The Game of Sunken Places Page 5

  And the boys had set out for the day’s exploration—Brian already looking a bit pale and shaken.

  They climbed up the Stony Path. They stopped at the Club of Snarth, faced each other, and shook hands.

  Then they parted, and went separate ways.

  Brian ducked into the tunnel that led through the Dark Wood. Gregory headed down the rambling path that would take him to the Petroglyph Wall.

  The winter birds were singing for the dawn.

  Gregory walked gingerly through the gloom. The forest was dank and misty. He wished he could whistle. He had never learned how. He found it hard to pucker.

  The wood was silent, except for his footsteps. He looked about him nervously, fearful of seeing some movement beyond his own.

  He spied a huge stone cliff through the trees. The path led straight to it, then turned to the right. Gregory stopped momentarily and inspected the sheer stone wall. It was about thirty feet high. Apparently, it continued for quite a ways in both directions. The browning leaves of trees could be dimly seen overhanging the cliff.

  Gregory continued to the north. The cliff rambled along on his left, occasionally broken by patches of limp moss.

  Abruptly, the path ended, after about ten minutes of following the cliff. There, blocking the way, sat a gigantic boulder, reaching almost to the top of the precipice. The boulder was covered with strange, spidery lines and symbols. Gregory darted forward to inspect them.

  Someone had drawn hundreds of small stick figures, mostly indecipherable, upon the face of the boulder. There appeared to be no organization to the drawings; many of the stick figures walked at right angles to each other, even walked on the sides of others of their kind. Many were obviously animals. Hundreds of them scurried like ants frozen in mid-motion across the boulder. Some of them carried spears, others carried wings or cranks. Some wore elaborate hats or crowns of some kind. Some of them chased animals, while others simply walked on top of animals.

  “This,” remarked Gregory to himself, “is quite something. ”

  Brian walked along through the forest, his gray tweed knickerbockers and cape occasionally snagging on branches around him. Every once in a while he would halt, shuffle through a small stack of belongings in a canvas bag, and pull out a well-worn fragment of paper on which he would quickly scribble down a description of his surroundings. Crows were shouting at one another in the treetops.

  By the time he reached Clock Corner, he felt a little winded and sat down, his back against the trunk of the tree. For a minute, he just watched the forest.

  Past the Sea of Ferns, he could see the little bridge over the river, which the game board called the River of Time and Shadow. He watched the bridge. Nothing stirred. Leaves floated underneath it, on the black waters.

  Many of the leaves on the trees had changed. Autumn was gnawing away at the forest behind Grendle Manor. Perfect formations of geese loped silently through the air.

  Something, suddenly, was wrong.

  He did not know what.

  His back grew rigid against the trunk; his head itched to turn, as if drawn by magnetism. He shifted his eyes hastily to the right. A dim movement flickered, just out of his line of vision—a quick glimpse of an inhumanly thin, brown hand—perhaps the flicker of dark cloth against the moss. A brief, retreating thrash.

  Brian leaped to his feet and, pulling the canvas bag after him, plunged into the bushes after the specter. He bounded through a blueberry bush, bumping briefly into a tree. When he dislodged his foot from the bush, the woods had fallen silent once again.

  With a subdued rustle of leaves, he stood, poised to move toward any slight sound. It was impossible that anyone could flee out of hearing distance in such a short time. Someone was near him. But no one could be seen. The wood was silent.

  Gregory was too far away to hear if he shouted.

  Brian felt very alone.

  The crows, far away, started arguing once again.

  Gregory found the Narrow Path tucked around the side of the Petroglyph Wall. It was steep, and wound up the cliffside.

  It was indeed narrow, only wide enough for one foot at a time. He grabbed on to the protruding rocks and heaved himself up. The path turned back on itself frequently, a series of switchbacks. Slowly, he made his way up the cliff, steadying himself by clutching at saplings and roots.

  His backpack swayed and slapped against his spine.

