The Game of Sunken Places Read online

  “Or maybe allegorical figures.”

  “What are those?”

  “Symbolic. You know, of death, or life, or hope. It was a big nineteenth-century thing, allegorical figures.”

  “Paper clips?”

  Brian bit his lip. “No,” he said. “I don’t—I don’t think they were a big nineteenth-century thing.”

  There were labels next to the figures, written in the same wispy, alien alphabet that the boys had seen on the newspapers in the basement.

  Brian and Gregory scrubbed away the wet dirt from the outer edge of the platform and found that the allegorical gods were surrounded by the signs of some unknown zodiac. They could make out a polar bear, a dodo, conjoined twins waving, and a lizard skeleton hung in a cage. They got down on their hands and knees and brushed to clear away more details.

  As Gregory ran his hand lightly over the chipped surface of the mosaics, he realized that the globe in the robed child’s hand was loose. It was at the center of the round floor. It looked like it would pull up easily. He quickly pulled his legs into a squatting position, wedged his fingers in the cracks on either side of the stone, and yanked.

  “Brian!” he called. “I think we’ve found the staircase. ”

  Brian came to his side and got down on his knees, and they pulled together. There was a clatter as the stone rose slightly then slammed down. They pulled again, and this time managed to slip their fingers beneath the stone before it could fall. They slid their fingers along one side of the rim and together tipped the capstone. It fell to the floor, rocking, leaving a dark hole where it had lain.

  They peered into the darkness. Brian squinted and leaned down into the gap. An uneven stone staircase led down into some dark pit beneath the mock-temple. An unlit, evidently Victorian lantern hung on an iron hook by the steps.

  Gregory was almost shaking with excitement. “This is it. We’ve found it. We’ve found the mother lode. This is big.”

  Brian nodded. “It could be good,” he said. He fumbled in the pockets of his jacket and pulled out the box of wooden matches that they used to light the gas lamps at the house. He grabbed the rusty lantern by the handle and lit the wick. The wick was still good. Black, greasy smoke slid off the flame.

  Brian gingerly placed his foot on the first step. They began to descend. They ducked their heads to avoid hitting the edge of the hole. The fire flickered across pitted stone as they left the rattle of the storm on leaves, the murky twilight, the scent of fresh rot, for the dry, blank silence of the subterranean staircase.

  The steps wound around and around, steep and treacherous. No sound besides the clatter of their hard soles on stone reached their ears. Brian, in the lead, flicked his eyes around quickly in the cramped spaces, worried by the silence and the cold.

  The stairs ended on what appeared to be a natural floor of rock. Brian swung the light around, and they saw that they had emerged in some small cavern. A slim, rocky bank led down to a motionless black river. The river led off in either direction through rough arches.

  A small boat was bobbing near the shore—a skiff of eccentric design, with a slim, tall prow and, on the back, a complicated brass motor. Brian and Gregory backed against the rock wall and stared at the still water.

  “So we look at the boat?” said Gregory.

  “Sure,” said Brian.

  They stood there without moving.

  “You go first,” said Gregory.

  “Why?”

  “I’m thinking of the kinds of things that live on the bottom of subterranean lakes. In comic books.”

  “Yeah.”

  “With tentacles. They tend to attack barbarian heroes. You know. With something called a maw that drips ichor.”

  Brian nodded. He repeated, “Ichor.”

  “Grond the Despoiler always approaches rivers like this with a two-handed broadsword.”

  They stared at the water. Brian said, “Well?”

  Gregory corrected himself. “Sorry. He’s not called the Despoiler anymore. Not since he became king of Zolaria in issue seventy-four for feats of immense physical strength.”

  Brian walked forward and went to the boat.

  Gregory said, “See, you could become king of Zolaria for your bravery alone. Given that you’re not carrying a two-handed broadsword and your only other superpower is immense malcoordination.”

  Nothing attacked.

  The motor was ornately fashioned, with the pistons molded to resemble ranks of elephants’ heads and the valves decorated with brass vines and leaves. Ivory stops and plugs were placed here and there, highlighting the well-polished network of machinery. No obvious method presented itself for steering the skiff; the only visible control was a large lever, forged to resemble a lightning bolt.

