The Game of Sunken Places Read online

  She answered, “Why, yes, Mr. Grendle definitely bought the house after he adopted me. We came out here together to look at it. Oh, I was ever so excited.” A thoughtful expression came over her face. “That is strange, then, about the game.”

  “It has the woods on it, too,” said Brian. “There are paths running through the forest, with all these names written beside them.”

  “Oh, the woods are lovely!” said Prudence, smiling and laying her sewing aside. “You should go on a brisk walk this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” said Gregory. “There’s a ring of mushrooms, and a river, and a huge uprooted tree…”

  “It’s called the Club of Snarth,” said Prudence, nodding.

  “That was on the board!” said Brian, excited. “How did you know that name?”

  “Dreams,” said Prudence. “I like to go out there on picnics on the Sabbath. But often, I just hear the names of forest places in dreams. A voice tells me.” She stopped and looked at her sewing. “I completely have lost the thread of what I was—”

  “Prudence,” said Brian, “what kind of dreams do you—”

  Uncle Max banged on the door frame behind them. “Lunch, lunch, lunch,” he said. “Come along. ‘The appointed time is come.’ Promptness is a virtue.”

  “Sure is,” said Gregory. “Right up there with dental hygiene.”

  “Glad to see you agree,” said Uncle Max. He glared at Brian. “Your friend there doesn’t look so sure. Doesn’t speak much, does he?”

  “He’s shy,” said Gregory protectively.

  “But is he nefarious?” Uncle Max asked. He turned and walked away.

  They went into the dining room.

  The lunch hour, like the dinner hour of the previous night, was completely silent save for the clinking of silverware on the plates, the quiet requests, and Uncle Max’s peculiar murmuring between bites. Occasionally, Daffodil would put her teeth on her lower lip and make a buzzing sound.

  After Uncle Max pushed his plate away, Brian decided to ask him some of their questions. “Sir, we were looking around, and we found, well—no—we were wondering—we’d like—”

  “Yes, spit it out.”

  “Did your family own this house before you moved here with Prudence?”

  “No, indeed, my boy. When I adopted Prudence, I decided it was time to move out of the city. Too much smoke. Too much noise. People were always breaking windows. Other people, they were always fixing them. I saw this house in the newspaper and decided then and there to buy it. You remember coming out here to see the house when we bought it, Prudence?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Grendle. It looked like a wonderland.”

  “Indeed,” said Uncle Max, leaning back in his chair.

  Prudence turned to her foster father. “And the boys were wondering something about a game they found upstairs. ”

  “What? Which?”

  Gregory broke in abruptly. “We…uh…yes, we—”

  “We were wondering about pool,” said Brian.

  “Special rules,” said Gregory. “Appalachian Slant Pool. The one where two of the legs on the table are sawed off.”

  Prudence looked at Gregory strangely, then said, “No, I meant the game you found in the nursery.”

  Brian said quickly, “Oh, the Let’s Keep a Secret game! It looks like some kind of card game.”

  “With dice,” said Gregory, embellishing with some enjoyment. “A dice/card game. With puppets. The hand puppets.”

  Slowly, Prudence nodded. “Yes,” she said tentatively. “All right.”

  “No, my boys! I’ve never heard of…Appalachian Slant Pool, and as for the things in the nursery…well, I’ve either bought them at auctions or they were already in the drawers here. Their rules? No idea. No idea, really, children. And I don’t like puppets. I really don’t. Not at all. Big, goggly eyes.”

  “That’s all right,” said Gregory. “There are other games to play.”

  “Games. Yes. Well. Nothing wrong, I suppose, with infusing a sense of competition in young lads. To strive, my boy, is to succeed. Life is a melee. A battle. There are winners; there are losers. When a game has begun—finally begun—then you know that you are part of it, and so by its end, you shall be one or the other. The winner, the loser. The loser, the winner.” He said, “Life is clamor and action. Sometimes you must show your teeth. Yes?” With his finger, he shoved his lip up like a curtain.

