'No,' said Prospero, crossing himself. 'If you want my opinion, I think that hell could gape and not tear him away from that cursed book. He's caught, but then maybe we are too.'
'At least, we know why he stopped chasing us,' said Roger. 'Which way is your cottage? Do you have any idea of which way it is?'
'North,' said Prospero, pointing up the dark valley. 'I think we had better go on hands and knees till we get out of this lane. And then, run like the devil for the back of the valley! Follow me.'
The two men crept along slowly, lifting their satchels and setting them down softly a few feet in front of them And, when they were in the open, behind the houses, they ran, but nothing followed them from that dark house.
The shadows of the four monoliths rose higher over them as they ran. Roger tripped on a stone and almost fell.
'Where is it? Maybe he's torn it down.'
'No... no, there it is! Just a little farther.'
There it was, a narrow wooden house with Gothic pointed windows and a steep roof. As they got closer, Roger could tell that this had been mainly Prospero's work, not Melichus'. The posts that held up the sagging porch roof were carved into beanstalks, and a few traces of the original yellow paint could be seen in the cracks. Knobby white wooden icicles dripped from the eaves, and the deep-paneled front door had an oval stained-glass inset. Up on the creaky porch, the two wizards set down their bags and stared a minute at the dark jeweled glass. Roger lit a match.
'Do you suppose that key the farmer gave you fits this lock?'
'No,' said Prospero, who was rummaging in the inside pocket of his winter cloak. 'I have carried the key to this door with me for years. When I'm looking for the key to the root cellar or the linen closet, I always come across the thing and wonder why I keep it.'
He pulled out a small iron ring full of different-size keys. Selecting a big one with a quatrefoiled handle, he placed it in the cherub-mouth of the lock plate. The door rattled open, Roger shut it after them and lit another match, and they saw the shadowy outline of a few small wooden chairs. An empty copper candlestick stood nearby on a dusty table, and Prospero stuck a lighted candle-his last one-in it.
'Well, here we are,' he said. 'Now, if I can only remember where I put that globe.'
'If it's still here,' said Roger. 'Look at the floor.'
The dusty gray boards in front of them were covered with long narrow footprints. Prospero stood looking at them. He bit his lip several times until it hurt, and he started nervously clenching and unclenching his fists.
'It was to be expected. But, he can't take it away.' His voice dropped 'At least, I think he can't. Come on. I remember where I put it, and I was the last one out.'
He grabbed the candlestick and led Roger to a corner cupboard at the back of the cottage's one large room. The round-topped door stood on a little waist-high sill, and its knob, a piece of blue-streaked porcelain, was startlingly cold to the touch. While Roger held the candle, Prospero opened the cupboard. Inside, he could see stacks of bowls and plates, last used-as far as he knew-by Melichus himself. On a separate shelf, over the others, was the green-glass paperweight. He was almost afraid to touch it, and he reached for it twice, pulling his hand away each time. Finally, he closed his fingers on it-it was colder than the knob had been-and he lowered it carefully. Roger saw that he was covering it with his hand.
'Let's light more candles,' said Prospero. 'I don't want to look at this strange little thing in the dark.'
He set the green object on a table and, with Roger, searched about until they found a bundle of candles on the mantelpiece, tied up with some rotted string. They spent several minutes sticking them in wall sconces and dishes all around the room, then lit them all. Prospero was still not satisfied, and besides, he wanted an excuse to keep him from looking at the magic globes. So, he decided to build a fire. The logs that he and Melichus had left there so long before lay near the fireplace, soft honeycombs of mushy sawdust. He kicked one and a swarm of beetles crawled out, scurrying away to find cracks in the floor. But, another log pile lay nearby, further evidence that someone had been there recently. Roger knelt in front of the black sooty-smelling hearth, laid a small fire, and struck several matches before he could get the pile of twigs to light. Prospero was pacing up and down, looking at the door.