  The boat was held to the shore with two small brass chains that clipped onto hooks on the rock floor.

  Tentatively, Brian stepped onto the boat.

  “Careful,” Gregory said, and came forward. The boat swayed from side to side, and tiny ripples wandered out-ward from its gunwales.

  Gregory stepped in, and Brian dropped down to steady the rocking.

  “This could be it,” said Gregory. “This could be the way into the secret kingdom.”

  “Yeah,” said Brian.

  They inspected the motor. Gregory put his hand on the lightning bolt. “Here goes nothing,” he said, and pulled down on the lever.

  The engine flew into a frenzy of activity. The elephant heads jumped back and forth, their trunks sliding into tubes carved to resemble bamboo shoots. The mechanism rattled and chugged, and let forth a drizzle of stinking bluish-black smoke…but the boat itself didn’t move in the slightest. Gregory pushed up the lever, and the engine rumbled to a halt.

  Brian leaned over to examine the motor, thinking that perhaps there was a throttle somewhere left in neutral. “There’s—there’s no propeller,” he announced. He rolled up his sleeve and stuck his thick arm into the frigid water, groping. “There’s a hole there,” he said. “Something where you could stick the propeller. That’s it.”

  He sat up, his fingers aching from the cold, and pulled his sleeve back over his wet skin.

  After a moment’s consideration, Gregory yanked the lever all the way down. The roar of the motor filled the cavern, but the boat showed no signs of any movement besides, perhaps, a general, sickening vibration. Gregory shut off the motor and frowned.

  “Where can we find a propeller?” asked Brian.

  There was no answer. They sat for a while in the rocking boat. Then they got out, steadying themselves on the side of the skiff. They stepped out onto the shore and, with a last look at the enigmatic boat, started to climb back up the steps.

  In the cavern, the ripples slowly drifted from the craft’s sides and gradually faded away. The boat ceased to rock, and lay silent in the cavern as the boys’ footsteps grew distant and finally passed beyond hearing.

  They worried they would be scolded when they got back to the house for staying out in the rain. In fact, Prudence was the only one who seemed to have noticed they were gone. Uncle Max was standing in the rain himself, out on the lawn, with a hat on, leaning with both hands on his cane. Daffodil was polishing knickknacks. Burk was talking into the horn of an old-fashioned telephone, ordering freeze-dried chicken breasts in bulk.

  Brian and Gregory were wet and cold. Prudence rushed around arranging for bathwater to be heated for them. Gregory was getting sick, so Brian let him go first.

  Prudence poured the bathwater into the tub and asked Gregory, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Aspirin the size of Mongolia’d be nice.”

  Prudence saw Brian on the stairs. “I’m afraid he’s sick. You shouldn’t have stayed out in the rain.”

  Brian shyly said he knew.

  After dinner, Brian decided to ask about Fundridge’s Folly. He turned to Uncle Max, after the hefty old gentleman had finished a discussion of some altar railings with Prudence, and a
sked, “Um, sir, we were wondering about that old folly out in the woods.”

  Uncle Max stroked his mustache, cocked one eyebrow, and raised his eyes to think. After a moment, he muttered something inaudibly and then turned to Brian. “Hmmph. Which folly is this?”

  “Oh, I think it’s called Fundridge’s Folly. It’s across the river.”

  “Ah…oh, yes. I believe I walked there once or twice. Roman sort of a thing, was it?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Did you see the mosaics on it?”

  “Mmm, no. Don’t think so. Noticed there were some, I guess, but it was dirty. Very dirty.”

  “I was just wondering if you knew anything about when it was built.”

  “Built? Oh, I’d say…probably the end of the last century.”

  Gregory sat forward and asked, “Which last century? The twentieth century or the nineteenth?”

  “The last century,” said Uncle Max.

  Gregory insisted, “Which number century?”

  “Thirty or forty years ago.”

