The Game of Sunken Places

  Brian started running.

  “Mr. Thatz,” called Jack. “You can’t run. At least, very fast.” He rose and cracked his knuckles.

  There was movement in the shadows. Jack glanced that way. Gregory was running after Brian.

  It was the Speculant.

  “You can’t stop me,” said Jack. “The boy will die.”

  The Speculant slid forward. His limbs brushed and tickled the stone beneath his cloak.

  Jack held out one arm toward Brian. He whispered words. The fingers twitched and glowed. Brian ducked.

  The Speculant barked.

  There was a blast in Jack’s hand, and he was wringing out his fingers, swearing.

  Brian and Gregory were moving more quickly toward the back of the cathedral.

  The Speculant darted to Jack’s side.

  Jack kicked at him, spun, swung a fist in a roundhouse punch—but the Speculant dodged.

  Lightning-quick fingers of bone wrapped around Jack’s wrist, and twisted. Jack gritted his teeth, stumbling.

  Another hand shot up to Jack’s face. It clutched the features. It squeezed.

  Jack could not move.

  Other hands were coming out of the cloak now, plucking at a long piece of red cloth.

  “No,” said Jack. “Let’s not do this. Let’s not.”

  The Speculant was rattling his fingers up and down, winding cloth around Jack’s eyes. “Don’t,” pleaded Jack. “Stop this.”

  Jack struggled. Hands held him. He twitched. The cloth was wrapped around his mouth, haphazardly in stripes across his chest, around his legs, around an arm. The Speculant kept winding him.

  Jack Stimple could not be recognized. He had no face, but was blank, like a doll. Now he started fighting again, struggling against the cloth. He pulled it away from his mouth. His other hand was working at a pocket—with-drawing a little gilt box. He popped it open.

  As fast as he could struggle, the Speculant wound him.

  Inside the box was a pill. Jack threw it back into his throat and began coughing. “You won’t deliver me to them,” he said. His body jerked with his gagging.

  The Speculant embraced him.

  He fell.

  The Speculant held him while he grabbed and quivered.

  Finally, he was still.

  The Speculant finished winding him.

  He did not move again.

  The Speculant looked up. “Go,” he said. “You are done.”

  The torchlight bobbed on the walls.

  “Game’s over,” said Brian. “Let’s go.”

  Gregory nodded. They walked to the exit. They took torches from the wall. They glanced back to see that Jack lay still. The Speculant pulled at him. They passed out of the cathedral and crossed the square.

  A voice repeated, “Victory is with the People of the Mound of Norumbega.”

  A light above clicked and flickered. The boys shielded their eyes as the great artificial sun burst into flame in the stone sky above them. Light poured all around the City of Gargoyles, highlighting every gable and shingle.

  Ghosts were all about, oblivious to Gregory and Brian. Fanfares were playing from the balconies, and banners and tapestries were being unfurled. Trumpets blared over the city, and crowds cheered before the castle gates.

  It was the memory of another victory.

  The boys walked down into the city, toward the docks.

  People were making merry on the streets. They jabbered in cafés, they hopped around chalk circles, they embraced one another. A parade was marching down the main street, trombones and trumpets blaring. Children in school uniforms slipped through the streets, pinching and poking and pointing gleefully. People ate thick, doughy pretzels and roasted chestnuts. Several pointy-eared girls with ribbons in their hair bounced back and forth across swords in a complex dance, their hands on their hips.

  “I guess we won,” said Gregory, looking about him at the laughing, semitransparent crowds.

  Brian grinned. “Officially, I won. You lost.”

  “Okay. Now explain this to me.”

  Brian said, “Jack Stimple—Balerond—was just here to act as an operative for the Thusser or something. He wasn’t actually playing the Game. I suddenly realized that this was why he was more interested in holding me down than in stopping you. And that’s why he kept on trying to convince me to quit, before he was allowed to kill us. And that’s why he woke you up when he was climbing up to the roof—he wanted you to get the weathervane first. And earlier today, that’s why he kept throwing the discs at me. He didn’t want to hit you. You were on his side.”

