Wrath of the Grinning Ghost (6 page)

"Please, Roderick," scolded Dr. Coote with mock severity. "Go ahead, Johnny."

Closing his eyes to imagine the strange writing and drawings, Johnny described the odd book as well as he could. Dr. Coote listened with a look of concentration on his thin features, nodding encouragingly now and then and sometimes tapping the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. When Johnny finished, the elderly man shuffled through a thick stack of papers in his folder. "Let me see, let me see," he murmured. "Hmm. Yes. Was it anything like this?" He handed Johnny a slick sheet of photostat paper.

Johnny took it from him. The photocopy showed a page of strange cursive writing, with a peculiar plant rising through the words. The plant's roots spread out along the bottom edge of the page, its stem rose and curved to the left, and from it hung flowers that looked like church bells. Johnny had studied Latin in school, and the letters looked a little like the old-fashioned Latin manuscript letters used by monks in the Middle Ages. The markings were not real letters, though, and they made no sense. "It was sort of like this," said Johnny. "The letters were different, though. Some of these look like
a
's and
o
's, but the letters in the book that I saw didn't resemble any alphabet I know of. Where did this come from, Dr. Coote?"

"From the Voynich Manuscript," answered Dr. Coote. "The original is hand colored and is actually rather attractive, in a bizarre sort of way. This black-and-white copy really doesn't do it justice."

Professor Childermass pounded his fist on the desk. "Charley! You're a scholar, not some kind of art critic! What in thunder
is
this manuscript? You never tell a story the right way! Begin at the beginning!"

Dr. Coote smiled and coughed again. "Well, Roderick, that is a bit difficult to do. You see, no one really knows where the true beginning, well, begins. In this century, the manuscript was discovered by a man named Wilfrid Voynich. He found it at the Jesuit college of the Villa Mondragone in Frascati, Italy, and purchased it in the year 1912. He published a description of it in 1921, and not long after that he made photostatic copies available to scholars. No one who has seen the manuscript has ever been able to read it or even to make a guess about who wrote it, or when. Some people believe it may date all the way back to the English scholar and magician Roger Bacon, who lived in the late 1200's. Clues in the manuscript suggest that it is in some kind of code, but no one can even determine the language in which it is written, much less decode the message. It has been a deep, dark mystery ever since Mr. Voynich discovered the work."

"And where does that leave us?" asked Professor Childermass.

Dr. Coote shrugged. "Nowhere, I'm afraid. There are other peculiar books from the medieval period with strange symbols in them, but most of these have to do with alchemy and magic. What Johnny describes sounds much more like the Voynich Manuscript than anything else—that is, an herbal."

"Terrific," snarled the professor. "We have no clues at all."

"What is a—an herbal?" asked Johnny.

Dr. Coote answered him: "An herbal is simply a description of plants. The Voynich Manuscript includes some pictures of anatomy too, along with other things, but a large part of it is taken up with drawings of various flowers and other kinds of flora. Except the plants pictured are not of this world."

"Oh, wonderful," growled the professor, his face getting redder by the second. "What world are they from, then? Martian melons? Plutonian plums? Moon mushrooms?"

"Now, now, Roderick." Dr. Coote shifted uneasily in his chair. His mild face took on an expression of vague worry. "The truth is, no one knows what strange realm of time or space may be pictured in the Voynich Manuscript. Perhaps it is totally imaginary. Or just possibly, it is a place that one could not reach by automobile, ship, or airplane. It may be another, ah, region altogether."

"Peachy," muttered Professor Childermass. "Just peachy. Well, if we can't get there by streetcar, I'm not planning to go! Now, have you anything to suggest, Charley? Anything practical, that is?"

"Only the obvious." Dr. Coote gave Johnny a sympathetic smile. "It would help if I could actually examine this book. Unfortunately, I gather the chances of that are slim."

Johnny felt as if he were letting his friends down. He hung his head. "I don't know where it is," he said in a small voice.

"Well,
I
think—" began the professor, only to be cut off by a sharp ring from the telephone downstairs. "Drat! Let me see who that is, and it had better not be a wrong number!"

While he was gone, Dr. Coote said, "One thing might help. You say the manuscript you found was bound like a book. Describe the binding for me."

