"Oh, peachy," growled the professor. "Now I'm a nightmare. Soon people will be hiring me to haunt houses. Well, I'm sorry I gave you the galloping woo-hoos, but I want to talk to you. Are you busy?"
Johnny shook his head.
"Then come with me. For the last couple of days I've been conferring with Charley Coote about that little goodie the burglar was looking for, and I want to bring you up-to-date."
Johnny followed the professor across the street and up to his study, which was more or less back in shape. The professor settled into the chair behind his desk, and Johnny sat in a big, bristly armchair. It was new and smelled funny, a little like starch and a little like furniture polish. Professor Childermass frowned and said, "Well, to begin way back at the beginning, all the troubles seemed to spring from Esdrias Blackleach. According to Charley, Blackleach was even worse than I thought."
"He was a real magician, wasn't he?" asked Johnny. "And he did something awful with that wooden hand!"
Professor Childermass sighed. "Don't tell me your imagination's been working overtime about that miserable hand, John. Esdrias went to his reward one stormy August first more than two hundred and sixty years ago. I hardly think he's anyone to worry about."
"But that Mergal man from Boston is looking for his stuff. And I know I felt that hand move," said Johnny, sounding miserable.
"We won't argue," said the professor, giving him a sympathetic look. He drummed his fingers on the desk. "Let me tell you what Charley learned. It is Dr. Coote's belief that Esdrias Blackleach really and truly thought of himself as a wizard. There's nothing written that absolutely confirms that, but from old diaries and journals left behind by Blackleach's contemporaries, Charley thinks it's so. More, Charley is certain that Mr. Esdrias Blackleach was in truth the only certified, bona fide, guaranteed, accept-no-substitutes practicing wizard anywhere in Massachusetts back in 1692."
"I just knew it," said Johnny. "What did he do, Professor?"
"Charley and I can only speculate. I don't know where Esdrias Blackleach found his power. It may have come from the devil himself, for all I know. Certainly, over the years his enemies had a curious series of misfortunes. What do you know of the Salem witchcraft mania, John?"
Johnny shrugged. "Just what I've read in history books."
"Let me summarize. In 1692, down in Salem Village, the Reverend Samuel Parris, with whom Blackleach had quarreled, discovered the witch persecution in his own house. As the weeks went by, a number of hysterical girls accused more and more people of witchcraft. Before autumn the good people of Salem Village had accused more than a hundred people of witchcraft. The madness spread to other towns, like Gloucester, Beverly, Haverhill, and our very own Duston Heights. It was a funny thing about the accusations. They ruined homes, destroyed lives, and wrecked families, and yet they seemed to make Esdrias Blackleach a wealthy man."
"How?" asked Johnny.
"Well, being accused of witchcraft made people eager to leave Massachusetts. Every time someone left the colony, or even worse, went to the gallows, old Esdrias Blackleach got a little richer. He acquired all their property—land, usually, but often cattle or personal goods—at ridiculously low prices. And no one ever named him as a suspected warlock."
"But he was?"
Professor Childermass nodded and sighed. "In my opinion and Charley's, he did work evil magic—of a kind," he said at length. "I don't know if you could call what he did sorcery in any real sense. I don't believe he hexed pigs and goats and cows, or caused milk to sour, or raised thunderstorms, or any of that nonsense. However, I do think that he did wickedness enough by convincing others that people like Goody Cory or Rebecca Nurse or Reverend Burroughs were tormenting them. So the unfortunate, innocent victims went to the noose— and Blackleach went free."
"Oh," said Johnny, a little let down. "Just that kind of magic."
The professor shook his head. "Don't discount the wicked power of gossip and hatred, John, and don't be fooled into believing that words cannot harm you. People who think that magic works, as the Salem villagers did, find that it really does work. A hex spell kills its victim precisely because the victim believes in the spell. Now, with a really clever person, as Blackleach assuredly was, and a credulous group who already believe in witchcraft, all sorts of 'supernatural' things can happen. Or at least, people will all swear that they happened, which amounts to the same thing."
"But does any of this help you?"
"Knowledge always helps, John. Now Charley is tracking down a crumbly old manuscript that is supposed to be a first-hand account of Blackleach's deviltry. That may tell us more. Until then I'll stand on what I know about the old reprobate: He was a sour, vicious, evil-tempered villain who wished the world nothing but ill."