  “Whoa,” said Gregory. “You quick bunny.”

  Brian smiled. It felt like the first time in a long time.

  Children licked lollipops, people threw cream pies, a boy blew a toy bugle from an open window.

  Gregory and Brian reached the dock. The boat was rocking there on the shore. They unclipped it from its mooring and, once they were settled, turned on the motor.

  “You know what?” said Gregory. “I’m glad all this happened to us. I mean, to you and me. An adventure.”

  “Yeah,” said Brian.

  “Friends for life,” said Gregory.

  Brian nodded. “Friends for life.”

  They were out on the lake, surrounded by ghostly galleons. Above the great city, fireworks exploded and bloomed, and the sun was shut off so everyone could see them.

  Brian and Gregory, sitting in their puttering boat, clapped and said, “Ooh!” and “Aah!” appreciatively for the best ones that spread through the cavern’s dome. The Norumbegans clapped and shouted in the streets, and gathered on their balconies and rooftops to watch the fireworks explode. In the darkness, girls turned to watch the light flash above the smooth faces of the boys who stood by their sides—and then put their hands over their ears to block the booms and shrieks of the fireworks.

  The finale crackled and roared near the ceiling, spreading giant squid-arms over the crowds, sending dazzling tadpoles whizzing off into the sky. Everyone cheered, and the bands struck up “The Empress Danann March.”

  The boat passed on into the Roots of the Earth. Behind, the final booms ceased to echo, though the singing and laughing and drinking went on as the streets darkened and darkened even more, the happy specters slowly fading, their voices becoming indistinct and mute in the lanes and avenues, the past receding ever further into the past.

  The City of Gargoyles was empty once again. Still streets stood beneath a black sky, the sun dead again. The courtyards were dry and cold. A body lay on the floor of the cathedral.

  The boys clipped the boat to the shore at the Dark Marina and, taking the lantern from the prow, walked up the steps. Bitter cold blasted from the open trapdoor.

  Outside, the snow had fallen thickly in the blue darkness. Great loaves of snow lay on the branches and boulders in the wood. The woods were silent, save for the patter of flakes as they dropped all around the folly.

  A sleigh, and two horses to draw it, stood waiting with Uncle Max and Cousin Prudence warmly wrapped inside. “Come along,” said Uncle Max to the boys. “Time to go home, have some dinner. Then I have a few explanations to make.”

  “That sounds like a very good idea, sir,” said Gregory as he stepped into the sleigh.

  The sleigh slid through the forest. Snow still fell softly.

  Prudence asked them, “Are you all right? I was so worried about you…”

  “We’re fine,” said Gregory quietly. “But Jack Stimple is dead.”

  “Dead? Who?” gasped the girl. “What do you mean?”

  “Yes,” grunted Uncle Max. “How did he die?”

  “Committed suicide. He fought with the Speculant. The Speculant was wrapping him up in something. Then he took a pill. It was poison or something. Because he lost,” Gregory said more softly. “Because I lost.”

  “Ha. Well. Can’t get off that easily. His people will want him,” the old man grumbled. He reached into his cape and pulled out the hor
n of an old-fashioned phone. He turned a crank and held the horn up to his ear, then his mouth. “Yes,” he said into it. “Balerond’s gone and offed himself. Yes. Make sure he’s back in shape before you bring him to the house.” He dropped the mouthpiece back into his pocket, shaking his head.

  The sleigh wound its way through the woods—down the slopes of the Haunted Hunting Grounds, through the swerving pathways of the Tangled Knolls, across the dark wood, and finally through the Golden Field to the River of Time and Shadow. Flakes fell on the black water and were swept soundlessly away on the ripples. The sleigh scraped across the bridge, the horses’ hooves clomping loudly on the boards that lay beneath the lightly packed snow.

  They bumped on, past Clock Corner, through the depths of the wood.

  The house was lit across the lawn—great trails of light led from the windows across the snow. The sleigh pulled to the front of the house, where Yockly the carriage driver waited, huddled in blankets on the veranda. He silently hurried forward to take the reins. Uncle Max stood and slapped his gloves together vigorously, then stepped out and started for the house. The others followed nervously.