  At the top, he stood and looked across the forest. Leaves and branches stretched before him like a metallic fog. He wished he could see Brian, and hoped he was okay.

  Gregory turned, and saw the chasm.

  Brian sat. He stared back at the path. Mr. Grendle had said that it was against the rules to leave the path. He had to get back to Clock Corner. He could just see the clock. It read 3:20, even though it was more like 7:50.

  Four and a half hours off.

  The last time they had seen the clock, he’d noticed that it was off, too. It had said 6:50 or something, when it was really 3:30. Three hours and twenty minutes. It was off by a different amount each time. Who, he wondered, would bother to reset a clock incorrectly?

  Then, again, eyes were peering at him. He froze.

  Hoping to catch the hidden watcher off guard, he said, in as nonchalant a voice as he could manage, “Hello there.”

  No answer. He turned his head a bit to the right and, as he did so, he caught a flicker of motion in the left side of his field of vision.

  He started to his feet and glanced around frantically.

  Nothing moved in the shadows of the woods. All around him, the pines were still. His breathing slowed, and he rubbed his chest soothingly. He reached down and grabbed his canvas bag. He moved carefully back toward the path.

  With each of his footsteps, twigs snapped. He stepped on a big stick that was concealed beneath the mat of leaves—it thrashed loudly, and he looked about wildly, sure that someone was trailing him. A nagging feeling persisted, like something was plucking at his hair, a suggestion that eyes were peering intently at him. He glanced about him and reassured himself. He ignored the feeling. In the forest, a branch would skitter down from its place, and he would whirl like a compass needle, then turn back to the path and hurry onward.

  Eyes were on him. He could feel it.

  He broke into a panicked run.

  Gregory stood carefully on a spine of rock. Behind him was the drop-off of the cliff and the Petroglyph Wall. Just beyond his toes was a massive split in the rock, at least ten feet wide, a seismic crack that led deep down into darkness. A pine tree grew by its lip, warped and leaning out over the pit.

  Gregory crouched down and peered into the shadows.

  He caught a glint of light.

  Here and there on the granite faces there were long, snaking fibers of metal, thin as wire. Now that he looked carefully, there were ten, twelve, fifteen or so of them. They all radiated out of the chasm.

  He reached down to touch one.

  As Brian stumbled out at Clock Corner, unsure whether to go forward or back, breathing heavily, he caught sight of someone stalking toward him, wearing black.

  Brian stepped behind the tree trunk.

  A voice came to him, “I see you, Thatz!”

  Jack Stimple.

  Brian stepped out.

  Jack was wearing a top hat and a dirty overcoat. “I’m not going to eat you,” he said scornfully.

  “Why are you—why are you following me?” Brian demanded.

  “I’m not,” said Jack.

  “You are. All morning. I’ve felt it.”

  Jack shrugged. “Wasn’t me. I have other concerns.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “Probably the Speculant.”

  Brian stopped for a moment, startled to get an answer. “Who?” he said.

  “The Speculant.” Jack adjusted his top hat. “Come with me,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to take your arm,” said Jack. He stepped forward and grabbed Brian near
the shoulder. “Come with me. This will just take a second.”

  “No!” said Brian. “What? No!”

  Jack was propelling him down the hill toward the Dark Wood.

  “What are you doing?” asked Brian. “Mr. Stimple!”

  “There are worse things than the Speculant, Mr. Thatz,” said Stimple. “Come with me.”

  Brian started screaming for help.

  “That won’t do anything,” said Stimple. “You’re in Vermont.”

  Brian screamed again. He tripped and fell on the slope. Jack lifted him by his armpits. Brian tried to go limp. Jack dragged him down toward the black trees of the Dark Wood. Brian’s heels left furrows in the pine needles.

  “It was, perhaps, a tactical mistake,” said Jack, “to wander around without your friend.You could resist more effectively and efficiently if your friend were here.”

  Brian was slugging Jack in the stomach, tripping along.

