The Hand of the Necromancer Page 2

  The strange man smiled a ghastly smile. "I know that name. Wonderful."

  "Well, I have to go now—"

  "No, no. Stay and tell me about these delightful exhibits." With a sudden convulsive movement, the man's hand closed on Johnny's wrist. "Tell me, you clever boy, what is that?"

  He had pointed to a big leather-bound book on a dictionary stand across the room. It was open, its liver-spotted pages almost glowing in the daylight shining through the north windows. "Uh, that's the Hathorne diary and daybook," Johnny said. "It's a rare printed copy of a diary kept for more than twenty years by John Hathorne of Salem Village—"

  "A remarkable man," grated the stranger. "Old John Hathorne! Others repented of the witchcraft trials, but not John! He had a spine of steel, that one. It was he who boasted of whipping a Quaker woman half to death and then casting her out to die in a snowstorm. A quick one to sniff out witchcraft was good old John Hathorne. And what is that interesting display, hmm?" The man dragged Johnny about the room, demanding answers about this and that. His eyes glittered as he caught sight of the snow globe. "Bless my soul," he said. "Unless my eyes deceive me, this is one of the works made by Esdrias Blackleach, hmm? Ah, yes, so the card says."

  "Yes, sir," replied Johnny. He was desperate to get away. "It's a sealed glass snow dome mounted on a maple base—"

  "Ash!" the strange man said almost in a hiss. "It's ash, not maple. It makes a difference in the conjuring. Old Esdrias was far too cunning in the knotty ways of the Secret Arts to make such an elementary mistake. A pretty bauble, is it not, hmm? A soul could stare into that snow and lose himself. To think that it's almost three hundred years old. The cold drifts that old Esdrias stirred are still blowing, eh? Still sweeping souls before them? What else of his do you have?"

  Johnny looked around. "Well—he made the hand mirror there. And the snuffbox and the wand beside it. There are some unidentified implements that he owned on the top shelf. And he carved some scrimshaw—"

  The man gave Johnny's arm a painful half twist. "These are minor! These are playthings. What about his greatest work, hmm? Where is that, my boy?"

  "I don't know what you mean!" It came out as a terrified squeak.

  "Don't you indeed? It is a hand, my fine young man. I hear he carved a very pretty hand while on his deathbed. You have it here, somewhere, don't you?"

  "No!" Johnny said, trying to pull his wrist away. "Please, let me go. I have to—to go downstairs. There's a—"

  "Not here?" the man said, his face turning purple. "It must be here! I've checked every other place. Every place except for one." He fell silent, glaring at Johnny. "I understand there is a man in town named, what was it? Childerman? No, I have it now, Childermass. Professor Roderick Childermass. He and I have much in common. We are both enthusiasts. I'm sure you know the good professor, do you not?"

  The hand on Johnny's wrist was clamping tighter and tighter, like a constricting snake squeezing, squeezing, cold and deadly. Johnny dared not speak, but he shook his head. It was not exactly a lie, perhaps, but the strange man thought Johnny had answered his question.

  The hand let go at last. "No?" The bald stranger hissed between his bad teeth, and then he said, "Well, Duston Heights is a small town. I'm sure I will find him soon enough. He and I will have many interesting subjects to discuss—"

  Out in the hall the stairwell door opened, and a moment later Miss Ferrington came in, speaking over her shoulder to a group of six or seven bored-looking high-school students who were suffering through summer school. "And the Curiosities Room," she was saying. "So called because it offers many unique and absorbing exhibits from the superstitious days when—Johnny Dixon! Why are you still here?"

  Johnny was happier to see her than he had ever thought possible. "Miss Ferrington, this man wanted me to show him—"

  "Your duties do not include leading tours," Miss Ferrington snapped. "You will—"

  The man in black turned his twisted smile on her. "The fault is mine, dear lady. I believe I recognize your voice. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Ermina Ferrington?"

  Miss Ferrington blinked and poked her fingers at her hair. "Er—why, yes. I am she."

  "I thought so. We have conversed by telephone. It is a great honor to meet you in person. I am Mattheus Mergal, of Boston. And you are exactly as charming as your voice sounded."

  One of the high-school boys snorted and turned away. His shoulders shook as he tried to look interested in the door frame, but Miss Ferrington didn't notice. She extended her hand. "I am pleased to meet you," she said in a soft voice.

