The Bell, the Book, and the Spellbinder Page 8
When Sarah did not answer, Johnny said, "It was kind of a magic stone that would change lead into gold, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Dr. Coote slowly. "Except it was supposed to possess other virtues as well. It could confer great longevity, for example, and it could cure illnesses—at least, according to some authorities. Anyway, Paracelsus never discovered the philosophers' stone, nor did anyone else. But some time in the year 1535, Jarmyn Cudbright did steal a great number of his master's books and materials, and he vanished with them. About ten years later, he wrote a long, detailed letter to Michel de Nostredame, better known as the French prophet Nostradamus, in which he discussed secrets of foretelling the future. Cudbright turned up a few years after that in Great Britain, where he worked for some time with the magician Dr. John Dee. A few documents mention him during the early part of the seventeenth century. Then Cudbright disappears from the records until, um—" Dr. Coote shuffled through some papers—"until the 1720s, when he turns up again alive and well."
"Preposterous!" snapped Professor Childermass.
"Yet true. An astrologer and magician named Jarmyn Cudbright, who by that time was calling himself 'Dr. Thanatos,' was an associate of the notorious Count Alessandro di Cagliostro. You see what this means, of course."
"This Jarmyn Cudbright found some way of living forever," said Sarah slowly.
"Well—at least of living for a very long time," responded Dr. Coote. "Now, the odd thing is that the descriptions of Jarmyn Cudbright, or Thanatos, or whatever he calls himself, always disagree about his age. He looked younger in 1617 than he had twenty-five years earlier. By 1722 he was described as an aged man, and yet in 1758 he was 'a youth of twenty.' And when he boarded the Acheron to sail from London to Charleston in 1794, he was described as being 'about sixty.' Actually, he would have been about fifty-six, but some people—"
"Please, Charley," groaned the professor. "Get to the point, won't you?"
"Very well," said Dr. Coote, with an irritated glance at his friend. "On one occasion, right around the year 1778, Cudbright, or Thanatos or whatever you want to call him, was present at a meeting between Count Alessandro di Cagliostro and Comte de Saint-Germain. They were another two notorious alchemists and magicians, and the three of them discussed the elixir of life and a ritual by which a man could extend his life span to 5,557 years by periodically rejuvenating himself. My theory is that the ritual really worked. Now, only a garbled account of the process has been preserved—"
"A garbled account of garbage!" said Professor Childermass with a sneer. Then, before Dr. Coote could reply, he said, "Oh, Charley, don't jump to conclusions about magic and hocus-pocus. I think I know exactly what happened. There isn't just one Jarmyn Thanatos. There's a whole bunch of them, father and son, over the generations. Doesn't that seem reasonable to you?"
"No," said Dr. Coote. He handed a couple of sheets of paper to the professor. "Because I have here photographic reproductions of two letters he wrote, more than two hundred and fifty years apart. One letter is in French and the other in English, but as you can plainly see, the handwriting in both is exactly the same. Beyond any question, they were both written by the same man."
"Then how do you explain it?" asked Johnny, feeling a cold spot deep in his gut.
"I can only guess," replied Dr. Coote. "And my guess is pretty horrible. It's based on the case of Randolph Roberts, a Boston boy who seems to have been kidnapped in the early years of the nineteenth century. He was about fourteen or fifteen when he vanished. His parents were well-to-do, and they spent a year looking for him, running down every lead. At last they received a letter that told them their son was still alive and was in Charleston, South Carolina. They immediately left Boston to go there, but they met with an accident along the way and both were killed. Their will left everything to their son."
"Well?" asked Professor Childermass. "Was the boy alive?"
