The Dark Secret of Weatherend (3 page)

After the frightening experience that they had just had, Miss Eells and Anthony didn't feel much like ice cream. So after barreling along down the road for three or four miles, Miss Eells stopped and made a U-turn, and they went roaring back the way they had come. As they passed the Weatherend estate Anthony noticed that the dog was no longer there. On they went, full speed, until they were back at the Rolling Stone branch library again. Miss Eells nosed the car into a parking space, turned off the motor, and heaved a deep, disgusted sigh. "Well, my friend," she said dryly, "we had ourselves quite a little adventure, didn't we? Only it turned kind of sour at the end. Can you imagine the
nerve
of that creep? Waving
at us as if we were long-lost friends and then turning the Hound of the Baskervilles loose on us! Whoever he is, I hope he and his dog both catch the mange and spend the next six weeks scratching themselves silly." She smiled at Anthony. "Ah, well," she added gently, "we did get away, didn't we?
I
'm really sorry that I dragged you up to that place.
I
had no idea that anything like
that
would happen!"

"It's okay, Miss Eells," said Anthony. "You didn't know there was anybody up there. Who do you think that guy was, anyway?"

Miss Eells shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea. Maybe the old dump has a new owner after all these years. But come on—let's go have some ice water and wash our faces and hands. And we'd better call your mom and tell her that you'll be home in a little bit. I'll drive you back." In a lower voice Miss Eells added, "Don't forget to bring that box with you. After all the trouble we went through to get it, I'm dying to see what's inside. It may be old Borkman's laundry lists, but... well, who knows? It might just be
more
interesting."

Miss Eells and Anthony got out of the car and went into the library. They washed up, and Miss Eells peeled off her shredded stocking and threw it away. Then, dabbing gingerly at her leg with a wet washcloth, she cleaned the cuts and put Mercurochrome on them while Anthony took two Coke bottles out of the refrigerator, filled a couple of tall glasses with ice cubes, and poured
refreshing drinks for himself and Miss Eells. While they were resting they occasionally glanced at the metal box that Anthony had pulled out of the hole in the floor, which was lying between them on the desk now. It was dented and covered with grime, and it certainly didn't look very much like a treasure chest.

Miss Eells took a long drink of Coke and sat back. "Didn't think I could run like that, did you?" she said, grinning. "Well, I'll have you know that I used to run in the Hoosac Women's Cross-Country race, until the year when I stepped on a sewer grate and sprained my ankle. By the way, when are you going to open up that stupid box?"

Anthony put down his Coke glass and pulled the box toward him. He pried at the lid, and it opened immediately. Inside was a small book with a limp black pebble-grained cover. It looked like a prayer book. When he flipped open the front cover, Anthony saw these words:

The Testament of J. K. Borkman, or

A Disquisition Concerning the Inwardness of Things, and

How the World May Be Altered And the Clouds Made to Do Your Bidding

Quickly Anthony flipped the page. He saw more handwriting, all neat and orderly, running from the top to the bottom of the blue-ruled leaf. The writing said:

Incense and offerings before the throne of the Most High, and seven candles lit to the seven thrones of knowledge, and the four thrones of the bringers of lightning, hail, wind, and snow. How I will laugh, when I have brought low those who mocked me! Jupiter the Hurler of Bolts stands again in the temple. A roaring wind shall sweep aside Unbeliever and Fool, and the slate will be wiped clean, so that life may begin anew....

Anthony stopped reading. With a puzzled frown on his face he reached across the desk and handed the book to Miss Eells. She flipped back to the title page, and then quickly scanned the lines that Anthony had read. Miss Eells turned a page, and another. She arched her eyebrows and wrinkled up her nose, as if she were smelling Limburger cheese. Finally she heaved a big sigh and tossed the book down onto the desk.

"Lord love a duck!" she exclaimed. "I have never read such insane bibble-babble in my life! I hope that old Borkman had fun doing this, because I'd hate to think he was
serious!
And who do you suppose this Pam character is? An old girl friend, maybe?"

Anthony was thoroughly bewildered. He had only read the first page, so he didn't know what Miss Eells was talking about. "Huh? Who's Pam?"