  He said, “Sometimes, my boys, you must learn to rend.”

  It was a fine afternoon for walking. The skies were vast and blue, and brilliant shafts of sunlight fell lazily through the treetops.

  The boys walked up a rise. Huge boulders lay all around them, covered in moss and pines. They were on a path that wound around a hillside. Down at the bottom of the hill, there was a river. For a while, they walked without talking.

  Brian had in his hand a list of all the places mentioned on the board. He read out the names as they came to them.

  They passed a huge, uprooted tree that sprawled across the path and down the hill. A tangle of roots crowned the tree, looking like a nest of snakes.

  “The Club of Snarth,” he said.

  “Snarth,” said Gregory. “Great.”

  “So that way, to the left, leads over to the Great Cliff and something called the Petroglyph Wall. Then the ink runs out.” Brian pointed straight ahead. “That way leads through the Dark Wood and on to something called Clock Corner.”

  They sat and rested on the massive timber.

  “I keep thinking about the board changing,” said Brian. “It can’t just be the light.”

  “It could be an optical illusion,” said Gregory. “Someone put out a board that looks different at different times. Some kind of trick.”

  “But why?” said Brian. “And who? I mean, why?”

  “Hey, don’t go yelling at me.”

  “I’m not yelling. I just don’t understand it.”

  “And where’s our luggage?”

  “I have a bad feeling about that,” said Brian.

  Gregory sighed and rubbed his face. “Hurg,” he said quietly.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, ‘Hurg.’”

  “Oh.”

  Brian leaned against the tangled roots, crossed his arms, and stared into the pines, listening to the tick of insects and the calls of birds.

  Gregory stood. “It’s as if we’re in a dream,” he said.

  “Well,” said Brian, “now we may be competing against someone, too.”

  “So we’d better get moving,” said Gregory. “Toward…straight.”

  Brian nodded and pulled himself up.

  They continued walking down the path.

  They had reached the Dark Wood, a mass of tightly woven trees, a tangle of black-limbed, twisted trunks where the only color was the pale green scales of fungus that dotted their tiny branches. Someone had cut a tunnel through the scratchy gnarls. The two stooped and made their way through the gloomy thicket.

  “Do you hear steps?” asked Brian.

  Gregory paused. They looked forward and back. The floor of the strangling mass was brightened by tiny white primroses.

  “Nope,” said Gregory.

  Brian nodded, and they kept on going. They walked silently, stooping in the passageway, until they came to a wide, cleared patch, surrounded by the high walls of the dark, leafless foliage. A ring of red-capped mushrooms grew in the clearing, poking their way out of the dark, moss-stained turf.

  “This is the Ring,” said Brian.

  They stood for a moment and listened to the birds.

  “Gregory, listen,” whispered Brian. “Now I’m sure.”

  “Huh?”

  “Footsteps.”

  Gregory looked back into the tunnel.

  Branches crackled behind them.

  Brian plucked at his sleeve, and they sprinted forward. Through the tunnel that led away from the clearing, they could see an area where the woods cleared out and became brighter; there, on a
tall stump, was the white face of a clock.

  They raced toward it, emerging from the dark tunnel of twisted branches.

  Brian looked behind them.

  “Oh no,” he gasped. He turned again and started to stumble farther into the wood. He pelted past his friend.

  “What?” said Gregory.

  “It’s the man,” Brian answered. “The man from the train.”

  They ran for their lives. They passed the clock on the tree. It read 6:54, although the time was closer to three-thirty. The man behind them was calling, “Hey! Hey!” They looked back. He was waving. He had on a dark overcoat. Seeing they had slowed, he paced forward. “Hey!” he said.

  They stood warily.

  They did not move as he came forward. His eyes were still sunken. “I want to apologize. I really do. I recognize you from the train.”

  Brian and Gregory stared at him.

  The man held out his hand. “I’m Jack Stimple,” he said.

  “Uh-huh?” said Gregory.

