Miss Eells laughed. "Ah, I can see you didn't grow up in a Catholic household like I did! In the center of the altar in a Catholic church there is usually a flat stone with five little red crosses cut into it. Under each cross a relic is buried. Relics are pieces of the bones of saints, like a chip off of Saint Anthony's shinbone or a chunk of Saint Agnes's skull. Why anyone would want to swipe an altar stone is beyond me. Maybe it's somebody who hates Catholics or who thinks the relics will bring him good luck. And..."
Miss Eells's voice trailed off. She sat up straight in her chair, listening.
Anthony glanced this way and that. "What is it? What's wrong?"
And then he heard it. A rattling noise. Something was clattering against the windows of the library.
"Hail!" said Miss Eells suddenly. "It's hail!" She jumped up and ran into the East Reading Room, with Anthony right behind her. Grabbing the metal handles on one window sash, Miss Eells tugged. The window opened, and Anthony saw little white bits of ice jumping on the stone ledge. In a flash he thought of the craggy unfinished statue with the word Hail on its base. And for no particular reason, he felt afraid.
Toward the end of September there was another hailstorm, but it was much wilder and stranger than the first one. Out in the countryside around Hoosac hailstones the size of golf balls were reported. They dented the hoods and roofs of cars and killed chickens in hen yards. A few people got caught out in the open when the storm hit, and they were bruised and badly frightened by the big balls of ice. With the hail came lightning—lots of it, sizzling blue and red and white bolts. Trees were set on fire, and lightning rods on the roofs of barns and houses melted. In one farmhouse a glowing blue ball of electricity rolled up the front steps, ripped the screen from the front door, and wadded it into a smoldering mass of half-melted metal. Wild winds uprooted trees and flung them across roads, and loud peals of thunder boomed and reverberated in the hills. Even the older people in the area could not remember a storm that was quite so violent or bizarre. Then came the tornadoes. On October 5 a violent electrical storm hit the Hoosac area. There were high winds, and at least five tornadoes were sighted. One of them roared through a graveyard near La Crosse and gouged deep, raw gashes in the earth. It reopened old graves and threw rotten coffin wood and bones all over the cemetery. And again there was vivid colored lightning, with red and blue fireballs rolling down roads and across fields.
In the city of Hoosac there was something like a panic. Frightened people kept calling up the Police Department, City Hall, and the Weather Bureau. Some were convinced that atomic testing had thrown the world's weather out of whack. Others said that God was angry at the world because of its sinfulness. But most were simply worried and upset. At the Hoosac Public Library all the talk was about the weather. Miss Pratt, the assistant librarian, was firmly convinced that sunspots were the cause of it all. Other people had their own ideas, and they argued a lot about who was right. However, as the days passed, and the weather returned to normal, the talk and the panic died down. People decided that their worries were foolish, and they began to fuss about other things.
Anthony Monday had his own ideas about the strange weather and what was causing it. These ideas took shape in his head over a period of several days, and when it suddenly occurred to him what nonsense it was, he almost laughed. But then he thought some more, and he began to wonder if maybe there was something to his odd thoughts after all. One evening, when he and his parents were sitting in the living room watching television, he decided that he would bring the subject up. Nervously he glanced at the two people who were sitting in the darkness near him. How would they react to his strange notions? He had a pretty good idea of what his mother would say: she was a sarcastic, skeptical kind of person, and she would probably doubt him. Anthony decided that he would rather talk to his dad alone.
Patiently Anthony waited for the right moment. At last the phone rang, and Mrs. Monday got up to answer it. She went out to the front hall, and presently Anthony heard her pulling the sliding door shut. Great! It was probably one of her friends, and they would be yakking for hours.
When a commercial came on Anthony cleared his throat. "Uh... Dad?"
Mr. Monday was a placid, potbellied man. He ran a saloon, and normally, on a weekday evening like this one, he would have been hard at work. But his hired bartender was running the place tonight, and Mr. Monday was taking a well-deserved night off. He was in a good mood.
"Yeah, what is it, Tony?"
"Uh, well, whaddaya think about all the weird weather we've been havin'?"