  “See, this is just one example of the kind of strategic error that makes you highly unsuited for the Game you’re playing. Stop struggling. I’m giving you advice.”

  He set Brian up on his feet.

  “There are monsters, Brian Thatz. It’s all right to be a coward.”

  Brian yanked himself loose and ran past Jack.

  “Don’t go that way,” said Jack.

  Brian hurtled past the clock tree.

  “Come back here, Brian Thatz!” shouted Stimple, and Brian heard Stimple running after him. “Come back!”

  Brian was almost down by the River of Time and Shadow. Huge faces of rock supported the mossy banks on either side. The bridge across the ravine was made of wood and stone. The river poured by below it.

  Brian surveyed the bridge in front of him—and heard the footfalls behind him.

  He started to run forward.

  Brian heard the clunk of his foot hitting the first plank. He did not know why, but he slowed.

  Jack stopped on the hillside and carefully backed off.

  Brian was on the end of the bridge.

  For a moment, the birds sang.

  Then there was a war-like shout, bloodcurdling and almost hoarse in its ferocity. A spindly being flung itself up on the bridge from beneath. A spindly being that was squat like a kettle. A spindly being with glowing red eyes and a vast mouth of pointed teeth. A barbed tail flicked impatiently on the bridge behind it.

  In its hands it clutched a massive, blood-stained battle-ax.

  Gregory stretched his finger toward the silver cord that snaked across the rocks.

  His eye traced it back down into the crevasse.

  He straightened up again.

  “Ha,” he said. “What do you think I am? Stupid?”

  He gave one last glance into the darkness, then turned around the way he had come, and climbed down the cliff. He was headed for home.

  Brian did not know what to do when faced with a troll. He tottered on the bridge.

  Every nerve was hissing. He could feel his face getting paler.

  His hands opened and closed. He clenched the wood of the railing.

  What he thought about was the ax. What it would feel like, moving through his organs. How sharp. What it would feel like, hitting the bone with a wet thud. The bones hidden inside of him.

  He thought about how things would fall out. Nothing could stop them from falling out.

  The troll bent its knees and lowered its head between its gaunt shoulders. It grinned and stepped toward him.

  Brian backed off the bridge.

  The troll, in a rasping voice, croaked, “Give me. Give me.”

  “You see,” called Jack, “the kind of thing with which you have to contend? It really is too much for you. I would assert that death, really, is inevitable.”

  “Give me,” said the troll.

  “What does it want?” choked Brian.

  “Your organ meats,” said Jack. “I would recommend you back away farther.”

  Brian stepped backward unsteadily. Then, mustering his courage, Brian looked the troll in the eyes. “What do you want?” he asked.

  And the troll straightened up, and recited,

  “Bird of the air,

  I answer the gust.

  With a long, sorrowed groan

  I go where I must.”

  Then the troll repeated, “Give me.”

  “The bird of the air?” said Brian.

  The troll nodded.

  Brian looked at Jack, who was squinting up at the sun.

  Brian looked back at the bridge. The troll leaped on top of the railing, its thin arms wheeling. It teetered there for a moment, its claws flexing and unflexing around the wood, then it swung itself down into the ravine and disappeared from sight.

  “Ah,” said Jack. “Ah, yes. This is all a very disappointing touch. It points to a real lack of imagination on the part of those who devised the Game. The troll, the bridge, the riddle. Very unimpressive, don’t you think? We’ve seen it all before.” He started to walk away. “It makes one weary. I’ve walked through so many worlds. Trolls, bridges, riddles. Riddles, bridges, trolls.” He shrugged.

  Brian stood stock-still. His heart was starting to slow down.

  Jack said, “Don’t look at me like I’m trying to abduct you. I’m leaving. I just wanted to keep you out of danger. I told you before. Things are deadly here. People disappear. There are spaces between worlds in this wood. Things fall and don’t stop falling. Things walk out of stumps.”