"What about Mr. Mergal?" asked Johnny somewhat timidly.
The professor glared. "Oh, that scoundrel! I told the police to check him out, and he has an ironclad alibi. He lives in a hotel in Boston, and according to the manager, Mr. Mergal was having lunch in his room about the time my house was burgled. The police reached him at his hotel address. You see, he's doing research in the libraries down there. He admitted going to the Gudge Museum, but he says he was just looking at the possessions that Blackleach used to own to get in the proper spirit to write about the man. Ha! I can spot a phony a mile away. Whatever our precious Mr. Mergal may be, he is definitely not a historian. Trust me, John, you know more about the Colonial period than that blasted blowhard does."
Johnny shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. "I'm worried," he said. "Mr. Mergal didn't act sane, Professor. He was, well, spooky."
Professor Childermass' face glowed a malignant, magnificent red, and his muttonchops bristled alarmingly. "I have yet to encounter a foe as formidable as I," he said with menacing softness. "If that man puts one foot on Fillmore Street, I shall deal with him. As for the late unlamented Mr. Esdrias Blackleach, he passed away nearly three hundred years ago—" the professor broke off, a strange expression coming over his face. "Odd," he murmured. "I never thought of that before. Most odd."
"What?" Johnny asked, far from reassured.
"Blackleach's death," muttered Professor Childermass. "According to Charley's books, he died at twelve midnight during a freakish, terrible thunderstorm on a summer night in 1692. The date was August first."
Johnny felt goose bumps marching up his arms. "Lammas."
The professor's eyes glittered, and he nodded. "You've read about such things too, I see. Yes, Lammas. One of the four high Sabbats, or feast days, of the witches. A fitting night for the devil to claim his own. Or perhaps just a cosmic joke." The professor gave a wry grin, but his tone sounded serious—very, very serious, indeed.
CHAPTER SIX
For a couple of weeks Johnny heard no more news of either the wizard Blackleach or the sinister Mr. Mergal. June ended and July came in with hot days and muggy, warm nights. More and more, Miss Ferrington relied on Johnny to do little things at the museum. She hated to be there on Monday afternoons, when deliveries came, and Johnny always had the little extra job of waiting in the echoing, deserted museum for an hour or two. He would unlock the back door, store the supplies away, and leave the key on Miss Ferrington's desk before leaving. He always remembered to check the front door, which locked behind him, and he never had any trouble.
Johnny introduced Professor Childermass to Sarah, with a little fear and trembling. The professor could be rude and scary when he was upset or preoccupied, although Johnny knew he had a warm heart. He need not have worried, because the professor could also be a real charmer when he chose. The old man was delighted to make Sarah's acquaintance, especially when she agreed with him that the Red Sox didn't deserve their fourth-place standing but had suffered from a run of bad umpires. In turn, Sarah liked Professor Childermass because he didn't treat her like a child, but listened to her opinions as if they really mattered. The three of them didn't go to movies or gorge on hot-fudge sundaes the way Johnny, Fergie, and the professor did
, but their talks were cordial and interesting.
Independence Day was a holiday for Johnny. At first it didn't seem as if the day would be very exciting. Gramma and Grampa were planning to drive over to Lowell on the Fourth to visit Gramma's sister Martha. She was younger than Gramma, and she had a house full of antiques and a deep distrust of young, active boys. Whenever Johnny was there, Great-aunt Martha made him sit very still in an armchair the whole time, so he wouldn't break any of her precious keepsakes. It wasn't much fun.
So Johnny was glad when the professor invited him and Sarah to a cookout instead. Normally Professor Childermass asked his friends over to his weedy, overgrown backyard for hot dogs and hamburgers once or twice a year. This time, however, he suggested that it might be nice instead to picnic in the park on the east side of Duston Heights. The trip to the park would be a bit of an expedition, but the professor's terrific hamburgers would make the effort worthwhile. He added his own secret ingredients to the ground beef, then cooked the burgers over a charcoal fire that had to be just right. The results were always juicy and delicious.