  Mr. Mergal took her hand and inclined his head over it. He slowly raised his eyes until his gaze locked on hers. "I am sure that you will forgive the young man's honest mistake," he said.

  "Why, yes, of course. Er, Johnny, you had better run downstairs and—and do whatever it is that you should be doing."

  Johnny hurried away, glad to escape. A few minutes later he saw Mergal pass through the Colonial Life Room and into the foyer. In another second the door opened and closed as he left the museum. Johnny followed and opened the front door just wide enough to peek outside. The black-clad figure strode along in the afternoon sunlight. Across West Merrimack Street from the museum were the gates of Haggstrum College, brick pillars crowned with concrete lions. Mergal crossed the street and walked through the gates and up the drive to an old black Plymouth parked in the shade of an aspen. Without glancing behind him, he climbed into the car, and a moment later it chugged away, leaving a very troubled Johnny Dixon wondering just who the threatening Mr. Mergal was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As soon as Johnny got home, he went to see Professor Childermass. At the mention of the strange man, the professor's face grew red. "Mattheus Mergal, of Boston!" he growled. "A crackpot if there ever was one!"

  "Do you know him?" asked Johnny.

  "I've never actually met him, but he has telephoned me three or four times this summer, trying to buy the Blackleach collection from me. I won't sell the stuff— not because I hate to part with it, but just because I refuse to be pestered into anything! Well, John, if that unsavory character turns up again, you have my permission to tell him to pay me a visit. I will send him on his way with a flea in his ear! Now come into the kitchen and tell me what you think of a little experiment of mine. It's a double-fudge mocha mousse, and I suspect it is just the thing for a warm June afternoon."

  The dessert was cool and gloppy and delicious, but despite Johnny's hints, Professor Childermass gave no sign of wanting to discuss the mysterious Mr. Mergal. At last Johnny crossed the street to his own house. He watched television for a while. Then he read a science- fiction novel about a high-school boy in the twenty-first century, who is rocketed to a strange planet. The earth is so crowded with people that there is no room for him and the other teenagers.

  At seven Gramma called Johnny to dinner, and after the meal he and Grampa played a couple of games of checkers as they listened to a Red Sox–Detroit Tigers game on the radio. The Red Sox lost—as happened all too frequently—and by the time Johnny went to bed, he had almost forgotten the strange incident in the Gudge Museum.

  The next morning the professor was off somewhere, and Johnny had no chores to do, so he went downtown. There were a few kids in Peter's Sweet Shop on Merrimack Street, but he didn't know them. He had a soda and then wandered out, feeling sorry for himself. If only Fergie were here, Johnny thought, we'd go for a long walk and talk about all sorts of crazy stuff. Strolling around Duston Heights alone wasn't nearly as much fun.

  Still, Johnny had nothing else to do. He walked aimlessly and wound up at the athletic field, where a raucous game of baseball was going on. No use in trying to join in—a couple of tough kids from St. Michael's School were playing, and they didn't think much of Johnny's abilities. He noticed another lonely figure, a kid in a baggy white T-shirt, a red baseball cap, and blue jeans, standing ahead of him and staring at the game. The kid leaned on a bat that had its handle thrus
t through the strap of a fielder's mitt. Another rotten player, Johnny decided. Feeling left out, he turned and started to plod away.

  "Hey, kid! Wanna play flies and grounders?"

  Johnny turned around, surprised. He had assumed the youngster with the bat and glove was a boy, but the voice was a girl's. She was tall and skinny, with a pug nose and a spatter of freckles across her cheeks. "Uh, sure," Johnny said hesitantly.

  "C'mon. Their Highnesses won't let me play, but they can't stop us from hittin' a few. Is there someplace good to practice?"

  "The park," Johnny said. "It's not far from here."

  They walked east on Merrimack Street, then cut over to Round Pond. A semicircle of small ponds lay on this side of town, and a grassy park offered lots of open space. A few people were eating picnic lunches up under the trees, but Johnny and the girl found a nice, level stretch of grass. "Uh, I'm not very good," Johnny confessed. "They won't let me play either."

  " 'S okay," returned the girl with a grin. "You don't hafta be Dom DiMaggio to play flies and grounders! By the way, my name's Sarah Channing."

  "I'm Johnny Dixon."

