The Dark Secret of Weatherend (17 page)

Mr. Johnson grinned. "Aw, forget it. I got my truck offa the sidewalk last night, only it's kinda bunged up. It'll hafta stay here in the shop for a while. So I rented a pickup. I'm gonna drive over an' see my sister in Superior this mornin' an' then I'm hittin' the road fer home. You guys like a ride back, wouldja?"

This was really too good to be true. Miss Eells smiled delightedly and said that yes, of course, they'd love to have a ride back, at least as far as Eau Claire. So off Mr.
Johnson went, cheerfully whistling "Yon Yonson." He would be back a little later to pick them up.

After he left, Miss Eells went to the front desk of the hotel and bought a newspaper so she could read about the storm. Then she and Anthony went to the dining room and gorged themselves on blueberry muffins, scrambled eggs, and coffee. Miss Eells was in a wonderful mood. She chattered a lot, spilled coffee, and read aloud the newspaper reports of the wild snowstorm that had raged across a large part of Minnesota and Wisconsin on the previous night. But Anthony was silent and moody. Now that the awful crisis was past, he focused on an immediate problem. In order to help Miss Eells, he had run away from home, and his mother was likely to set some kind of Olympic world's record for ranting and raving. What kind of punishment would she give him? Would he have to quit his job at the library? Would his parents drag Miss Eells into court and charge her with kidnapping? And amid all this brooding Anthony found himself thinking about Emerson Eells. What had happened to him? The ghost, or whatever it was that had pretended to be Emerson, was gone. But the real Emerson still had not materialized. Where was he? Anthony looked across at Miss Eells. She was buttering a piece of toast and leafing through the newspaper. She was not acting like somebody who was getting ready to put a black mourning band on her arm.

"Miss Eells," said Anthony suddenly, leaning across the table and poking his friend's arm.

"Yes, Anthony? What is it?"

"I was just wondering. I mean, what do you think happened to Emerson? We haven't seen him since he—"

Miss Eells cut Anthony off with a wave of her hand. She smiled knowingly. "If I were you, Tony, I wouldn't worry about Emerson. I think it's likely that Anders Borkman imprisoned him when we tried to invade his domain. Borkman had lots of chances to kill us back at the estate, but he didn't. I don't know why; maybe there was some rule that he couldn't kill anyone while achieving his grand goal. At any rate, now that Borkman is dead, all the knotted and twisted webs of sorcery that he wove will come untied. At least that is what I'm hoping. You see, Emerson explained this spell-casting business to me once. He said—"

A busboy appeared behind Miss Eells. "Is your name Myra Eells, ma'am?" he asked politely.

Miss Eells turned and looked at him. "Yes, it is. Why?"

"There's a phone call for you. You can take it at the front desk."

Miss Eells was startled for a second, but then she grinned and winked at Anthony. "Betcha a dollar it's Emerson," she said gaily, as she jumped up. "Betcha a hot fudge sundae at the Blue Moon ice cream stand."

Anthony shook his head. "No bet," he said.

A few minutes later Miss Eells was back. Breathlessly she reported that the call was indeed from Emerson. He was calling from her house, where she had left a note for him. He had been imprisoned at Weatherend ever since
the day of the bungled break-in, but when Borkman was destroyed, Emerson found himself standing in front of the mansion. He took off running down the road and then heard this terrific explosion from the direction of the cedar grove. The four statues were being blown to glory. He made his way down to the gate and found his truck there. So, he just hopped in, started the motor, and zoomed off to Hoosac.

"Darnedest story I ever heard," said Miss Eells, shaking her head. "If I hadn't seen what I've seen in the last few months, I'd have called my dear sweet brother a liar." She sighed resignedly and sipped at her cold coffee. "He's waiting at my place, and do you know what he's doing to kill time while we drive back? He's going to clean my house! Says it's a filthy, unsanitary mess. Imagine—my own brother!"