  “I’m sorry about staring,” said Stimple. “I mistook you for someone else.”

  “Sure,” said Gregory.

  “I really did.”

  “Okay,” said Gregory.

  “I mistook you for someone.”

  Brian mustered his courage and said, “No, you didn’t. You…you knew exactly who we were.”

  Jack Stimple scowled. “I have trouble telling people apart,” he said. “One face. Another face. It’s all flesh.”

  “That’s your story?” said Gregory incredulously. “That’s it? We can work you up something better than that.”

  “Gregory!” said Brian.

  Jack Stimple rolled his eyes and held out his hands. “Fine! Yes. Of course I didn’t mistake you on the train.”

  “Who are you, then?” asked Brian.

  “I am here to wish you luck at the outset of the Game.”

  “Why?” said Gregory.

  “And also, to warn you that the stakes are high. You will have to play hard.” Jack Stimple stared at Brian. Reaching out and touching the knot of the boy’s necktie, he said, “You are clearly the weaker and more timid of the two. So allow me to address this to you in particular.” Brian shrank back from the man’s touch. Stimple said, “You will be in great danger. You will see things that you will wish you had not seen. You will not know where to turn. In particular, do not trust Maximilian Grendle. I suspect, for example, that he has not told you how many people have disappeared in these woods.”

  “No,” said Gregory. “How many?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact number.”

  “Are we talking below five? Multiples of ten?”

  “Why don’t I get back to you,” said Jack, somewhat tartly.

  “How did they disappear?”

  “‘Disappear’ is the wrong word, actually,” said Jack. “Their remains were found.”

  “Tell us what’s going on!” said Gregory defiantly. “What’s up with the house? And these clothes? And that clock?” he said, pointing.

  “The less you know, the more likely you are to survive,” said Jack.

  “We know about the board game,” whispered Brian. “The Game of Sunken Places.”

  “You clearly don’t know enough, Brian Thatz, or you would be home where it is safe, collecting stamps.”

  Gregory demanded, “Tell us the rules.”

  “I am not permitted to tell you anything. I’m just here to welcome you. I’m not responsible for anything that happens now.” He smiled. “Good day.”

  He walked on into the wood. They watched him go. He walked down a short rise. There was a sea of dying gold ferns there. He passed into them, holding his hands high above the fronds and spores.

  “Let’s go back,” said Brian.

  “Scared?”

  “A little.”

  “Yeah,” said Gregory. They looked around.

  Beyond Clock Corner, the path went through the Sea of Ferns and crossed a small bridge that hadn’t appeared on the game board. Neither boy wanted to go any farther. They turned away and began to walk quickly.

  They traced their way back past the mushroom ring and through the tunnel of close-knit trees. They passed the Club of Snarth and walked down the Stony Path.

  Far ahead of them, they saw Uncle Max striding through the woods back toward the house, wearing a chesterfield coat.

  They kept well behind him so he wouldn’t see them.

  Clouds were gathering over the mountains as they walked. It looked like, later in the evening, there might be rain.

  They looked at the board again, once they got back to the house.

  “There’s more on the board,” Brian said. He rubbed his nose. “Tomorrow we have a decision to make.”

  “What’s that?”

  Brian pointed. “The path splits at the Club of Snarth. We went straight today. If we keep going that way, we go across that bridge we saw—the Troll Bridge. The other way leads us to this Petroglyph Wall.”

  Gregory was sprawled on the floor, putting a china doll into kung fu positions. “So what’s the difference?”

  “Well, for one thing, right by the Troll Bridge it says, ‘Do NOT MOVE TILL YOU PLAY A RIDDLE CARD.’ ”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “And then there’s a picture of a troll.”

  Gregory scrambled to his knees and took a look.

  There, on the bridge, a menacing little cartoon troll stood. In spite of the creature’s round stomach and stick-like limbs, it appeared to possess a certain wiry power. It gripped a bloody two-handed battle-ax in its claws. It had no neck, but did have a gaping mouth filled with teeth like nails that had been banged in badly. A long, pointed, cartoon-like nose protruded between bloodshot eyes. The ears were pointed, too.