  Sarah nodded. "We've just moved here," she said. "My dad's gonna teach at Haggstrum College in the fall."

  Johnny's face brightened. "Yeah? I know a history teacher there. Professor Childermass. He lives across the street from me."

  "Dad teaches English," said Sarah. "Wanna bat first or field first?"

  They played for an hour or so, and then Sarah said, "Let me see something. I'm gonna pitch a few to you, nothing tricky. Take a good cut at them." She pushed her red cap up on her forehead, went into a windup, and pitched a clean strike. Johnny missed it, grunted in irritation, and then trotted to retrieve the ball. He tossed it back, and she said, "Again."

  Johnny swung and missed three times, a humiliating strikeout. Sarah came over to him and said, "Get into your stance again."

  Raising the bat, Johnny crouched a bit. "Choke up on the bat a little. That's good, now hold still," Sarah said. He felt her grab the end of the bat and move it away from his shoulder. "Now keep it right there." She nudged his feet a little farther apart. "Don't bend your knees so much. Get your chin up." She inspected him as if he were a sculpture she had been working on. "That's better. I'm gonna pitch you a pretty easy one. When you swing, try really hard to keep your shoulders level. Keep your eye on the ball, and don't blink when you swing. Keep your elbows pretty loose, but keep control of the bat. Ready?"

  "I guess so," said Johnny, without much hope.

  "Here we go." She wound up and tossed him a beauty. Johnny squinted, swung, and connected with a solid thonk! To his surprise, the ball sprang away in a sizzling drive.

  "It's a hot line drive down the third-base line!" whooped Sarah. "Dixon got a piece of that one, folks! It's a base hit for Johnny Dixon, who some folks say is the next Dom DiMaggio!"

  Johnny was blushing furiously. "You took it easy on me," he said.

  Sarah chased the ball down and trotted back, grinning. "Sure I did," she yelled. "But the next one's gonna be a little harder. Ready, Ace?"

  Every once in a while Sarah interrupted her pitching to come over and criticize Johnny's stance. He made the adjustments she recommended, and before long he was hitting one out of four even when she was pitching fastballs and curves. "Not so bad," she said when they both got tired. "I figure you at a batting average of about .250. Betcha you could boost that with a little practice."

  Johnny could not help grinning. He and Fergie played all the time, but Fergie—who was a great natural athlete—was not much of a coach and had never offered him this kind of help. Just wait, Johnny thought. Fergie's in for a surprise next time we play!

  He and Sarah switched places, and Sarah made quite a few nice hits. "Boy," Johnny said, loping back after having retrieved a long one, "I don't see why those guys won't let you play. You're good!"

  " 'Cause I'm a gir-ul," Sarah returned, making a face. "And 'cause they don't know how good I am. It's rough being the new kid in town. Hey, that's enough. It's hot and I'm getting tired."

  "You thirsty?" Johnny asked, taking his glove off and walking over to where she leaned on the bat.

  "Yeah," admitted Sarah. "Parched."

  "Uh, you want to go to Peter's Sweet Shop for a soda or something?"

  "Are you just feeling sorry for me?" demanded Sarah, scowling fiercely.

  Johnny felt his face turn red. "I—I didn't mean—"

  After a moment Sarah smiled—a surprisingly shy smile. "That's okay. I thought you were kidding me. I'd love to have a soda, but I'll buy my own, okay?" She took her cap off and ran her fingers through her hair. It was red and cut very short. "You can tell me all about this place on the way. We just moved in, and I feel like a fish out of water. Say, do you know St. Michael's School?"

  "Yeah," Johnny said, surprised. "I go there."

  "Really? I'm going there too! Listen, are the sisters big on walloping your hands with a ruler?"

  "No," Johnny said. "Hardly any of them do that."

  "That's a relief. I was in a Catholic girls' school out in Minnesota, and those nuns had arms on them like Babe Ruth."

  They chatted together as they walked to the ice-cream shop and discovered that they would be in the same grade. Johnny was delighted. Sarah was a little imposing as a friend—she had that air of taking charge—but she had a super sense of humor. And just like him, she had always had some trouble fitting in. She had been miserable at her last school, she told him. When the other girls went ga-ga over singers like Eddie Fisher, she memorized baseball statistics. "Lots of other girls made fun of me," she confessed over a vanilla soda. "Just because I don't like dancing and dresses and moonlit walks, and I do like baseball and cars and horses."