Johnny did his best. When he had finished, the old man said, "The binding was probably done late in the last century. The kind of marbled paper you describe was frequently used in bookbinding from about 1880 on. From your description, though, the pages inside the binding sound as if they are much older. Perhaps even medieval. Were they regular paper?"

"I think so," said Johnny slowly. "They didn't look like parchment."

"Possibly vellum," reflected Dr. Coote.

Professor Childermass came back into the study, a smile of satisfaction on his face. "John," he said, "that was the post office. They are holding a package for me. My friend in New York sent it C.O.D. for some reason. Would you be willing to ride your bicycle into town and pick it up for me?"

"Sure, Professor," Johnny said, rising from his chair.

Professor Childermass took his wallet out and pulled a five-dollar bill from it. "This will more than cover the postage, and you may keep the rest for your trouble. Bring that package back, and we'll see if there is another way of understanding exactly what happened to you in Florida."

It wasn't a long ride to the post office. Johnny stood in line at the barred window and asked for the professor's package. After paying the C.O.D. charges, he pocketed the change and lifted the package from the counter. It was a rectangular box perhaps a foot long by six inches wide and six inches deep. It had been wrapped in brown paper and tied with green cord, and it was fairly heavy, a couple of pounds at least. A red-bordered address label had the professor's name and address on it, with the return address listed as "P. Shellmacher, 1291 Stuyvesant Circle, New York."

Wondering what could be inside the package, Johnny climbed aboard his bike and zoomed across town to Fillmore Street. He found Professor Childermass and Dr. Coote still in the study, Dr. Coote sitting with his knees drawn up so his thin legs looked like an elderly, angular cricket's, and the professor pacing impatiently back and forth. "Aha!" exclaimed Professor Childermass as Johnny entered with the package. "Now let's see if this helps."

With an air of deliberate mystification, Professor Childermass took the box from Johnny, placed it on the desk, and used his penknife to cut the cords. He tore the brown paper away, revealing a cardboard box, its lid Scotch-taped shut: Grunting in irritation, the professor sliced through the tape and opened the box. He took out something wrapped in layer after layer of white tissue.

"For heaven's sake, Roderick," said Dr. Coote. "Is this like one of those Russian dolls, with another doll inside it, and another inside that one? Does the wrapping go on forever?"

"No, Charley," returned Professor Childermass tartly. "It ends right here!" He ripped away the tissue paper, revealing a shiny black statuette of a falcon.

Dr. Coote's shaggy eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "What in the world is that supposed to be?" he demanded. "The Maltese Falcon?"

"This happens to be a statue of Horus, a god of Upper and Lower Egypt," responded the professor haughtily.

Leaning close to the figure, Dr. Coote peered at it for a moment. Then he straightened and said querulously, "It isn't authentic."

Professor Childermass blushed. "Well, no. This is only a replica, made of Bakelite. A company in New Jersey turned 'em out by the carload back in the twenties, when there was a big fad of Egyptian art and decorations. My friend in New York City scoured the antique stores before she found this."

Dr. Coote blinked at the professor. "I don't see what it—wait a minute.
She?
Roderick, you old rascal, who is this woman of mystery?"

"None of your beeswax," said Professor Childermass. "She is an old and trusted friend, and that is all you need to know."

Johnny was itching to know why the professor had ordered the statuette. He asked, "Professor, is this about Brewster?"

Professor Childermass caught himself, smiled, and said, "Indeed it is, John. As you see, this is about a half- size reproduction of the Horus statuette I found in Egypt—"

"When were you in Egypt?" asked Dr. Coote suspiciously.

"For two hours in the late afternoon of March fifteenth, 14 B.C.," retorted the professor. "The weather, in case you are wondering, was dry. We went to Egypt in the Time Trolley, which you know about. I'll tell you the story one day. However, now I want to try a little experiment."

With a smug, confident expression, the professor picked up the nine-inch-tall figurine. He held it by the base and lifted it to his mouth as if it were a microphone. Slowly and distinctly, he said, "Roderick Childermass calling Horus! Roderick Childermass to Horus! Come in, Horus! Over!"

Dr. Coote's jaw dropped almost all the way down to his chest. He stared at the professor, then at Johnny. He asked, "Is Roderick playing some practical joke, or should we wrestle him to the floor and call for a straitjacket?"

