The Beast Under the Wizard's Bridge (6 page)

The bubbles trailed away. A ghastly stench rose, a sick, faintly sweet scent of rotting flesh and mildew. But from the way the old man cackled and capered, it might as well have been the fragrance of roses.

*  *  *

The morning after his terrible dream, Lewis went to Mass with his uncle. St. George's Church was a small stone building with oversized stained-glass windows showing the Stations of the Cross. Its priest, Father Michael Francis, was a short, slight man with big round spectacles, a soft, calm voice, and a cheerful disposition. Usually Lewis found comfort in the ritual of the Mass, but that Sunday he sat beside his uncle wondering if Jonathan really trusted him. The thought that maybe he didn't made Lewis despondent. As they left the church, Lewis paused to say an
ave
, a short prayer, and to light
candles for the souls of his mother and father. Riding back home in the old Muggins Simoon, he resolved to prove himself worthy of being trusted.

The rest of the day passed normally enough. On Monday, Lewis told Rose Rita that he was afraid Uncle Jonathan was upset with them, but he didn't spell out exactly why. Lewis felt bad enough on his own. He didn't need to plunge Rose Rita into sorrow and uncertainty as well.

Rose Rita had heard enough, though, to want to help. “We could start,” she suggested, “by finding out about this red meteor that whomped into old Clabberhead's farm back in 1885. In a quiet little town like New Zebedee, I'll bet something like that made the news. Come on.”

Lewis followed her to the public library. They went down to the basement, where back issues of the town newspaper, the
New Zebedee Chronicle
, were stored. The papers had been bound into huge volumes with crumbling maroon covers and gilt numbers that had faded and flaked so much, they were hard to read. Some volumes were missing altogether, especially ones during the Civil War years, 1861 to 1865. Both of the volumes for the year 1885 were on the shelf, however, and Lewis and Rose Rita pulled down the second one, which ran from July to December.

“Mrs. Zimmermann said the meteor hit in December,” said Rose Rita, carefully turning the yellowed, brittle pages of the old newspapers. A thin dust rose, tingling in Lewis's nostrils and smelling faintly like sage.

Lewis saw the old papers had no photographs at all, just occasional engravings. Many of these were for ads selling such things as New, Improved Cultivators or kerosene stoves. Rose Rita got to the papers for December, and they began to scan through each one, looking for news of the meteor.

They found it at last in the paper for Tuesday, December 22, in a story on page one. Lewis and Rose Rita leaned over the paper, their heads close together, and read:

“Huh,” said Rose Rita. “They didn't take it very seriously at the time, did they?”

“Maybe the story's written that way because the reporter was glad no one actually got hurt,” replied Lewis. “I guess something like a meteorite smashing to the earth would be pretty scary. People would naturally feel relieved after it ended and they were all right.”

“Maybe so,” agreed Rose Rita. They turned more pages, and in the obituary column for Wednesday, they found an entry for Jebediah Clabbernong. It didn't say very much: “Jebediah Clabbernong, farmer, passed from this life suddenly about midnight on December 21. Services will be private.”

That was it. The rest of the December papers had no stories about either meteors or Clabbernongs. Lewis brooded as Rose Rita closed the big volume. Something was rattling around in his memory. “Hey,” he said. “Isn't December twenty-first the shortest day of the year?”

“Right,” said Rose Rita. “It's the solstice, the first day of winter. That's the shortest day and the longest night of the whole year. And tomorrow's the first day of summer, which has the longest day and the shortest night of the year. So what?”

“Maybe it means something,” said Lewis. “It could be that old Jebediah did some magic that called the meteor to earth that night. You know, witches and wizards can cast their strongest spells only on certain days of the year. Uncle Jonathan can eclipse the moon, but not just at any old time. All the stars have to be in the right places. And even then, the eclipse isn't a real one. It's only good for about a square mile or so.”

Rose Rita tapped her fingers on the library table. “You may be right,” she said slowly. “I don't know how you'd find out for sure, though. I mean, if you don't want to check with your uncle or with Mrs. Zimmermann—”

“Gosh, no,” said Lewis quickly. “They might think
I'm meddling just by reading all these old newspaper stories.”

Rose Rita pushed her chair away from the table. “Okay. I think you're probably off base, but I know this whole thing is really bothering you. How about this: Why don't we go check out that old farm?”

Lewis felt as if his stomach had suddenly frozen. “I—I don't know,” he stammered. “It—it's way out of town, and, and—”

“We could get there on our bikes in a couple of hours,” coaxed Rose Rita. “We've gone that far plenty of times. If we left early, like at seven in the morning, we could be there no later than nine or nine-thirty. Maybe we could go on Saturday. That'd give us a couple of days to get ready for the trip. Then we could poke around at the farm for a few hours, have a picnic, and ride back, with nobody the wiser.”