Mr. Monday shrugged. "I dunno. I don't really understand about that kinda stuff, but anyways I'm glad it's over. I betcha the atomic bombs had somethin' to do with it, though. The government don't tell us a darned thing about what they're doin', but someday it'll all come out, you mark my words." He shifted uneasily in his chair.
Anthony coughed again. He was having trouble finding words for what he wanted to say. "But, Dad," he said in a strained voice, "what... I mean, what if somebody could use, like, magic to... kind of make bad weather happen? I read in a story once where a witch—"
Mr. Monday snorted. "Witch? Good God, Tony, is that the kinda stuff they're teachin' you down at the high school? Nobody believes in witches anymore! Are you kiddin' me or what?"
Anthony wanted to say something more, but the commercial was over, the program was coming on again, and he knew his dad hated to be interrupted while he was watching something good. So that was the end of that.
One day later that week Anthony was on his way home from the library when he decided that he would stop in at the garage on Second Avenue where his brother worked and pay him a little visit. Keith was eighteen, and he was in love with cars. He worked as a mechanic, and he was always covered with grease and surrounded by a litter of spare auto parts. When Anthony walked in, Keith was standing under a car that was up on a lift. He was wearing his dirty coveralls, and he was banging at something with a hammer. Glancing over at Anthony, he stopped, wiped his hands, and stepped forward with a friendly grin.
"Hi, kid!" he said, waving. "So what brings you down to this joint? You lookin' for another spare-time job?"
Anthony glanced away. He felt uncomfortable. His brother was a very matter-of-fact, hardheaded sort. Also he'd made it clear that he thought Anthony was gullible. How could he bring up what he wanted to talk about?
"I... I just wondered how you were," said Anthony. Then, after an awkward pause, he rushed on. "It's... it's nice to have the weather back to normal, Isn't it? Those... those hailstorms and stuff were kinda hard to take, weren't they?"
Keith stared at his brother curiously. The two of them had discussed the strange weather before. Like everyone else in Hoosac, they had chewed the topic over during lunchtime and dinnertime conversations. So why was Anthony bringing it up now?
"Well, it's over with, anyway," said Keith with a bored shrug and a little half-grin. "So did you come all the way down here to ask me what I thought about the weather?"
Anthony's mind was racing. He had to find some way to make this conversation seem sensible. "We... we were talkin' about it in school," he said, staring hard at a puddle of oil on the floor. "And one kid said that... that maybe somebody was usin' magic to make the hail and lightning happen. Whaddaya think of that?"
Keith did a double take, and then he burst into loud laughter. "Somebody said that? Jeez! They must've had rocks in their head! I bet it was that Lothamar kid—you know, the one with the stuffed-up nose? His mom's a Holy Roller, and they believe all kinds of junk like that."
Anthony could feel his ears getting hot. He forced himself to smile, and he even managed a little laugh. "Naw, it ... it wasn't him. It was somebody else. Well, I hafta go home and help Mom with somethin'. See ya 'round."
And with that, Anthony turned abruptly and walked out of the garage, leaving his brother to stare after him with a puzzled frown on his face.
On down the street Anthony stalked. He felt angry, fru
strated, and humiliated. Why had he ever tried to shove his theories off onto his brother or his father? He ought to have known what the result would be. They were both real no-nonsense, down-to-earth types. They thought that anyone who believed in magic was crazy. Even though Anthony couldn't prove his theories, he knew he was right. He had to tell somebody, or he would burst. And then it hit him—of course! He could tell Miss Eells! She was his best friend, and the only person in all the world who really listened to him. He always went to her with his secrets. And she never laughed at his notions even when she disagreed with him.
And so, every evening for a week, Anthony went off to work at the library, thinking, Tonight I'm gonna tell Miss Eells about my ideas. But each time he choked up, figuring, Naw, she'll laugh at me too. Finally, on a rainy Sunday evening, he decided that he could not keep silent any longer. After dinner he went up to his room, opened a drawer in his desk, and took out the mildewed book that was full of the mad ravings of old J. K. Borkman. And with the book under his arm and an umbrella held over his head, he set out for Miss Eells's house.