  Gregory sighed. “There does seem to be a picture of a troll there.”

  “Somehow, with everything that’s been going on, I wouldn’t be too surprised if there really was a troll.”

  “Really. Troll. Huh.”

  Brian traced the other route with his finger. “Or we can go down to the left, follow the Great Cliff, come to this Petroglyph Wall—which it looks like, has some kind of drawings on it—”

  “Drawings, we can handle.”

  “Then we can go up the Narrow Path to the Chasm of Gelt. Where Gelt the Winnower stands.”

  “I’m not…I’m not familiar with Gelt the Winnower.”

  “It looks like he’s a…creature of some kind. Wearing a loincloth. His body is pierced with all these cords. The square says, ‘Play Riddle Card or Lose Game.’”

  “What do you mean, ‘pierced by cords’?”

  “Maybe they’re coming out of him. He looks all scratched up.”

  “So,” said Gregory. “We have a decision to make tomorrow. ”

  Brian nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Some kind of decision.”

  “Or we could separate. We could go take a look at both options and then report.”

  “Gregory, this could be dangerous.”

  “It’s a game. We’re competing with someone.”

  “We don’t have to play if we don’t want to.”

  “How do you know?”

  Brian was quiet at that. He bit his lip. He said, “I guess the clock is ticking.” He held up the hourglass. The sand was draining very gradually from the upper reservoir. Slowly, inexorably, it was pooling at the bottom.

  “Yeah, so much for that,” Gregory said, and turned it over again.

  The sand didn’t change course. Grain by grain, it continued to drop upward.

  They watched the sand rise like bubbles.

  “All right,” said Gregory nervously. “Now let’s go do something else.”

  Brian simply nodded.

  For the rest of the afternoon and evening, they played pool in the game room by the light of the gas lamps while rain beat in torrents on the house and drooled down the windows. Occasionally they would look out into the darkness, where the rain stained the world charcoal gray. The
woods were wide, and moved with the wind.

  Brian stared out into the storm. “What do you think our dream could mean?” he asked. “About the mountains being covered with metal?”

  “Who knows?” said Gregory. “But if I have it again, I want to be going down the slope slalom in my wheeled outhouse. I want to be belting out The Sound of Music.”

  Brian thought he saw a figure break from the woods and come toward the house, but he could not be sure. It was too dark to tell.

  Gregory, behind him, quietly moved the cue ball so he would have a better shot at the pocket when Brian turned around.

  When the overcast morning sky was just turning white near the horizon, two dark silhouettes breathing steam trotted across the grassy expanse behind Grendle Manor. They were dressed in capes and flat tweed caps. They carried bags with food and supplies. The forest was purple in the gloom.

  “Exploring,” Uncle Max had said, meeting them on the stairs in his dressing gown before they left. “Excellent. Exploration and conquest, lads. The map in one hand, the sickle in the other hand for clearing the path, yes, the compass in another hand and the astrolabe in the…by Jove, exploration and conquest are what made this nation great. Where do you plan to go today?”

  The boys had told him they planned to split up and explore different paths.

  “It is about time,” he had said. “The weak cannot hide behind the stronger. Delight in your strength. There is no joy so great as flexing one’s musculature and preparing for the charges, sallies, and reversals of the hunt. Divided thus, your reconnaissance will cover more ground. Ah. My bath is ready.” He had turned, about to leave, when he stopped and said, “And one final thing. Don’t leave the path. It’s against the rules.” He opened the bathroom door. Steam drifted out.

  Brian said boldly, “The—the rules for what?”

  Uncle Max frowned and surveyed the boy. “Have you ever taken stock and asked yourself why you deliver all your questions in a high-pitched, strangulated sort of voice? I believe it interferes with my inner ear.” Uncle Max then slammed the door after himself.