  Burk and the damaged Daffodil waited inside to take the coats. Uncle Max swung his great cape off his shoulders and draped it over the butler’s arm, following with his top hat. He said to the boys, “Go up and change. Dry off. We’ll wait for you.”

  When Brian and Gregory came downstairs again and went into the dining room, they found several of the strange men sitting around the table with Mr. Grendle. All were dressed in white tie, and all had elfin ears. Most of them looked like Thussers.

  Uncle Max indicated the boys. “My nephew, Gregory Buchanan. His friend, Brian Thatch.”

  “Thatz.”

  “Not really worth correcting now,” said Uncle Max.

  One man, a bony gentleman with sunken eyes, rose and held out his wrinkled hand. “So nice to meet you at last,” he said, an ill smile on his face. “Count Azelwraithe.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Gregory.

  “Our player,” said Count Azelwraithe. “I’ve heard so much about you and your…little escapades.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “Yes, everyone’s talking about them,” he said sourly. “Please, take a seat.” He indicated two free places.

  The boys sat, looking from one oblivious face to the next, completely confused. Prudence sat, looking shyly at her plate.

  The dinner seemed to take forever. The men jabbered at one another in their runic language. No one spoke to Prudence or the boys. The servants were half-broken, the gears whirring beneath their cracked and splintered faces. When the beets were being served, Burk coldly announced that Mr. Balerond was at the door.

  The Thusser entered weakly, his limbs stiff and his dark coat littered with snow. When he breathed, there was a slight whine like that from a leaky balloon. He coughed and, in a bitter, dim voice, apologized. “I’m…so sorry to be late. You know I wouldn’t want to miss…even a minute of such…a distinguished gathering.”

  “Ah, Mr. Balerond,” said Count Azelwraithe. “So nice you could make it. Come sit by me. We have so much catching up to do. I have no idea what you’ve been up to since we last spoke. Really. No idea at all.”

  Jack Stimple shuffled across the floor to the seat offered him, pulled the chair out with several loud bumps, and managed to sit stiffly. He glowered at the boys across the table, then averted his eyes. His breathing whined, as if through a hole.

  Everyone ate.

  After dinner, the guests left. They thanked Uncle Max in their jabbering language, pulled on capes and greatcoats, and set off into the night. At the door, Count Azelwraithe bade the boys farewell as he left. “Yes, well, really. Thank you for an excellent round. So well done. It’s a pity we couldn’t stay and Play longer. Well, ‘Mr. Stimple’ and I simply must go. The Game, my dear Balerond, may be over, but the fun hasn’t yet begun.” He glared at Jack Stimple. “Thank you all for a most entertaining time. Good-bye, now.” He bowed and stepped outside.

  “Good-bye,” muttered Stimple, and he turned slowly and tromped after his master.

  “What will happen to him?” asked Gregory as Daffodil shut the front door and turned the lock.

  “Never mind that, boy. You’re like a damned journalist. Ridiculous sensationalism.” Uncle Max turned and walked into the parlor, then sank into his favorite chair by the fire. Prudence, Brian, and Gregory stood nervously in the front hall.

  “Come in!” shouted Max.

  They went in.

  “The Game is over. Sit down.” The three arranged themselves on the couch. Uncle Max lit a cigar, working his cheeks to puff smoke, and settled back in his chair. The grandfather clock slowly ticked.

  Uncle Max rose from his seat and faced the fire. He picked up the poker and prodded the logs for a bit. He drew in a breath and began. “There has always been a race that has hidden itself from the eyes of men.” With a rattle, he dropped the poker back into the stand. When he had seated himself, he continued. “Where they came from…don’t know. Seems unlikely they evolved as we did—suspect they came from another world. They lived alongside men for thousands of years, their ways and homes hidden from ours, but always just around the corner. Men called them by all kinds of names. Sometimes men mistook them for elves. Foolish mistake to make. Still. They split into various empires, spread across the world.