Rose Rita was right. Still, Lewis's chest felt as if a giant hand were gripping him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. After the awful things he had overheard his uncle say, he dreaded even the thought of that sinister, blighted farm. “Wh-what d-do you think we'd f-find there?” he faltered, stalling for time.

“The place where the meteorite hit,” replied Rose Rita. “Or a book of magic spells. Or a Captain Midnight Secret Decoder Ring. Who knows? One thing's for sure, though. We won't find a single solitary thing unless we try.”

Lewis swallowed, trying to gulp down a painful lump
in his throat. “Are you sure we should go? It's a horrible place. Aren't you scared?” he croaked.

Rose Rita gave him a sickly smile. “I'm scared, all right,” she confessed. “But it will be in the daytime, we'll be together, and we'll run like rabbits if anything bizarre happens. I promise.”

Lewis's head spun. More than anything, he wanted to reassure himself that his uncle loved him and trusted him and would never send him away. This scheme of Rose Rita's might help him to do that—or it might cause everything to come crashing down, like the grotesque cage in his nightmare. Lewis wished he had more determination and gumption. He wished he could act decisively, like Rose Rita, and not dither and worry about everything before it happened.

He forced himself to speak calmly. “Okay. I'll go. But if anything happens—”

“We run,” promised Rose Rita. “Like rabbits.”

“Like rabbits,” Lewis repeated, and so it was settled.

At dinner on Wednesday evening Lewis asked his uncle if he and Rose Rita could go for a long bike ride. Jonathan, who had been serving himself some mashed potatoes, paused. “Why, I suppose that would be all right,” he said. “Better now than in July, when the temperature is guaranteed to hit a hundred and fifty and you could fry up a bacon and egg breakfast on the sidewalk.” He spooned the mashed potatoes into his plate. “And speaking of food, I'll buy some sandwich fixings. No sense in you two starving to death out in the countryside, like the Donner Party.”

So Lewis and Rose Rita planned their expedition for the following Saturday. However, on Friday, Lewis woke to find the morning stormy. Low, ragged gray clouds
whipped through the sky, fitful gusts of wind whistled in the eaves, and hard, brief spatters of rain struck the windows. Lewis secretly felt a deep relief. If this kind of weather held, then the bike trip was off, and he really didn't want to go.

Toward noon a thunderstorm broke, the kind that Uncle Jonathan called a “frog choker.” Sheets of lead-colored rain drummed on the roof. Crackling streaks of lightning sizzled and flashed, and booms of thunder rattled the windows and made the floor vibrate. For about three minutes a hailstorm pounded New Zebedee. There were so many round pellets of ice the size of marbles that bounced and cracked on the ground that the yard almost looked as if there had been a June snow. The hail ended abruptly, but the rain, lightning, and thunder grew even worse.

Jonathan sat in the study with an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. His attention was focused on some book of magic. Usually thunderstorms scared Lewis, but this one seemed a deliverance. He went to the stairway in the south wing of the mansion and sat on the landing, staring at the changeable stained-glass window. It was no longer a scarlet warning sign. Instead it showed a simple white farmhouse at the end of a yellow lane leading through green fields. A white bird flew over the roof, the only object in a cheerful blue sky.

Lightning made the oval picture flare bright now and then. Despite the storm, the peaceful scene the window pictured gave Lewis a feeling of serenity. Maybe he was
all worked up over nothing. Since the prospect of a trip out to the Clabbernong farm seemed remote, he felt as if a heavy weight had been taken off his shoulders.

A deafening crash of thunder made even the stairs shake. The electric lights flickered to a dull orange, then went out. Instantly, the staircase became a gloomy shaft of darkness. Lewis hurriedly sprang to his feet and dashed up to the second floor. He rushed into his room and threw himself on his bed. One of his aunts had always told him you were safe in a thunderstorm if you were lying on a feather bed.

Lewis did not know if his mattress had feathers or foam rubber or lobster whiskers inside. He didn't even know if what his aunt said was true or just one of her superstitions.

But superstition or fact, Lewis felt a little more secure in his bed. He lay there while the storm raged outside. He glanced at his clock. With a strange sensation of revulsion, he saw that the iron rivet once more shimmered with those ghostly colors. In fact, the colors were brighter than ever. Each time a bolt of lightning flashed, they flared up, as if the electricity in the air gave them more energy. Looking at the rivet, Lewis could hardly tell that it was made of solid iron. Its surface was a swirling, flowing, pulsing mass of color.