  “Which would make it…?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, boy. I know when the turn of the century was. I was there. You weren’t.” He said to Prudence, “I remember standing with your grandfather Cleary in his rooms in New York, all of us drinking champagne to celebrate the new century. All over the city, twelve midnight, we heard horns and buzzers. Some people had hansoms and carriages pull pots and pans. We all clapped, looking out at the lights of the city, and we all cheered, heh. I remember that. Cheering, ‘Hap-py New Year! Hap-py 1904!’” The elderly gentleman leaned back in his seat, smiling faintly. Gregory coughed.

  Brian pressed, “So do you think it was made before then?”

  Uncle Max stared at him. “Mmm, yes. Probably. That’s when those things were in vogue. Damned foolish, if you ask me—spend all that money to make a ruin.” The stern man raised a finger. “‘As a dog returneth to his vomit, so doth a fool return to his folly.’”

  “Oh,” said the freckled boy, looking down at his plate.

  Gregory said, “What a great saying, Uncle Max. Maybe you could laminate that with a photo, like as an inspirational wall hanging.”

  That evening, Gregory only felt worse. His head hurt and his nose ran. Shortly after dinner, he vomited. He knew he would not be going out to explore any more in the morning.

  They needed a propeller, anyway. They were stuck.

  They spent the evening reading. Gregory asked Prudence whether she had any books he might like. She said yes, but everything in her collection was musty and nineteenth-century. They were romances with names like Trouble in Stonking Chugly, The Primrose Void, and The Scarification of Azmodeus Thang. Gregory chose The Primrose Void. He had not read far—the parson was calling on Miss Eggleston, perhaps with a view to a June wedding—when he fell asleep.

  Brian watched from the window as Uncle Max went outside again, and this time met something tall and thin, and spoke with it. Light from the solarium lit the haze. The thing pointed with its impossibly long arms. Uncle Max laid his hand on its shoulder and tried to calm it. The thing nodded. Brian could not see its face. It wore a wide hat and a cloak. There were bumps that suggested its limbs didn’t go the places they should. They shifted beneath the coat. It was thin. Terribly, terribly thin.

  When it had finished speaking with Uncle Max, they bowed to each other. The thing walked outside the circle of light. It headed for the woods.

  Uncle Max stared after it.

  Brian stepped away from the window.

  The next morning, Brian came down to breakfast without Gregory. When he informed Uncle Max of Gregory’s illness, the man said, “Seems your generation’s demmed sickly. Pass the eggs. Medicine”—and here the gruff man paused to chew vigorously and recite some silent verse—“it softens people.” He halted to swallow, then continued, punctuating his speech with authoritative jabs of his fork. “In my day, people were hearty. Why? Because they didn’t rely on medicine to stay well, no. Had to fight disease tooth and nail to stay alive. Tooth and nail! Medicine—it makes a weak race.” Following this pronouncement, Uncle Max began to slash apart his eggs and mechanically devour them. Brian stared down nervously at his egg-filled plate, figuring it was not a good moment to ask for toast and explain that eggs made his chest feel fizzy.

  After breakfast, they sat in the nursery and worked out a plan. Brian wanted to explore, but he didn’t want to go out alone. Gregory was feeling too sick to go along.

  “We have to keep exploring,” said Brian. He pointed to the hourglass. “Look at the sand.”

  “I’m vomiting,” said Gregory. “And my head feels like it’s been hit with a sandbag.” He suggested, “You could ask your troll friend to go with you.”

  Brian agreed. He went downstairs to get ready.

  When Uncle Max saw the boy dressed in a cloak and ready to go out, he approved firmly.

  “Bravo, boy. About time you struck out on your own. Instead of sticking to your friend like a tapeworm in a dowager’s belly. Shows you may develop spine yet.”

  Brian stared at Uncle Max’s coat buttons. Finally he said, “Um, thanks.”

  So Gregory sat in the glassed-in winter garden and read The Primrose Void, muffled in blankets. He watched as Brian strolled away across the steaming grass toward the dark wood. Soon the gray of Brian’s cloak faded into the pearly mist, and Gregory turned to the novel. Lady Blytham fell sobbing at the feet of Reverend Larkwind and professed her love; he quoted an obscure passage of Azariah and turned stoically away, his firm jaw twitching. And as the honorable reverend frantically and fiercely battled his passions, Brian wandered past the Club of Snarth, through a wood cloaked in bright, silvery fog. Shafts of sunlight illuminated columns of mist.