On Monday morning, which was the Fourth, the professor packed everything in his maroon Pontiac, and he, Johnny, and Sarah left for the park in a cloud of exhaust smoke. They arrived early enough to claim one of the stone grills and a picnic table on the shady side of the park. The professor insisted that he needed privacy to prepare the charcoal and begin the hamburgers, so he ordered Johnny and Sarah to find something to occupy them.
Sarah had brought her bat, ball, and glove, and Johnny had a floppy old fielder's glove that had once belonged to his dad. They planned to play flies and grounders, but a bunch of boys were playing baseball, so Johnny and Sarah walked over to see if they could join in. Some of the kids in town were beginning to realize that Sarah was no slouch as a baseball player.
They were in luck—sort of. Tim Jacobs was the captain of the team in the field, and as soon as he saw them, he yelled, "We get Sarah!"
Unfortunately their luck ran out with that, because the leader of the team at bat was Eddie Tompke, a boy who had made Johnny's life miserable at every Boy Scout meeting. Eddie was a muscular, handsome kid, but he had a long-standing grudge against Johnny. Until the previous year, they had been in the same class at school, but Eddie wasn't a very good student and had been left back. He pretended that it didn't bother him, but he always pestered Johnny, calling him a brownnose and a teacher's pet and playing all sorts of mean tricks on him at Scout meetings.
Eddie scowled and yelled, "No way you get her, if we gotta take Four-Eyes. So the girl can't play."
"Hey, we'll take him too," Tim said. "That'll give us eight players on a side, so it's fair. Sarah, you take shortstop. Uh, Johnny, you play right field, okay?"
Johnny knew very well that right field was where they stuck you when you weren't any good. He tugged the tattered fielder's glove on and trotted out to right field, his head down and his mind full of worries. Would he foul up and make a costly error? What would happen if a high fly smacked him in the face, broke his glasses, and sent sharp pieces of glass into his eyes? He might be permanently blinded.
But when he turned, Sarah gave him a cheerful wave, and he returned it. "Might as well go down swinging," he muttered, hoping he could get through the game without disgracing himself.
Sarah took her position as shortstop and crouched over. Tim was pitching. They tossed the ball around the infield and then they settled down to the game. The first batter was tall and solid and looked as if he could hit.
But Tim's fastball was singing, and after two pitches, the count was 0 and 2.
Tim studied the batter for a moment, and then he wound up and threw his famous curve. It broke exactly right, and the batter swung around like a gate, cleanly missing the ball. "Three strikes and you're out of there!" crowed Pete Freeling, the catcher, tossing the ball back to Tim. "One down, two to go. Attaboy, Timmy!"
The game was fun. After five innings Eddie's team was ahead five to three. Johnny had batted twice. The first time he popped up a foul that Eddie caught, and the second time he went down swinging, but that was no disgrace. Many on both teams had done the same. In fact, in the top of the sixth Tim easily struck out the first two batters.
Next at bat was a scowling Eddie Tompke. He pounded his bat on the plate. Tim tried an outside pitch, but Tompke just frowned. "Ball one, Timmo," Eddie said with a sneer. "Ya gonna walk me, ya big fat chicken?"
"C'mon, Tim, he can't hit," Sarah yelled. "Strike him out, baby."
Tim looked mad. Eddie had been yelling insults and laughing at every mistake Tim made. He could really get on a pitcher's nerves. Tim pitched a fastball and Eddie swung. Johnny heard the crack of the bat. For a moment he couldn't even see the ball. Then he had it, a blurred streak in the sky. It was going high and far— and it was coming his way.
Johnny backpedaled desperately. The center fielder was hustling over, but he was going to be too late. The ball was already hurtling down. Gritting his teeth, running backward, Johnny threw his gloved hand up. With a stinging slap, the ball smacked into his worn glove.
And stayed there.
The astounding fact that he had caught a high fly ball hit deep to right field practically dazed Johnny. He held the ball up and felt a big goofy grin spread across his face. Pete jumped two feet in the air behind home plate and screamed, "Way to go, my man John! Yee-ha!"
It had all happened a lot faster than Johnny thought. Though Eddie was a good base-runner, he was only about halfway to first. He stumbled to a stop, his eyes wide and unbelieving, and when he saw that Johnny really had caught the ball, he cursed and threw his cap on the ground.