"A boy was alive," responded Dr. Coote. "He was found in a Charleston jail and brought back to Boston. He didn't look exactly like the Roberts boy—his head was shaved, and he was thinner. At any rate, people assumed his ordeal had changed his appearance. He told a wild tale about having been shanghaied by the crew of a sailing ship, then falling from a mast, hitting his head, and getting amnesia. Anyway, he had no relatives left, so he was put into an orphanage until 1811, when he turned twenty-one and inherited his parents' money. At that point, he moved away from Boston and vanished from the records. But there is another odd wrinkle to the story. In 1805, a few weeks after the young man returned to Boston, another Randolph Roberts showed up in Charleston, insisting that he was the legitimate heir to the estate. He said that a man whom he knew only as the Spellbinder had tricked him with a magic book and then had locked him in a sealed coffin to die, but he had managed to escape. Of course, no one believed him."
"Why not?" asked Sarah.
Solemnly, Dr. Coote said, "Because this Randolph Roberts was a sick old man in his sixties, that's why. He was put into some kind of institution, and he died within the year."
Professor Childermass sprang up from his chair. "Good God, Charley! If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, this is horrible! Do you mean that Jarmyn Thanatos is some kind of a—a time vampire?"
"What?" asked Sarah, sounding completely flummoxed.
Professor Childermass waved his arms. "Well, isn't it obvious? This Thanatos character waits until he begins to grow old. Then he causes some poor young boy to fall under his spell. Somehow or other, when the time is right, he—I don't know how, exactly—he steals their youth away! He becomes young, while they grow old and doddering. And then he starts all over again!"
Dr. Coote nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "That's what I feel is happening here. It seems to take some time to work—half a year or so, usually. After that, well, I think the boy dies of old age—and Jarmyn Thanatos lives out the span of life the boy normally would have had. I'll wager that if you checked, you'd find a whole string of kidnapped boys in Europe and America over the ages. Even more, I daresay each and every one of them was a loner, without close friends. So this time, Jarmyn Thanatos just might have slipped up, because Fergie does have friends who care about him and who are willing to fight for him. I only hope our discovery is not too late."
Johnny shivered. He thought of his friend Fergie growing supernaturally old, becoming stooped and bony, his hair turning white and falling out. "We have to do something!" he exclaimed.
"We do indeed," said Professor Childermass decisively. "I'll be painted orange and called a pumpkin before I'll let that wretched wizard get away with this! But how the blazes do we fight him?"
"There is only one way," replied Dr. Coote. "The book that Johnny saw—The Book of True Wishes, I think he called it—is the key. That is undoubtedly a grimoire, a collection of terrible magic spells. Very likely as each one is completed, it increases the magician's hold over Fergie. In order to free our friend, you will have to destroy that book before it has completed its fiendish work."
"I'll rip it to shreds!" declared the professor. "I'll turn it to mush! I'll strip it to its covers and then use it to start a bonfire!"
Dr. Coote shook his head. "You will do no such thing, Roderick. In the first place, it's bound to have protective spells on it. I doubt if you even could harm it physically. Very likely something disagreeable would happen to you first, like the attack by those locusts you told me about. The only person who can really destroy the book is Fergie himself—or Thanatos, and of course he wouldn't do it. But there is a catch."
"What's that?" asked Johnny.
Spreading his hands, Dr. Coote said, "Well, usually these things can be destroyed in only one way. Fergie might not be able, say, to burn it at all. The key is to discover exactly what can be done to render the book harmless. And then the next hurdle is to persuade Fergie to do that—unless the book has him so thoroughly trapped by now that he won't even make the effort."
"But we have to try," said Professor Childermass.
"His family?" Johnny heard his voice squeak in alarm.
Turning toward him, Dr. Coote nodded sadly. "Yes, of course. That is the pattern, you see. A boy vanishes, his family seeks him, and then the family dies too, leaving no trace. So I'm afraid that unless you act very quickly, all the Fergusons are doomed."
Just then the old Waterbury clock back in the kitchen bonged the half hour. The chime wasn't really loud, but everyone jumped, then looked at each other, eyes wide with fear. The clock had sounded too much like that other bell, the one in the belfry of the Spellbinder house. They all knew they were up against a force that was powerful, dark, and entirely evil.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At a few minutes before midnight on Friday, Fergie once again slipped out of his house. He felt light-headed and dizzy. His legs were unsteady, as if the earth itself were rolling and pitching like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. The night was clear, and overhead a full moon hung, making everything look silvery and strange. Black, mysterious shadows pooled beneath trees. White houses glimmered like the ghosts of themselves. It was a warm night, but Fergie could not stop shivering.