Miss Eells reached out and picked up the book again. She flipped to the middle and held the page up so Anthony could see it. Across one whole sheet, in straggling letters, was written the name
PAM.
Then

Miss Eells turned to another page. The letters were almost as big here, and the message read:

PAM UNDER THE CRACK OF NOON

Miss Eells turned some more pages. She held up the book once again and showed Anthony some more words, scrawled diagonally across two whole leaves this time:

Question: does the sonorous bus go ______-______?

Miss Eells pitched the book onto the desk. She shook her head slowly and frowned. "That sure does take the burnt cookie!" she muttered. "I knew old J.K. was dotty, but I guess I didn't realize quite
how
dotty he was!" Miss Eells laughed suddenly. "Hah! I wonder if Mrs. Oxenstern would like this book for our library? She could put it in the Rare Book Room—I'm sure it's the only one of its kind in existence!"

Anthony didn't laugh. He just looked pouty and stared at the desk. He had hoped they'd found a real treasure, not just junk. Why couldn't the box have contained a letter by William Shakespeare? He had read somewhere that a genuine Shakespeare letter would be worth a million and a half dollars, if anyone ever came up with one. This crummy book was worth about three cents. And for that they had nearly gotten eaten alive!

Miss Eells glanced at her watch and announced it was
time to go. Anthony got up. He stared dejectedly at the objects on the desk.

"Whaddaya think I ought to do with these, Miss Eells?" he asked, pointing.

Miss Eells shrugged. "Suit yourself. If I were you, though, I'd pitch the box and save the book. Who knows? Some day a notebook kept by the famous eccentric J. K. Borkman may be worth some money."

Anthony took Miss Eells's advice. After throwing the box in a wastebasket and tucking the book under his arm, he helped Miss Eells turn out the lights and lock up the library. Anthony went out behind the building and got his bike. He put it in the trunk of Miss Eells's car and tied the trunk lid down with some old bicycle inner tubes that Miss Eells carried around with her.

As they sped away Miss Eells and Anthony did not notice the black Packard that came rolling up out of the leafy hollow behind the library. It slowed down and halted as it drew near the crossroads, and for several minutes it just sat with its motor idling. Then the car turned right and headed on up the road toward Hoosac.

The rest of August passed uneventfully. Mrs. Trombly got better and went back to her job at the Rolling Stone library, and Miss Eells happily returned to her job in Hoosac. September came, and Anthony started as a freshman at Hoosac High School. And amid all the hurry and confusion of the new school year, he quickly forgot
about the strange adventure that he and his eccentric friend had had.

One chilly evening in the middle of September, Anthony was sitting at one of the long tables in the East Reading Room of the Hoosac library. He had finished shelving books, and now he was trying to catch up on his homework. Except for Miss Eells and himself the library was empty. She was sitting at the main desk and reading the Hoosac
Daily Sentinel.
Suddenly she let out a loud exclamation.

"Good heavens!"

Anthony looked up. He was startled to hear loud talking in the library. "Huh? What is it?"

Miss Eells beckoned to Anthony. "Come over here, my friend, and you'll see. It has to do with the little incident we were involved in last month. Weird things are going on around Hoosac."

Anthony got up and walked over to the desk. Miss Eells had the paper spread out flat in front of her, and with her forefinger she tapped a headline that read
old estate to be renovated
. Above the story was a photo, and with a shock Anthony recognized the place where it had been taken: it was the weedy, overgrown garden at the Weatherend estate! But the garden looked different now. The bushes had been pruned, and the overturned stone benches had been set back in place. The broken statues had been repaired, and heads had been put on the two stone sphinxes that crouched at the top of the staircase.

"My gosh, Miss Eells," exclaimed Anthony. "Somebody's fixing the old place up!"

"Yes, my friend, somebody certainly is," she replied, and she gave Anthony a strange, unreadable look. "Well, go on. Read the article underneath. It's fascinating, in a way."

