When the overcast morning sky was just turning white near the horizon, two dark silhouettes breathing steam trotted across the grassy expanse behind Grendle Manor. They were dressed in capes and flat tweed caps. They carried bags with food and supplies. The forest was purple in the gloom.
“Exploring,” Uncle Max had said, meeting them on the stairs in his dressing gown before they left. “Excellent. Exploration and conquest, lads. The map in one hand, the sickle in the other hand for clearing the path, yes, the compass in another hand and the astrolabe in the…by Jove, exploration and conquest are what made this nation great. Where do you plan to go today?”
The boys had told him they planned to split up and explore different paths.
“It is about time,” he had said. “The weak cannot hide behind the stronger. Delight in your strength. There is no joy so great as flexing one’s musculature and preparing for the charges, sallies, and reversals of the hunt. Divided thus, your reconnaissance will cover more ground. Ah. My bath is ready.” He had turned, about to leave, when he stopped and said, “And one final thing. Don’t leave the path. It’s against the rules.” He opened the bathroom door. Steam drifted out.
Brian said boldly, “The—the rules for what?”
Uncle Max frowned and surveyed the boy. “Have you ever taken stock and asked yourself why you deliver all your questions in a high-pitched, strangulated sort of voice? I believe it interferes with my inner ear.” Uncle Max then slammed the door after himself.
And the boys had set out for the day’s exploration—Brian already looking a bit pale and shaken.
They climbed up the Stony Path. They stopped at the Club of Snarth, faced each other, and shook hands.
Then they parted, and went separate ways.
Brian ducked into the tunnel that led through the Dark Wood. Gregory headed down the rambling path that would take him to the Petroglyph Wall.
The winter birds were singing for the dawn.
Gregory walked gingerly through the gloom. The forest was dank and misty. He wished he could whistle. He had never learned how. He found it hard to pucker.
The wood was silent, except for his footsteps. He looked about him nervously, fearful of seeing some movement beyond his own.
He spied a huge stone cliff through the trees. The path led straight to it, then turned to the right. Gregory stopped momentarily and inspected the sheer stone wall. It was about thirty feet high. Apparently, it continued for quite a ways in both directions. The browning leaves of trees could be dimly seen overhanging the cliff.
Gregory continued to the north. The cliff rambled along on his left, occasionally broken by patches of limp moss.
Abruptly, the path ended, after about ten minutes of following the cliff. There, blocking the way, sat a gigantic boulder, reaching almost to the top of the precipice. The boulder was covered with strange, spidery lines and symbols. Gregory darted forward to inspect them.
Someone had drawn hundreds of small stick figures, mostly indecipherable, upon the face of the boulder. There appeared to be no organization to the drawings; many of the stick figures walked at right angles to each other, even walked on the sides of others of their kind. Many were obviously animals. Hundreds of them scurried like ants frozen in mid-motion across the boulder. Some of them carried spears, others carried wings or cranks. Some wore elaborate hats or crowns of some kind. Some of them chased animals, while others simply walked on top of animals.
“This,” remarked Gregory to himself, “is quite something. ”
Brian walked along through the forest, his gray tweed knickerbockers and cape occasionally snagging on branches around him. Every once in a while he would halt, shuffle through a small stack of belongings in a canvas bag, and pull out a well-worn fragment of paper on which he would quickly scribble down a description of his surroundings. Crows were shouting at one another in the treetops.
By the time he reached Clock Corner, he felt a little winded and sat down, his back against the trunk of the tree. For a minute, he just watched the forest.
Past the Sea of Ferns, he could see the little bridge over the river, which the game board called the River of Time and Shadow. He watched the bridge. Nothing stirred. Leaves floated underneath it, on the black waters.
Many of the leaves on the trees had changed. Autumn was gnawing away at the forest behind Grendle Manor. Perfect formations of geese loped silently through the air.
Something, suddenly, was wrong.
He did not know what.
His back grew rigid against the trunk; his head itched to turn, as if drawn by magnetism. He shifted his eyes hastily to the right. A dim movement flickered, just out of his line of vision—a quick glimpse of an inhumanly thin, brown hand—perhaps the flicker of dark cloth against the moss. A brief, retreating thrash.
Brian leaped to his feet and, pulling the canvas bag after him, plunged into the bushes after the specter. He bounded through a blueberry bush, bumping briefly into a tree. When he dislodged his foot from the bush, the woods had fallen silent once again.
With a subdued rustle of leaves, he stood, poised to move toward any slight sound. It was impossible that anyone could flee out of hearing distance in such a short time. Someone was near him. But no one could be seen. The wood was silent.
Gregory was too far away to hear if he shouted.
Brian felt very alone.
The crows, far away, started arguing once again.
Gregory found the Narrow Path tucked around the side of the Petroglyph Wall. It was steep, and wound up the cliffside.
It was indeed narrow, only wide enough for one foot at a time. He grabbed on to the protruding rocks and heaved himself up. The path turned back on itself frequently, a series of switchbacks. Slowly, he made his way up the cliff, steadying himself by clutching at saplings and roots.
His backpack swayed and slapped against his spine.
At the top, he stood and looked across the forest. Leaves and branches stretched before him like a metallic fog. He wished he could see Brian, and hoped he was okay.