Fergie clutched the book under his jacket, hugged against his chest. He took one slow step after another, passing the dim shape of the redbrick Baptist church, then hesitating at the edge of the ring of oaks. The gloom beneath them waited like a passageway into another world. A world of deadly mystery and magic. Finally, Fergie plunged into the shadows. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping inside the moonlit circle at the park's center.
"So you have come at last." The old man waited there already, but now his voice no longer sounded kind. Slight and short, he stood with the moonlight lying on his long white hair and his shoulders like a silver cloak. But despite his size, he had the air of a cruel and powerful commander. He rasped out the words harshly, in a sneering tone. "The moon is in the proper phase for a great work of magic, boy. All you have to do is open the book, read, and make your wish—and your enemies will be dust beneath your feet. And you will have advanced one more step on the road to unimaginable power."
Fergie dragged the book out from under his jacket. He held it in his hands, and as the moonlight fell upon the cover the red letters of the title and the author's name began to glow with their own sinister crimson light. The book weighed a ton, and its covers were so cold that they numbed Fergie's fingers. He stood trembling, gasping for breath.
"Open the book!" The man's voice cracked like a whip. "Open it, I say!"
With fingers that felt dead, Fergie fumbled the book open. He had learned by now not to turn the pages one by one. They held some magic that prevented you from ever reading the same page twice. No matter how many leaves you turned, you never got to the beginning of the book—or to the end. There was always one more incredibly thin, incredibly tough page to turn. It was better to let the book have its own way, simply to allow it to fall open. Moonlight illuminated the pages now, making the black letters writhe in his vision. Fergie could read the words if he wanted to—but he desperately strove not to read them. For reading them meant death for Professor Childermass, Johnny, and Sarah.
"Read!" ordered Fergie's teacher. "I command it!"
Fergie shook his head and tried to yank his gaze away from the fatal words. "No," he groaned.
"Foolish boy! You know you want to show your power. You know the others have betrayed you. It is simple to extinguish them all at once—poof!—like three snuffed candles. They will be found lifeless tomorrow morning. The doctors will say the old man died of a heart attack, the boy and girl of some puzzling illness. It will be a great mystery. And only you will know the truth—that you used your mighty magic to wipe them off the face of the earth!"
"B-but it never works," croaked Fergie, his voice only a harsh rasp. He swallowed. "Dad hates his job. An' what about the last wish? I wished Mom didn't have to work so hard, an' then she fell on the stairs an' sprained her ankle. Now the doctor says she shouldn't get out of bed for at least three or four days—"
"Boy, you are trying my patience!" snapped the man. Then, with an ingratiating smile, he said, "Don't be weak, my lad. Once they called me the Spellbinder—because with words alone I could bind my enemies and deliver them to destruction. You could do the same, my fine young friend. Begin now, if you would be great. Forget your family. They have never understood you or cared about you. And your so-called friends are spies and enemies. They deserve punishment, and only you can punish them. Read. Read now."
"No," insisted Fergie in a stubborn whisper. His throat felt as if it were being clogged with cotton. He shook his head.
Anger flashed in the Spellbinder's eyes. "Read, I tell you!" He pointed an imperious finger at the book. "I command you—read now!"
Fergie's face twitched. His arms jerked. His teeth chattered. He took long, sobbing gasps of breath. He felt as if the book were tugging at him, trying to pull him inside its bewitched pages, fighting him. His gaze unwillingly dropped to the first word of the first paragraph. "Th-th-the," he read slowly, his voice an agony of resistance. Then, with an effort greater than any he had ever made on the baseball diamond or the football field, he clapped the book shut. It made a dreadful sound—a sound exactly like the tolling of a bell. With a choking groan, Fergie dropped to the grass and lay there only half conscious. He stared upward into the dark sky, aware only of the white unblinking eye of the moon staring down at him.