"We're up to bat!" Tim yelled, dropping his glove and trotting in. "C'mon, guys, we're two down. Let's get even."
Jimmy King, a tough kid who was a grade ahead of Johnny at St. Michael's, came out to the pitcher's mound, and Johnny tossed the ball to him. Eddie, still standing near first base, sneered at Johnny, "Guess you think you're pretty hot stuff 'cause ya caught one measly ball, huh, Four-Eyes? Just you wait. We're gonna fix you losers good. We're gonna pound you right into the ground."
Sarah tugged Johnny's arm. "Don't pay him any attention," she said, "he just wants to make you mad so you can't hit anything."
"Oh, great," Eddie said. "Get this, guys. Weird Sarah and Johnny Baby are in lo-ove! Ya gonna kiss her, Johnny Baby?" Eddie put his hands on his hips, smacking his pursed lips.
"Oh, shut up, Eddie," Johnny said.
"Don't let him get to you," Tim said as Johnny came up to the rest of the team. "That was a good catch, Johnny. Eddie's just mad 'cause usually he's a lot harder to put out. Okay, let's get a couple of runs now."
Eddie played first base. Tim was at bat first, but when he lined a pretty good hit, the left fielder caught it on a bounce and tossed it to Eddie, putting Tim out a step before he reached first. Without any reason for doing it, Eddie slammed the ball against Tim's shoulder. Johnny winced at the sharp sound of the ball thudding into Tim's upper arm. Tim turned, glared at Eddie, and trotted back, massaging his shoulder. "We got 'em," Eddie yelled in derision. "They ain't nothin' but a buncha babies and gir-uls in lo-ove!"
"Darn that Tompke, anyhow," Tim grumbled. "He's gonna pick on the wrong guy someday and get his big fat block knocked off. Go ahead, Sarah. Don't let him make you mad."
Sarah was a switch hitter, and this time she batted left. On the pitcher's mound Jimmy looked a little worried, because Sarah had been in several games by that time, and everyone knew that she was good with a bat. She took two balls before Jimmy tried one in the strike zone. She swung level and fast, and the ball sprang away with a crack! It was a whistling line drive to the left of second base, and it hit the ground, bounced, and kept going as two players chased madly after it. Sarah rounded first and pounded into second before the ball came back.
Eddie stomped around on first base and cursed some more.
"Go on, Johnny," Tim said, patting him on the back. "Get us a hit."
Johnny batted right-handed. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, choked up on the bat, and held it away from his shoulder as Sarah had advised, trying hard to stay calm. He was thinking furiously of everything Sarah had taught him. If only he could get a hit—that would be really something. Looking a lot more relaxed now that he was pitching to Johnny, Jimmy threw a fast one, and Johnny swung hard, connecting only with air.
Johnny's heart sank. Who was he kidding? He'd never get a hit off Jimmy, not in a million years. The miserable little blooper he had hit in the second inning was the best he would ever do. Oh, he could occasionally hit them when Sarah pitched, but she was babying him along—
The second pitch streaked in, and this time Johnny tipped it foul. He could feel his face growing hot. Well, he might go down swinging, but at least he could try to do what Sarah had taught him.
He cocked the bat and felt strangely calm as Jimmy wound up and threw for the third time. The pitch came in fast and a little high, shoulder level, and Johnny knew he had it even before he began his swing. With a solid thunk! he connected, sending a bouncing ground ball right to the shortstop. Johnny was already running, knowing it was hopeless.
But the ball took a screwy hop right over the shortstop's glove as Eddie screamed something nasty. The flustered infielder awkwardly scooped the ball up and turned toward third base. That was the right move, but Eddie yelled for the ball. The shortstop looked his way, then back at third base, and then back at Eddie. By the time he made up his mind, Johnny had stepped on first base. Eddie screamed, and the shortstop glowered, but the play stood. Johnny was on first, Sarah on third. It was Johnny's first base-hit ever in a real game. Tim's team was leaping up and down and cheering.
Tim's team was hot. The next kid got a single, but the center fielder quickly scooped up the ball, threw it to second base, and Johnny was out. On the play at second, Sarah scored a run. Johnny trudged back with his head down. "Sorry, guys," he said dismally.
The Hand of the Necromancer Page 4
