around and peered into the gloom.
"What's the matter, Father?" asked Johnny, frightened.
"Oh, it was just a thought that occurred to me," muttered the priest. "I wondered if maybe somebody had been hiding in the church and watching when we put this note under the statue. If they had been, they might've taken the note out and written this."
/> Johnny's heart sank. He knew that this might be the real, true explanation behind the mysterious writing. But he did not want to believe it. "Gee, Father," he said hopefully, "I think the church was empty that night, wasn't it? I mean, didn't we check it out?"
The priest shook his head. "No, John. That's just the trouble—we did not check it out. There could've been somebody up in the choir loft or squatting down behind the pews. You know Raymond—that feeble-minded guy that works at the gas station across the street? Well, he could've been in here. He ducks into the church sometimes and does funny things, like movin' the candles around on the altar. And now that I think about it, that might explain the front door bangin' open the other night. I wonder... "
Johnny was beginning to feel desperate. If Father Higgins didn't believe this was real supernatural writing, then who would help him find the professor? "I... I don't think R-Raymond could've... m-moved the statue... ." said Johnny in a voice that was beginning to tremble. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he could feel his lower lip quivering. He didn't want to break down and cry, but he was afraid he was going to.
Father Higgins turned to Johnny, and his harsh scowl softened into a sympathetic, sad smile. He really was a kind-hearted man, and he realized how much Johnny wanted to believe that the writing had been done by supernatural powers.
Spell of the Sorcerer's Skull Page 5