After they had finished breakfast, Miss Eells went out to the front desk of the hotel to ask about the room she had reserved. It turned out that it had been given to someone else, who needed shelter from the storm. But that was okay with Miss Eells, since it meant that she didn't have to pay for it. Now there was nothing for her and Anthony to do but sit in the lobby and wait for Mr. Johnson to show up. They didn't have long to wait. Soon he came loping in, still whistling his favorite tune, and off they went in his pickup truck. When they got to Eau Claire, Miss Eells borrowed a car from him, and she and Anthony drove back to Hoosac. On the way home they put together a story about Anthony's disap
pearance. It went this way: Anthony had had an attack of amnesia, and he had wandered out of the house in the middle of the night. Somehow he caught a train to Minneapolis, and Miss Eells had run into him up there during the snowstorm while she was doing some Christmas shopping. He had been hiding in a hotel lobby, and he had seemed thoroughly confused. This was not terribly believable, but it was the best they could whip up on short notice. As it turned out, the story was gratefully accepted by his parents. His mother thought Anthony had left home because of the fight they had had, and she had been feeling guilty and worried ever since his disappearance. She was so glad to see him that she accepted this ridiculous story without any questions, and Anthony got lots of hugs and several big sloppy wet kisses. And of course his dad and Keith were very happy to see him home, safe and sound. So that problem was solved.

On the evening after his return Anthony got a phone call from Miss Eells. To his astonishment she told him that she had been reinstated at the library! When he had recovered from the shock, he asked her how that had happened.

"I'll tell you later," said Miss Eells smugly. "There are several secrets that need to be unraveled, and tales that need to be told. But first Emerson has got to go up to Minneapolis to do some research. So here's what we'll do: if the weather obliges us and turns cold again, we'll meet in three days' time and have an ice skating party on
Lake Hoosac. How about Saturday afternoon at two o'clock? Of course, I'll be seeing you before that at the library, but let's not talk about the reinstatement and all the other stuff you're wondering about. Ask me no questions until three days from now," she teased.

"Okay," said Anthony, and he went on talking with Miss Eells for some time. But he was in a state of shock. How, after what she had done, had she gotten herself back in? Well, he'd just have to be patient and wait for the answers to come.

Three days passed, and the weather turned cold again. Lake Hoosac had thawed after the storm, but three days of zero weather froze it right back up again. On the designated day Anthony arrived at Lake Hoosac with his skates slung over his back. Everyone was there, racing and whirring on steel skate blades. Near the snack bar stood Miss Eells and Emerson. Miss Eells was wearing her usual padded blue jacket and an old aviator's helmet with flaps that tied down under the chin. Emerson was clad in an immaculate powder-blue Alpine hooded jacket, perfectly creased gray trousers, and an enormously long scarf of blue and orange striped wool that was wrapped several times around his neck, the ends hanging almost to the ground. He wore no hat, but there were fuzzy blue earmuffs over his ears. The two of them had their skates on, and they were red-faced and sweating. Both were drinking cocoa from chipped china mugs, and they were looking very cheerful and relaxed.

"Hi, Anthony!" called Miss Eells, and she waved happily. "I've been skating for half an hour, and I only fell down three times. How about that, eh?"

Emerson stumbled forward on his skates and gave Anthony a hearty handshake. He looked a little tired around the eyes, but he had regained that bouncy, slightly arrogant air.

"Greetings, Anthony!" he said. "Myra's been telling me how you helped her, and I must say I always knew you were a tough, tenacious character. I'm proud of you."

Anthony hung his head shyly. "It's good to see you too, Mr. Eells," he mumbled, staring hard at the snowy ground.

Miss Eells tottered forward and kissed Anthony on the cheek, slopping the cocoa she had in her hand. "Oh, darn it all anyway!" she grumbled, looking down at the chocolaty hole that had been burned in the snow. "I ought to know better than to get emotional when I've got hot liquid in my hand. Anthony, we've got a thousand and one things to tell you. Why don't you wait here till Emerson and I get out of these skates, and then we'll all go sit on that old sleigh over there."

Anthony said that sounded fine and he waited for them. Then they all walked over to the dusty old antique sleigh that had been brought down to the lake to serve as a wintertime decoration. Miss Eells and Anthony got into the back, and Emerson climbed into the front seat.