Anthony looked down at the story that went with the picture and read:

Lovers of architecture and historical preservationists will be delighted to learn that the estate of Weatherend, on the Winona Post Road six miles south of Rolling Stone, is going to spring to life again. It has recently been revealed that A. Anders Borkman, the son of J. K. Borkman, has returned from a lengthy stay in Norway and will take up residence in the house that his father built. Mr. Borkman plans to completely restore and renovate the mansion and its grounds. He is independently wealthy and a collector of antique statues and other art objects. When Weatherend has been restored to its former grandeur, Mr. Borkman plans to organize guided tours and is also slated to give lectures on architecture and sculpture at Immaculate Conception Academy. Those in the Hoosac area who remember the elder Mr. Borkman will be interested to know that his son has brought back to the estate the collection of barometers and other meteorological instruments....

Anthony stopped reading. He turned to Miss Eells with a frown on his face. "My gosh!" he said. "Do you think that's the guy who waved at us before he turned his dog loose?"

Miss Eells took off her glasses and rubbed at the bridge of her nose with her fingers. "Could be. Or it might have been one of his pals—if he has any. This whole business really amazes me. I can't imagine that J. K. Borkman had a wife and son. It's... well, it's sort of like Dracula settling down to be a restaurant owner in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It's very, very unlikely. But the son is here, and he seems—God help us—to be following in his dear old daddy's footsteps. You'd think he could find something better to do with his time than to imitate that old creep."

Again Anthony looked at the photograph. An odd thought had occurred to him. "Do... do you think he'll do anything with those statues that we found in the garage?"

Miss Eells smiled wryly. "Oh, he'll probably set them up in some place of honor. For all I know, they may be wonderful examples of modern sculpture. Ah, well. Let's leave Mr. Borkman and his unfriendly dog and his crazy statues. There are other weird things going on in the Upper Mississippi Valley." She turned the page. "Did you know that there has been a rash of break-ins lately? In Catholic churches?"

Anthony stared. He hadn't heard about this.

"Mm-hmm," Miss Eells went on, nodding. "And do you know what they've been stealing? The
altar stones!"

Again Anthony stared. His folks didn't go to church, so "altar stones" meant nothing to him.

Miss Eells laughed. "Ah, I can see you didn't grow up in a Catholic household like I did! In the center of the altar in a Catholic church there is usually a flat stone with five little red crosses cut into it. Under each cross a relic is buried. Relics are pieces of the bones of saints, like a chip off of Saint Anthony's shinbone or a chunk of Saint Agnes's skull. Why anyone would want to swipe an altar stone is beyond me. Maybe it's somebody who hates Catholics or who thinks the relics will bring him good luck. And..."

Miss Eells's voice trailed off. She sat up straight in her chair, listening.

Anthony glanced this way and that. "What is it? What's wrong?"

And then he heard it. A rattling noise. Something was clattering against the windows of the library.

"Hail!" said Miss Eells suddenly. "It's hail!" She jumped up and ran into the East Reading Room, with Anthony right behind her. Grabbing the metal handles on one window sash, Miss Eells tugged. The window opened, and Anthony saw little white bits of ice jumping on the stone ledge. In a flash he thought of the craggy unfinished statue with the word
Hail
on its base. And for no particular reason, he felt afraid.

Toward the end of September there was another hailstorm, but it was much wilder and stranger than the first one. Out in the countryside around Hoosac hailstones the size of golf balls were reported. They dented the hoods and roofs of cars and killed chickens in hen yards. A few people got caught out in the open when the storm hit, and they were bruised and badly frightened by the big balls of ice. With the hail came lightning—lots of it, sizzling blue and red and white bolts. Trees were set on fire, and lightning rods on the roofs of barns and houses melted. In one farmhouse a glowing blue ball of electricity rolled up the front steps, ripped the screen from the front door, and wadded it into a smoldering mass of half-melted metal. Wild winds uprooted trees and flung them across roads, and loud peals of thunder boomed and reverberated in the hills. Even the older people in the area could not remember a storm that was quite so violent or bizarre. Then came the tornadoes. On October 5 a violent electrical storm hit the Hoosac area. There were high winds, and at least five tornadoes were sighted. One of them roared through a graveyard near La Crosse and gouged deep, raw gashes in the earth. It reopened old graves and threw rotten coffin wood and bones all over the cemetery. And again there was vivid colored lightning, with red and blue fireballs rolling down roads and across fields.