"Charley, please!" said the professor. "I have to concentrate!" To the statuette, he said, "Horus! Brewster! If you have something to say to us, confound your feathery hide, do it now! This is Roderick Random Childermass calling Horus, also known as Brewster the Rooster! If you're there, talk to me!"

"Really, Roderick, what you're holding is
not
a sacred relic, but just a cheap—" began Dr. Coote.

He never finished. With a sudden, enormous crack! a bolt of lightning sizzled just outside the study window, turning everything to a dazzling white. Spots danced in front of Johnny's eyes. An instant later, thunder shook the whole house, and then rain began to pour in torrents.

Johnny had yelped in alarm at the lightning bolt. His ears rang from the thunder. Dr. Coote leaped from his chair, his eyes wild. "The day was perfectly clear!" he shouted. "Where did this storm come from?"

Professor Childermass grimaced. "Not so loud, Charley!" He turned and glared out the window at a world that had suddenly turned gray with rain. "I hope my calling Horus didn't have anything to do with—"

"Look!" said Johnny with a gasp. He pointed his shaking finger at the windowsill.

Streaky red liquid crawled over it. It looked horribly like blood.

"A rain of blood!" roared Dr. Coote. "Like one of the plagues of Egypt!"

Johnny's teeth chattered. The strange rain somehow was creating a picture. It was much sharper and clearer than a TV picture, and it seemed three-dimensional. A craggy-faced man smiled at him, seeming almost real. "That's Dad!" Johnny exclaimed.

Then a terrible thing happened. The major's eyes grew wide and frightened. He opened his mouth and screamed, though Johnny heard no sound. And his face tore apart. His body burst open, like a cocoon splitting. From inside it emerged a creature whose flesh was dark green, like an insect's. It had huge faceted eyes and a human mouth set in a look of hateful triumph. It pushed the body of the major away, and it stood swaying like a gigantic praying mantis, its pincer claws ending in humanlike fingers with sharp, long nails clenching and unclenching.

Suddenly, hard rain drummed on the window, normal rain. The terrifying vision blurred, melted, and ran. In an instant it had dissolved.

"What in the name of heaven?" whispered the professor. "The rain is stopping. It's over!"

Johnny swallowed. The rain had ended with unnatural swiftness, as if someone had turned off a gigantic shower in the sky.

Again the telephone downstairs rang, and again the professor hurried to answer it, leaving Johnny and Dr. Coote in the study. Dr. Coote mopped his face with a handkerchief. Then he reached out a shaking hand, picked up the falcon figurine, and studied it. He looked on the bottom of the base, adjusted his spectacles, and read, "Made in Grover's Mill, New Jersey." He sniffed and set the statuette down. "You wouldn't think a little thing like this would—"

He broke off as the professor's voice came from downstairs, its pitch and volume rising at the same time. "Now, Henry!" he bellowed. "Be calm. You have to be calm! Let's all be VERY CALM!"

Johnny said, "He's talking to Grampa!" He jumped out of his chair and hurried downstairs, with Dr. Coote clattering close behind him. He saw Professor Childermass hang up the phone and then slump against the hallway wall. "Professor!" Johnny said, alarmed. "What did Grampa want? What's wrong?"

The professor turned slowly, his face pale. In a low voice, he said, "John, I am very sorry. It's bad news."

"What?" Johnny asked, feeling cold all over. "What is it?"

The professor took a deep breath. Reluctantly, he said, "I'm afraid—well, John, I—" he gulped, squared his shoulders, and finished, "I'm afraid it's about your father."

CHAPTER SIX

"Gravely ill."

The haunting words kept repeating themselves over and over in Johnny's brain as the airliner descended above a mountainous landscape. When the airplane's tires hit the runway with a bump-bump bump! the rhythm seemed to echo "gravely ill." It was like a tune he couldn't get out of his mind. A frightening, threatening tune.

For those two words were the message that Gramma and Grampa Dixon had received from the Air Force. Major Harrison Dixon was gravely ill. It was hard for Johnny to believe that the long-distance telephone call had happened only a day ago. Professor Childermass had taken charge at once, arranging for airline tickets for himself and Johnny. He pointed out that there was nothing that Kate and Henry Dixon could do, that the trip might be an exhausting one, and that he would try his best to arrange for Major Dixon to come home. They agreed at last, after the professor promised to stay in touch by phone every day.