  “Came a time, though, when men refused to have anything to do with them. Things became difficult. One group of these Fair People set off for the New World. Maybe two thousand years ago, maybe one thousand. I don’t know. A prince of this race, Durnwyth Gwarnmore, sailed through the sky with some settlers, came and built a home on the mountaintop here. Started a new empire. Called Norumbega. The Realm of Norumbega. Before a few hundred years passed, he’d been followed to the New World by others. Most notably, the Thusser.

  “The People of the Mound of Norumbega, they were always fighting with the Thusser. Various territories were lost and gained, so forth and so on. Years went by.

  Make a long story short, the last emperor came along. Young man. The beginning of his reign seemed perfect. A golden age. The Thusser were lying low, see. The People of Norumbega had been getting more and more carefree. Paying less and less attention. The last emperor did nothing to recall his people to the crisis that was brewing.”

  Uncle Max rested his heavily lined forehead in his hand and, gazing into space, explained, “One day, the Thusser were on the march. The emperor armored the mountain itself…typical excess…metal all over the mountain, all the guard towers manned, big blunderbusses and cannons mounted on dragon-back. Ridiculous. The Thusser surrounded the mountains. Superior firepower. No interest in picnics. There was a stand-off that lasted a year or so. Very few shots fired. A siege where nothing happened. It looked like sure defeat for Norumbega. But it looked to both sides as if it would be a long and costly battle. A battle that could take years. Difficult.

  “So the last emperor of Norumbega sent a message to the king of the Thusser, saying that it would be crass to actually engage in battle. It would be very human. Which is not a compliment to these people. He proposed a Game. A sort of conditional surrender.

  “The Thusser agreed, under certain terms. Essentially, they won. The Norumbegans, their empire fell apart. They were forced to leave their homes, to flee exiled through a portal into another world. Yes, you came close to destroying yourself by following them. If you’d gone through that panel into Beyond…the Guardians stopped you in time, however. Dropping from the ceiling. Yes?

  “So the People of the Mound of Norumbega disappeared from this world, leaving their city empty, as agreed by the treaty. And it was decided that a series of matches would be played. Best of twenty. If the Norumbegans won most matches they’d get their kingdom back. Otherwise, each time they lost or forfeited, the Thusser would claim part of their territory. The Game would determine it all. The players, or the pawns, would be humans. They couldn’t be told ab
out the Game. There had to be ways of provoking them to Play. That explains a lot of what you’ve seen. Things to startle you, to get you moving. Like the dream you both had of the mountains covered in metal—quite simple, just a special kind of film. Nothing more embarrassing than Players who won’t Play. If you had left, the Thusser would have taken it as a victory—which is why I tried to keep you playing, and Jack Stimple tried to keep you running.

  “The Game is not only played by humans, it’s arranged by a human, working within the rules set out by the Thusser and the Norumbegans. Each winner sets up the Game for the next players. This time, it was decided we should come back here, back to Norumbega itself, for the five hundredth anniversary of the treaty. We repopulated the mountain. We used the flimsiness of the world wall here to create the time fluxes and so on.

  “Of course, there were some casualties. Not just people who stumbled onto something from another world. But one man who actually stumbled onto one of the rituals used to activate the time-slips and the board itself. He went mad. Starved to death. Eaten by beasties. Don’t worry about him. He won’t be missed. Real estate developer.

  “So you played. You won. Good. The Thusser have been brought to a halt for this round. The Game continues. You’ll have to continue it, Mr. Thatch—the next round will be yours to invent, when you choose. Future years, that kind of thing. Give it a rest for a while. You’re the nineteenth game of twenty. The chain of players has gone around the world, gone through the centuries. The Game has taken all sorts of forms. I’ve only heard about a few. An island of marble that floated on the sea. A kingdom of goblins that lived in empty New York warehouses and sewers—fellow thought he had to rescue some society damsel from them. She rescued him, married him, too. Let’s see…Museum whose doors were suddenly locked one day, whose exhibits kept getting stranger and stranger…a shining castle that rose from an Iowa cornfield. They go on. Generation after generation.” He said softly, “Player after Player, pawn after pawn…” He scowled, and tapped his forefinger thoughtfully against his knee.