  Brian was still shaken. He managed to say, “What do you mean—what do you mean about worlds?”

  “Mr. Thatz, this discussion isn’t worth my while. Run home, tell your friend what you’ve seen. And tell him to stay away from the Chasm of Gelt the Winnower. Gelt moves very quickly. He’s what we call limber. He doesn’t give any second chances. In any case, Mr. Thatz, it’s clearly time you headed back to Boston.”

  “What is the Game? Who’s playing?”

  “Not listening,” said Jack.

  “Are we playing against you?”

  Jack Stimple blocked his ears. “Not listening,” he said. He turned and walked away, his hands over his ears, singing, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout. This is my handle, this…”

  But before he even finished the line, he had disappeared into the woods.

  Gregory was sitting on the Club of Snarth, waiting for Brian to reappear.

  “What did you find?” asked Gregory. “I found the petroglyphs. They were little drawings all over this boulder.”

  Brian walked over to the fallen tree and sat down heavily.

  “And,” said Gregory, “I found the chasm. It looks like there’s some kind of trap. I didn’t touch it. There’s all of these thin wires.”

  Brian stared speechlessly at the ground.

  Gregory shoved him gently. “Hey. Hey, bruiser…you awake? Smell the sweet rolls and chitlins, son. You see anything interesting?”

  “Yeah,” said Brian.

  “What’d’ you see?”

  Brian was quiet a long time before answering. “A troll,” he said.

  “A troll.”

  “A troll,” repeated Brian.

  And he told the story.

  Later that afternoon, Brian was watching out the window when he saw Uncle Max come out of the woods. The old man was dressed in a chesterfield coat and twirling a cane at birds.

  Gregory read from a list they had been making. “So our guesses about the troll’s riddle go like this:

  Not really a bird. (That would be too obvious.)

  Probably inanimate (at least by now—otherwise it couldn’t be gotten to give to the troll).

  Something that’s been around for a while, since the troll knows about it.

  Something portable?”

  Outside, the wind was picking up, and it had started to rain again. It was a prickly, dismal rain.

  The nursery, however, was cozy. Lumps of coal were burning in the grate. The room was warm. Downstairs, Prudence was practicing the piano. She played
some hair-raising sonata. It sounded like a riverboat captain in love.

  Gregory read the list again. “Inanimate. Old. Portable. Any ideas?” he asked. “Other than my granny?” He tapped his lips with the end of the pencil.

  Suddenly, Brian nodded. “Yeah. I have an idea. There was a stuffed bird in the basement. Inside that bathing machine.”

  “Hey…,” said Gregory, nodding, smiling, impressed. “Good thinking. Let’s go.”

  They scrambled to their feet and went to the door.

  Brian said, “Oh… One thing… Could we not split up again, okay? If we can avoid it?”

  “Sure thing,” said Gregory. He tapped himself on the chest. “Stick with Poppa. Poppa will protect you.”

  Brian stared at him. “It was a troll,” Brian said. “I’m not a coward.”

  Gregory fiddled with the doorknob behind his back. “I didn’t say you were.”

  “People have been…never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Jack Stimple and your Uncle Max…they’ve been saying that I’m somehow…I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” said Gregory. “All right. I’m not saying anything. I made a joke. We’ll stick together, okay?”

  “People…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  They waited. Finally, Brian said, “Let’s…let’s go down and find the answer to that riddle.”

  Gregory put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. He stared down at the lawn. There, beneath the clouds, Uncle Max was spinning in circles, looking at the mountains.

  They entered the basement with the caution of archaeologists stepping into a sacred tomb. There, the two boys set to work lighting the gas lamps with the matches. Soon, three flames lit the sepul-chral chamber.

  The maid yelled down, “You shouldn’t be in there. Poking around. You’ll do yourselves a ghastly damage.”

  “Thank you,” Brian called up to her politely.

  “Just ignore her,” said Gregory.

  “You can’t just ignore someone,” said Brian.