Something came between him and the bright, cold disk. He felt warm breath on his face, breath that had a foul, sour stench. "So," growled the old man. "Still trying to be your own master, are you? You must learn, my fine young fellow. There can be only one master in the end—and he is the Spellbinder!" Fergie felt himself being lifted from the ground. Although the Spellbinder was old, he seemed remarkably strong. He carried Fergie as if he were carrying a stuffed doll. A doll with limp, useless arms and legs.
"Wh-wh-where—?" mumbled Fergie. The effort of speech was too great.
The Spellbinder gave a deep, hateful laugh. He was striding easily through the night, not even breathing hard from the exertion of carrying Fergie. "Where are you bound? To my secret hideaway, my fine young fellow! It's too early to begin the great spell, really, but you force me to do it. If I had known how stubborn you would prove, how strong your cursed will would be, I would have chosen the other one, the pale, frightened one. But no matter. You will learn all you will need to know later—knowledge that will last you for the rest of your very short life. Sleep now! I command it!"
Fergie's eyelids fluttered. It seemed to him that the moon shrank down to a tiny white point, flickered, and then went out. And then he was alone in darkness.
* * *
"So far, Dr. Coote hasn't found any way of destroying the blasted book. So I thought I'd better consult you," said Professor Childermass. He was sitting in the dark and rather gloomy parlor of St. Michael's rectory, talking to his old friend Father Thomas Higgins.
A tall, craggy-faced priest whose habitual expression was a scowl, Father Higgins listened sympathetically. "I wish I could help you, Roderick," he said. "But Fergie's mother is a hard-shell Baptist, and you know what they think of priests. According to Mrs. Ferguson, we're all secret agents of the pope, trying to waylay innocent young Protestants and force them to say the rosary!"
Professor Childermass sat on the sofa, leaning forward, with his hands clasped in front of him. "Oh, I'm not suggesting you go charging in with your chasuble billowing in the wind, swinging your thurible and brandishing a breviary," he said. "But there must be something you can do to help."
Father Higgins tapped his finger on his chin. "Well, an exorcism is out of the question, of course. You have to have the, ah, patient's consent, or that of the family. But I just might have heard or read something about dealing with books of evil magic. Let me see—it was a long time ago, when I was visiting an old cathedral i
n Ireland. The priest there showed me some ancient Celtic writing and said it had to do with using the four elements to destroy wicked writings." He was silent for a long time, and then at last he shrugged. "Sorry, Roderick, it's completely gone."
With a sigh, Professor Childermass rose from the sofa. "Well, Higgy, if you manage to recall anything more, please call me at once. I'm very uneasy about Byron, and I am getting more so with each passing minute. If you should—"
The doorbell rang. And then it rang again and again, frantically. The priest and the professor exchanged a startled look, and then both of them hurried to the door. Father Higgins threw it wide open. Johnny Dixon stood outside, his face a mask of despair. "Professor!" he yelled. "Father Higgins! Something awful has happened!"
"Come in," said Father Higgins. Johnny blundered inside, and in the parlor he collapsed onto the sofa. He buried his face in his hands.
"For heaven's sake, John Michael," said the professor, "what's wrong?"
Johnny gulped and then sobbed, "We're too late. Fergie's gone!"
Father Higgins crossed over and put a kindly hand on Johnny's shoulder. "Calm down," he said in a reassuring, gentle tone. "Take a deep breath. Now tell us exactly what has happened to Fergie."
Johnny shook his head miserably. "That's just it—I don't know! Professor Childermass asked me to keep an eye on him, and so I've been riding past his house every afternoon after school's out. Well, this morning I was riding past, and Mrs. Ferguson came out, crying. She's hurt her ankle, and she could hardly walk, but she called me over and asked me where Fergie was. I told her I hadn't seen him, and she said he was missing. He hadn't even slept in his bed. Mr. Ferguson's called the police." Johnny gasped, and then turned to the professor. "Don't you see what this means? It's all just like Dr. Coote said—Dr. Thanatos has kidnapped Fergie. It's happening to him just like it happened to that Roberts boy and Tommy McCorkle."