  When Brian knocked on the door under the bridge, Kalgrash was hacking at some briars to make protective figurines. The troll dropped the bundle of thorny, brittle limbs on the table and, singing “Coming!”, leaped to the door. He swung it open with a flourish.

  They said hello, and Brian came in and shut the door, explaining that Gregory was feeling sick. “We were…uh, I was wondering whether you’d like to take a walk on this side of the river today. I don’t want to walk alone.”

  “Oh, a walk! Is it a nice day?”

  “It’s okay. Very cold.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no! Don’t worry about the cold. Trolls are entirely impervious to cold—descended from the wooly mammoth. Pass me those shears, would you?”

  Brian picked up the shears and handed them to the troll, who was intent on the sheaf of rattling briars. The troll sang, “Thank you!” and set about snapping twigs.

  “What are you doing?” asked Brian. “Do you eat those?”

  “No, no! I’m making little protective figurines. Little dolls. Out of briars.”

  “Oh. For what?”

  “They ward away the evil spirits. Zabiminech, the Dreary One, and Mabiligol, Lord of the Stag Beetles, and so on. All them.”

  “Do you actually believe in evil spirits?”

  “Once they chew up your bedsheets and kick over your table, you believe in them real quick. Ho, HO! Let me tell you, if I don’t hang up these figurines, those spirits’ll be slouching around here by noon inviting themselves over for tea, cheating at bridge, smoking up a storm, leaving the toilet seat up. Huh, HUH! No end of trouble.”

  “Oh,” said Brian.

  Kalgrash slowed his mad snipping and let the bundle slouch on the table. “Welllll…if I go for a walk, they won’t be able to find their way in even if they do show up. If we left quickly…what do you think?”

  “Yes, sure,” Brian answered.

  “Great. Hunky-dory. Ha-HA!” the troll called as he danced back through a low doorway into some other part of his warren-like house.

  A few minutes later, the troll locked his door firmly and rattled the handle to ensure that it was closed. He threw a few loops of wooly scarf around his thick neck and, next to the freckled boy, ambled up the hill.


  As the two walked over the bridge, Kalgrash explained, “Give ’em an inch, and they’ll take an ell, those evil spirits. The only good evil spirit is a completely intoxicated evil spirit. They just curl up underneath the woodstove, then. A bit of holy water in their gin and tonics and they’re out cold for days.”

  They crossed the Golden Field, and Kalgrash spread his spindly arms. “Would you look at this? Every color of the rainbow. Except blue. Or indigo.” Lemon yellows and maize reds were singeing the trees; the vibrant shades shivered in the crisp wind.

  “Oh,” said Kalgrash. “I saw your friend Balerond yesterday. ”

  “Balerond? Who’s that?”

  “You know him. Tall guy, dark coat, rings under the eyes, old hat, jerky sense of humor. Even more than your friend.”

  “You mean Jack? Jack Stimple?”

  “Balerond. That’s his name.”

  “He told us it was Jack Stimple.”

  “Tricky geezer, isn’t he?”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s a representative of the Thusser Hordes.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell us this?”

  “I don’t remember you bringing up the Thusser Hordes.”

  “Kalgrash, we need to know what’s going on. What do you know about this—this Game?”

  The troll hopped from rock to rock, his scarf trailing after him. “Uhhhhhhhh, not much. Not much, really.”

  “You must know more than you’re telling.”

  “Not really. I’m kind of stupid. I lived happily in my little abode where my father and my father’s father lived, you know, under the bridge. Then one day this guy called the Speculant came along. He knocked on my door, we had a chat, and he explained that a game was going to be afoot and that the Thussers were on the move and that I should practice being menacing, since there was a new master up at the house. So I practiced being menacing—this must be about a year ago—and then, a few weeks ago, the Speculant turned up again and said that the game was now definitely afoot, and that I had to start jumping up and using the ax. He told me the riddle—had me memorize it—and he said people had to give me the weathervane to pass. Annnnd you did, and I let you pass, and blah blah blah, there we are.”