As he came tramping up the long walk that led to Miss Eells's front door Anthony heard music, squawky and out-of-tune. It came drifting out through an open window—even in October Miss Eells was a fresh-air fiend, and she had windows open all over the house. As he listened to the terrible noise Anthony grinned. He had heard Miss Eells playing her parlor organ before. A parlor organ is an instrument that, even when played well, sounded like a muffled accordion. Miss Eells did not play well. Not that she minded much—she only played to amuse herself.
Anthony rang the doorbell. The noise stopped, and in a few seconds Miss Eells opened the door. She was wearing a quilted blue robe, pajamas, and slippers. A pencil was stuck into the bun of gray hair on her head.
"Hi, Anthony!" she said cheerfully. "What brings you out on this rotten night?"
Anthony put down his umbrella and shook it. He eyed Miss Eells nervously. "Can... can I come in?"
Miss Eells laughed. "No, you have to stand out there and let water run down your face. Of course you can come in! Don't act so timid and apologetic—you've known me longer than that, for heaven's sake! And what's that you've got under your arm, eh?"
Anthony blushed. "It's... it's that book we found out at the old estate. That's what I want to talk to you about."
Miss Eells was surprised, but she said nothing. Anthony stepped in and propped his umbrella in the corner. He hung his dripping raincoat up on the coat tree and followed Miss Eells out to the kitchen. She turned on the flame under the teakettle, and when the water was hot, she made two big mugs of instant cocoa. Then the two of them went into the living room to talk.
Miss Eells settled herself in an easy chair and sipped her cocoa. Anthony was on the couch, with the book propped awkwardly on his knees, trying to figure out where to begin.
"Now, then," said Miss Eells, smiling pleasantly. "What is all this? Have you found the riddle of the universe imbedded in the mad bibble-babble of old J. K. Borkman?"
Anthony squirmed. He wished that Miss Eells wouldn't make fun of him. After taking a noisy slurp of cocoa he set the mug down on the coffee table and picked up the book. It was stuck full of paper bookmarks that he had used to mark passages he thought were important.
"You... you know all this weird weather we've been having?" he began.
Miss Eells looked at Anthony strangely. "Yes... yes, I am aware that we have been having peculiar weather lately. What about it?"
Anthony took a deep breath. He opened the book to one of the places that he had marked. "Just listen to this," he said, and he started to read. " 'The world is a filthy and defiled place. Human life is made ugly and unbearable by sickness, war, cruelty, and stupidity. If only all could be made clean again! What if whirlwinds and fires from heaven, tempests and floods and rains, were to wash clean the earth so that life might begin anew? If the slate were wiped clean, the new writing might be fairer than the old. And with the aid of the Four Servants, the gods of tempest and howling gale, the unimaginable deed might be done! Elsewhere in these pages I have set down the method by which the deed may be accomplished. But still I am afraid, mightily afraid to begin this thing. Is it right to do this? Would good come from such utter devastation? I cannot do it myself. Let one who comes after me set the wheels in motion. Would that I might live to see this New Earth that is to come! Earth might be fair, and all men glad and wise... that is what the hymn says, and those words may yet come true...' "
Anthony's voice trailed off. He laid the book down and gave Miss Eells a long, meaningful look. "Well?" he said. "Doncha see? Doesn't this explain what's been goin' on lately?"
Miss Eells looked utterly mystified. She gazed off into space for a second... and then it hit her. "Oh!" she said, and her hand shot up to her mouth. "Oh, good grief! You mean you think—" The corners of her mouth began to quiver. She wanted to laugh, but she didn't want to hurt Anthony's feelings. Her face went through several contortions, and then she faked a sneeze and blew her nose into her hanky. Finally she felt that she had regained control of herself and could answer him.
"I hate to be critical, Anthony," began Miss Eells in a grave, exceptionally calm voice, "but I really think you're going off the deep end on this one. I know that we have been having some pretty unusual weather lately, but to connect that with the four statues we saw in Borkman's garage or with the apocalyptic drivel he wrote down in that book there... no. No indeed, my friend. You're making a big fat hairy mistake. People can't control the weather with magic—it's just not possible. I mean, we can seed the clouds and make rain, but that is about the only way that human beings can have even a teeny-weeny little bit of control over the weather. For all our fancy technology we are still pretty darned helpless when Mother Nature cuts loose. No, my boy—forget about this, please. It's just your imagination working overtime."