'The globes aren't dusty either,' he said. 'And, there were marks of hands scrabbling in the dust on the shelf. What do you think? I'm afraid.'
'So am I,' said Roger, who was pumping the fire with a cracked old leather bellows. 'So am I.'
He straightened up. The fire was crackling and throwing long jumping shadows on the opposite wall.
'Well, that's that. Now, let's look at that thing on the table. Prospero! For heaven's sake, stop pacing!'
'Oh, very well. I'd feel better if he'd just burst in on us. But, he's not going to. Let's see what the globes are doing.'
They pulled two chairs up to the round oak table where the glass pyramid sat sparkling between two candles, like some strange shrine. At first, the globes were empty and transparent. A few bubbles frozen inside them made specks in the green water-shadow that floated on the table. Then, slowly, the three lower spheres began to form a picture. There was the crossroads, there were the high banks, the bare trees, the leaning stone marker, and the softly falling snow. Prospero pulled the paperweight closer and stared hard at the uppermost globe. From the pinpoint bubbles, rounded images expanded till their bowed and distorted shapes filled the whole ball, and then, they burst to let new images form. All these pictures were familiar to Prospero: his bookcase, a hatrack, a bust of some Roman dignitary. Finally, after much swirling, the ball focused on a single scene: Prospero's house, seen from the front lawn. The porch was piled with leaves, the shades were drawn as Prospero had left them, and long bands of that uncanny snow lay in curving ridges around the house. With an effort, Prospero brought the house closer, till he could see the square window in the front door. It was covered with the frost-mask, two running empty eyes, and a long howling mouth. He tried to get close enough to look in the window, but the empty face filled the glass and burst. The ball was clear and green again.
'Now,' said Prospero 'I'm going to speak to Melichus.'
Roger jumped up and put a hand on his arm. 'No, don't! You don't know what will happen if you meet face to face.'
'That's right, I don't. But, we can't just sit here fiddling with this ball while he scares the world to death or destroys it. He may not know were here, but he will soon. Anything after that is up to him.'
Roger sat down and folded his arms. 'Very well. You make about as much sense as anything does right now. But, if you need my help, just grab my hand.'
'All right. But, relax. This may take quite some time. Melichus isn't something I own or someplace I've been. He can resist if he wants to. And, he will want to. In fact, this globe may be the only way to reach him.'
Prospero put both hands on the glass and stared at it. Slowly, it began to fill with a flat blue ink, till the whole ball was blanked out. This was all that happened. For a full half hour, Prospero squeezed the ball, hammered it on the table, spoke to it, made signs over it. Nothing happened. At last, he stood up with the thing clenched in his hand. The sweat on his face shone in the firelight.
'Melichus! I call on you by the secret name you were given by Michael Scott. That is...'
He spoke the name and the room grew darker One candlestick fell over and the others burned blue. The flames in the fireplace leaped up the flue with a shriek, leaving the half-burned logs suddenly gray and cold. In the dark chilly room, the two men bent over the glass ball. It seemed to be coming apart. The glass remained intact, but the blackness inside split along a jagged line, like an egg opening to a burning white center.
The light hurt Prospero's eyes and he turned away, but when he looked again, the light was gray and sullen, like a winter afternoon. He saw an old man whose duty red eyes were sunk in wrinkled hollow caves. The thin white lips were parted and the yellow teeth were set on edge. His hand held the trembling page of a book, and Prospero could see that it was the last page. The stare that met his was not one of knowing hatred, scorn, or bitter triumph. It was much more frightening than that. What Prospero saw was the blank angry glare of an animal that has been interrupted at its meal. He could not even tell if Melichus recognized him. The two rheumy eyes focused on his for a second, and then they seemed to be looking past him. Prospero relaxed for a second, and the two halves of the egg slammed together with a boom that made him drop the glass on the floor. It did not break, but a crooked line of white was etched into the outer surface of the globe.