  Johnny shrugged. Whatever Sarah liked was fine with him. "I'm terrible at sports," he admitted. "But I'm good at English, Latin, and history, and pretty good at science and math. I guess I don't make friends very easily either."

  "Let's be friends, then," said Sarah. "You need a friend because you're lonely, and I need one because I'm a stranger in a strange land. Deal?"

  "Deal." They locked pinkies on it, a ritual Johnny had never heard of before. For a few minutes they sipped their sodas. Then Johnny said, "I've got a summer job in the museum across the street from the college."

  "Huh," said Sarah. "Must be boring."

  Thinking of the Sophonsoba Peabody Room, Johnny nodded. "Sometimes it is. But there's a Witch Room, and that's kind of interesting. You know about the Salem witch trials, don't you?"

  She did not. Johnny happily explained about them, and then told her about the witch hysteria in Duston Heights for good measure. "Huh," she said. "I guess people were pretty stupid in the olden days."

  Johnny sighed, stirring the foamy dregs of his soda with his straw. He happened to know that not everyone who believed in witches and magic was stupid. In fact, he had been through some pretty harrowing adventures with the professor and Fergie—adventures that sometimes threatened to turn nasty and that had even involved diabolical magic. But he knew that most people were like Sarah: In their opinion, anyone who thought ghosts and witches and magic were real had to have a screw loose. He almost told Sarah some of the things that had happened to him, but he thought better of it. They finished their sodas and went outside. As they sauntered along the street, Sarah asked, "So what does your dad do?"

  "He's a pilot in the Air Force," replied Johnny.

  "Wow! No kidding? That's great!"

  "Yeah," Johnny said. "I guess."

  "What's wrong?"

  Johnny made a face. "Well, I don't get to see him all that often. My mom died a few years ago—"

  "I'm sorry," Sarah said.

  "Thanks. And Dad was flying a fighter plane in Korea, so I came here to live with my grandparents."

  Sarah stopped and gave him a sharp look. "Wait a minute. Was he that guy who got shot down and then escaped back to American lines?"

  "Yes," said Johnny. "Ma
jor Harrison Dixon. But he was a captain then."

  "I read about him in LIFE! Your dad's a hero! Boy, my dad never does anything more exciting than grade an essay. You're lucky, Dixon!"

  "I suppose."

  "So what's wrong?"

  They began to walk again. Johnny said, "The problem is that usually I see Dad for just a few weeks every year. During Christmas vacation this year we're going to go deep-sea fishing in Florida."

  "Great! Can I meet him when he comes?"

  "Sure."

  "Suppose he'd give me his autograph?"

  Johnny looked hard at her, but she didn't seem to be teasing him. "Sure, he would," he told her. "But he's just Dad. I mean, he doesn't think of himself as a hero."

  Sarah shrugged, and for a few steps she was silent. Then she spoke up again: "Goin' to Florida, huh? You know, the only time I've ever seen the ocean was when we flew into Boston? It sure doesn't look like much through an airplane window."

  Looking at a marquee ahead of them, Johnny noticed the theater was showing a Saturday matinee. It was a film he had seen before, Captain Horatio Hornblower. He asked, "Hey, want to see the movie?"

  "That's a silly title," said Sarah. "Who is he, Clarabelle's brother?" Clarabelle Hornblower was a clown on The Howdy Doody Show, a puppet show that came on TV every afternoon. It was for little kids.

  "No, Captain Hornblower was a sea captain in the British Navy back during the Napoleonic wars," explained Johnny. "See, he's sent on a mission to South America, and then he has to fight a ship that's twice the size of the Lydia—that's his ship—and there's this big battle at sea with the two ships firing cannons at each other—"

  "Sounds like fun," said Sarah. "Only I'm broke after the sodas."

  After a moment's pause Johnny said, "I got paid yesterday. I can buy your ticket. It's not a date or anything. Next time you can buy mine, okay?"

  Sarah grinned at him. "You're all right, Dixon. Sure, I guess. Sounds like a pretty good movie."

  They went to the show and munched popcorn and guzzled orange sodas as the ship battles, sword fights, and narrow escapes worked themselves out on the screen. When they walked back outside after the movie, the sunlight seemed dazzling and strange. Half a block away, she turned. "Hey, Dixon! What's your phone number?"