"Well!" said Emerson, turning halfway round and peering owlishly at Anthony over his shoulder. "How does it feel to be a savior of the world? Eh?"

Anthony stared.
Savior of the world?
What on earth was Emerson talking about? "I didn't do anything to stop the storm. It just... sorta happened."

Emerson shook his head slowly. "No, my fine young friend, it did
not
just sorta happen! When you touched that place where the missing finger bone had been on J. K. Borkman's hand, Anders was summoned to the tomb chamber. He had to come—and when he did, he was destroyed."

Emerson smiled in a smug, infuriating, know-it-all way. "I can understand your being confused," he said. "I was confused myself at first. But I've done a little research in the last three days, and I think I understand it all now. In the first place Borkman knew you were going up to the cemetery. He was telepathic, and he could read other people's minds from far away. So he knew you were going up there to try to stop the storm. Naturally, he didn't want you to mess up his plans. So he sent the fake Emerson up there to track you down and dump you in the wilderness to die. Not that he was really
terribly
worried about you—he felt that he was invulnerable. And in many ways he was. If you had shot bullets at him or attacked him with a meat cleaver, he would have been totally unharmed."

Anthony gaped. "Really?"

"Yes, really. You see, Anders Borkman wasn't human.
He was a creature who had been created by old J. K. Borkman's sorceries. I know you'll find this hard to believe, but Anders was made from the old man's finger bone! He was supposed to finish the job that his creator had started. So he set up the four stones and began the magic rituals. He didn't think he had anything in this world to fear—but he was wrong. He had forgotten about the Blood of Hailes."

Miss Eells threw Anthony a sidelong glance, and she grinned. "Don't tell me you don't know what the Blood of Hailes is," she said sarcastically. "I thought
everybody
knew about that!"

"Well, everybody
should
know!" said Emerson, folding his arms and looking superior. "If children spent more time learning obscure facts and less time watching television, the world would be a better place. But I'm getting off the subject. The Blood of Hailes was a relic. It was owned by the Abbey of Hailes, in Gloucestershire, England. As I told you before, in the old days people venerated relics. Abbeys and churches actually owned things like the skull of Saint John the Evangelist or a bone from Saint Luke's forearm. But the Abbey of Hailes had a very special relic that had been given to it by the Duke of Cornwall in the year
1270.
It was a small glass vial that contained some of the blood of Jesus."

Emerson paused dramatically and stared at Anthony, who was utterly flabbergasted.
"Really?"
he said again.

Emerson shrugged. "Who knows? It was an object with very great magical powers—of that I am certain.
And I am also fairly sure that J. K. Borkman thought the relic was authentic. I found his account of it in a collection of his private papers at the University of Minnesota. It seems that he bought it from a crooked antique dealer in a town not far from the ruins of Hailes Abbey. The Blood of Hailes was supposed to have disappeared when Henry VIII broke up the abbeys and monasteries back in the
1540
's. Whatever the thing was, it's gone for good now. When Anders Borkman touched it, it was like what happens when you put hydrogen and oxygen in an electrolysis chamber—
blooey!
It's a shame, really, that the Blood of Hailes didn't survive. I'd have loved to hold it in my hands."

"Think you'd have been safe from it?" asked Miss Eells, in a needling tone. "Sure you wouldn't have gotten zapped, like old Uglypuss?"

Emerson snickered.
"My strength is as the strength of
ten
,
because my heart is pure,"
he said. "Never fear, sister mine. I would not have gotten pulverized. Nor would you have. Even Mrs. Oxenstern, as unpleasant as she is, would have been safe. The Blood of Hailes—like most talismans—would only spring to life when it came in contact with a thoroughly evil force. In this case the evil force was so utterly, totally demonic that the two destroyed each other."

Anthony stirred in his seat and wrinkled up his forehead. As far as he was concerned, there was still a lot in this business that didn't make sense. "Mr. Eells," he said hesitantly, "how come old Borkman left the tube behind?
I mean, if he really wanted his plan to succeed, wouldn't he have smashed it with a hammer or something? He even left clues about how to find the tube. Why would he do a thing like that?"