Anthony was crushed. He had been so sure that Miss Eells would believe his theory. His dad and his brother might shoot down his grand notions, but he had expected some understanding from his old and trusted friend. He stared forlornly at the book on his lap. Then he started to get up.
"I'm sorry I wasted your time," he said glumly as he turned to go. "I'll get my coat and—"
"Oh, Anthony, for heaven's sake, sit down!" As she said this Miss Eells leaped to her feet and accidentally spilled her cocoa. It fell with a splop! on the floor, but Miss Eells just looked at the stain spreading on the rug and laughed out loud. She stood there cackling with the mug still in her hand while a jingle she had learned years ago ran through her head:
Hasten, Jason, bring the basin! Oop, slop! Bring the mop!
Anthony was still standing by the couch glowering. Then he relaxed and grinned. As he stood by, watching, Miss Eells went out to the kitchen. She came back with a wet washcloth, knelt down, and began to scrub at the stain on the rug. As she scrubbed she talked.
"You see, my friend? My clumsiness has its good points after all. You would have stormed on out of here if I hadn't spilled this stuff. But now we're good friends again—at least I hope we are." Miss Eells stopped scrubbing and looked up. She saw that Anthony was still smiling, and this reassured her. "Look, Tony," she said gently, "I didn't mean to rain on your parade. Your theory is no more far out than some of the stuff that wise, respectable people say on the TV or in the newspapers. But your idea just doesn't make it. Sure, we've had some Insane weather lately, but nature is full of peculiar happenings. The storms'll blow over, and life will go on, as boring and predictable as ever. You'll see."
Anthony didn't see, but he also didn't feel like arguing anymore. So he shrugged his shoulders and asked Miss Eells if she would like to play a game of Scrabble. She was delighted. Miss Eells was an avid Scrabble player, and she played for blood. Out came the old battered set, and the two of them went happily out to the dining room table to play. Meanwhile the rain rattled against the windows, and the wind moaned down the chimney of the living room fireplace. It was a dreary
sound, but a perfectly natural one. As he arranged the letter tiles on the rack in front of him Anthony told himself that Miss Eells was probably right.
All the same, he was scared. And the fear would not go away.
CHAPTER THREE
As the end of October drew near, the Hoosac Public Library began getting ready for the opening of the Genealogy Room. Miss Eells was looking forward to this event about as much as the average person looks forward to an attack of the flu. The big day had been set for October 29. In the privacy of her office Miss Eells sourly confided to Anthony that the ceremony ought to be a Halloween party, with Mrs. Oxenstern coming as the Goodyear blimp. Miss Eells was still quite bitter about the Genealogy Room, and she was even angrier about the fact that she would have to be present at the opening ceremony and the reception afterward. But as head librarian she could hardly stay away. And so she grimly began to prepare herself to say nice things to everyone, even to Mrs. Oxenstern.
On the day of the opening ceremony Anthony came to work at the library as usual. He arrived around three thirty in the afternoon, and as he walked in the front door he saw a man standing at the main desk talking to Miss Eells. He was about medium height and wore an expensive-looking coat over a pin-striped suit. Drawing close, Anthony was able to get a good look at his face, and what he saw was not pleasant. Above a well-trimmed black beard the man's cheeks were sunken, and there were dark circles around his eyes. The curve of his full red lips made it look as if he were about to say something very cruel or very sarcastic.
"Hi, Miss Eells!" said Anthony. He waved cheerfully at his friend and cast a nervous glance at the strange man.
Miss Eells turned and gave Anthony a hard, meaningful stare. In a strained, tense voice she said, "Anthony, this is Mr. Anders Borkman. He's the gentleman who owns the Weatherend estate out near Rolling Stone. He's come to apply for a library card."
Anthony's mouth dropped open. Was he the one who had waved pleasantly while he had turned the dog loose on them? Maybe so—he sure looked mean enough. And if he was the one, did he recognize Anthony and Miss Eells as the two trespassers he had chased away?
The Dark Secret of Weatherend Page 3