Gregory turned, and saw the chasm.
Brian sat. He stared back at the path. Mr. Grendle had said that it was against the rules to leave the path. He had to get back to Clock Corner. He could just see the clock. It read 3:20, even though it was more like 7:50.
Four and a half hours off.
The last time they had seen the clock, he’d noticed that it was off, too. It had said 6:50 or something, when it was really 3:30. Three hours and twenty minutes. It was off by a different amount each time. Who, he wondered, would bother to reset a clock incorrectly?
Then, again, eyes were peering at him. He froze.
Hoping to catch the hidden watcher off guard, he said, in as nonchalant a voice as he could manage, “Hello there.”
No answer. He turned his head a bit to the right and, as he did so, he caught a flicker of motion in the left side of his field of vision.
He started to his feet and glanced around frantically.
Nothing moved in the shadows of the woods. All around him, the pines were still. His breathing slowed, and he rubbed his chest soothingly. He reached down and grabbed his canvas bag. He moved carefully back toward the path.
With each of his footsteps, twigs snapped. He stepped on a big stick that was concealed beneath the mat of leaves—it thrashed loudly, and he looked about wildly, sure that someone was trailing him. A nagging feeling persisted, like something was plucking at his hair, a suggestion that eyes were peering intently at him. He glanced about him and reassured himself. He ignored the feeling. In the forest, a branch would skitter down from its place, and he would whirl like a compass needle, then turn back to the path and hurry onward.
Eyes were on him. He could feel it.
He broke into a panicked run.
Gregory stood carefully on a spine of rock. Behind him was the drop-off of the cliff and the Petroglyph Wall. Just beyond his toes was a massive split in the rock, at least ten feet wide, a seismic crack that led deep down into darkness. A pine tree grew by its lip, warped and leaning out over the pit.
Gregory crouched down and peered into the shadows.
He caught a glint of light.
Here and there on the granite faces there were long, snaking fibers of metal, thin as wire. Now that he looked carefully, there were ten, twelve, fifteen or so of them. They all radiated out of the chasm.
He reached down to touch one.
As Brian stumbled out at Clock Corner, unsure whether to go forward or back, breathing heavily, he caught sight of someone stalking toward him, wearing black.
Brian stepped behind the tree trunk.
A voice came to him, “I see you, Thatz!”
Jack Stimple.
Brian stepped out.
Jack was wearing a top hat and a dirty overcoat. “I’m not going to eat you,” he said scornfully.
“Why are you—why are you following me?” Brian demanded.
“You are. All morning. I’ve felt it.”
Jack shrugged. “Wasn’t me. I have other concerns.”
“Then who was it?”
“Probably the Speculant.”
Brian stopped for a moment, startled to get an answer. “Who?” he said.
“The Speculant.” Jack adjusted his top hat. “Come with me,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m going to take your arm,” said Jack. He stepped forward and grabbed Brian near the shoulder. “Come with me. This will just take a second.”
“No!” said Brian. “What? No!”
Jack was propelling him down the hill toward the Dark Wood.
“What are you doing?” asked Brian. “Mr. Stimple!”
“There are worse things than the Speculant, Mr. Thatz,” said Stimple. “Come with me.”
Brian started screaming for help.
“That won’t do anything,” said Stimple. “You’re in Vermont.”
Brian screamed again. He tripped and fell on the slope. Jack lifted him by his armpits. Brian tried to go limp. Jack dragged him down toward the black trees of the Dark Wood. Brian’s heels left furrows in the pine needles.
“It was, perhaps, a tactical mistake,” said Jack, “to wander around without your friend.You could resist more effectively and efficiently if your friend were here.”
Brian was slugging Jack in the stomach, tripping along.
“See, this is just one example of the kind of strategic error that makes you highly unsuited for the Game you’re playing. Stop struggling. I’m giving you advice.”
He set Brian up on his feet.
“There are monsters, Brian Thatz. It’s all right to be a coward.”
Brian yanked himself loose and ran past Jack.
“Don’t go that way,” said Jack.
Brian hurtled past the clock tree.
“Come back here, Brian Thatz!” shouted Stimple, and Brian heard Stimple running after him. “Come back!”
Brian was almost down by the River of Time and Shadow. Huge faces of rock supported the mossy banks on either side. The bridge across the ravine was made of wood and stone. The river poured by below it.
Brian surveyed the bridge in front of him—and heard the footfalls behind him.
He started to run forward.
Brian heard the clunk of his foot hitting the first plank. He did not know why, but he slowed.
Jack stopped on the hillside and carefully backed off.
Brian was on the end of the bridge.
For a moment, the birds sang.
Then there was a war-like shout, bloodcurdling and almost hoarse in its ferocity. A spindly being flung itself up on the bridge from beneath. A spindly being that was squat like a kettle. A spindly being with glowing red eyes and a vast mouth of pointed teeth. A barbed tail flicked impatiently on the bridge behind it.
In its hands it clutched a massive, blood-stained battle-ax.
Gregory stretched his finger toward the silver cord that snaked across the rocks.
His eye traced it back down into the crevasse.
He straightened up again.
“Ha,” he said. “What do you think I am? Stupid?”
He gave one last glance into the darkness, then turned around the way he had come, and climbed down the cliff. He was headed for home.