“Yes.”
“Huh. Funny that kind of thing would catch on.”
“I think it was some kind of martial arts device.”
“Hate to think what he could do with a Slinky.”
Brian frowned. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Calm down,” said Gregory. “It’ll be fine. Hey, the junk food’s on me.”
He ordered a Coke and a bag of Funyuns. Brian ordered some fries. They sat for a while on the swiveling stools, waiting for Uncle Max, peering through the windows. The man with the dark-rimmed eyes had walked off down the street, without even turning to look at them.
The elderly man who ran the place picked up a sugar dispenser and wiped the green, speckled counter beneath it. “You watching for someone?”
“Yeah,” said Gregory. “My uncle.”
“Oh. Ah. He live up here?”
“Well, yeah. I guess he lives on the outskirts of town.”
“Mm. What’s the name?”
“Maximilian Grendle,” said Gregory. “We’re going out to his house.”
The thin old man slammed down the sugar and looked at the two penetratingly. As he spoke, the crags in his face shifted and darkened. “I’d get…you just go now and get on that train and go back to wherever you came from.”
Brian glanced up, surprised.
“What?” said Gregory. “What do you mean?”
“If you’re smart, you’ll leave. No one in Gerenford would go near that place,” said the old man. He added, finally, “No one.” He scratched the inside of his ear. “This summer, real estate developer, name of Deatley, he was found dead there. People disappear there all the time. Old guy disappeared snowmobiling back there a few years ago. Some hunters, too. Gone. I’m telling you. Run back where you came from. You run. Run!”
Gregory nodded and said halfheartedly, “Well, thanks for the…advice.” He slid a few dollars across the counter. “Thanks. Here’s—” The man snatched them and fed them to the cash register. As he poured a small trickle of coins into Gregory’s hand, he said, “I’m warning you. Your uncle is up to his neck in something.”
“Okay.”
“There are terrible things in the woods.”
“All right. Thanks for the Funyuns!”
Gregory headed over to grab the luggage.
As the two picked up their bags, he whispered to Brian, “Well. This might be more of an adventure than we bargained for.”
The two sat on the Gerenford town green, staring around at the white, boxy Victorian houses that lined the streets. Behind them, on the green, stood the monument to the town’s founder. Gregory stared into the boughs of an oak tree, picking small fuzzy things off his dark blue sweater absentmindedly. Brian lay with his head resting on his suitcase, staring at the slowly darkening sky. The first stars were coming out.
Brian said, “That’s…um…that’s called flocculating.”
“What?!?” said Gregory.
“Taking little fuzzy things off sweaters. It’s called flocculating. ”
“Oh!” Gregory nodded.
They sat silently for a while.
It was chilly in Vermont at that time of year. A small boy with a big head went by on a trike. It took a while. They watched.
Gregory rose swiftly to his feet, looked around restlessly, then asked Brian, “Wouldn’t it have been great to be the founder of this town? Just imagine this place when there weren’t any houses or streets here, just the tall pines and some big rocks…and those.” The last thing he indicated was the mountains, rising blue and distant behind the houses. “Just imagine being able to walk forever in the woods, and not ever coming to the back of a Halt’N’Buy.”
A far-off clatter came to their ears. It grew steadily louder. Brian sat up and glanced quickly in the direction of the sound. “What’s that?”
“I bet my adopted uncle. He, uh…”
At that point, an elegant horse and buggy rumbled onto the main road of Gerenford. The carriage clattered to a halt in front of the two. The driver wore a long black cape. He grinned at the boys. He tapped with his whip on the door of the carriage. The door swung open, and Uncle Max stepped out.
He was perhaps sixty or sixty-five years old. He wore striped trousers, dark spats, and a coat with tails. On his head was perched a finely rounded bowler hat. He clutched a cane. He wore a vest, a stiff collar, and a tie fastened with a gold pin. He had a beak-like nose and a walrus mustache, and his eyes were topped with shaggy white eyebrows. The eyes were diamond-hard and biting.
His manner was gruff. “Salutations,” he said without a smile. “Glad you both could come.” The man shook both their hands awkwardly. “Been a long time,” he said.
Gregory, trying to charm, said, “Yes, sir. I think it’s been about five years.”
“Indeed, my boy. Five years. Prudence told me you’ve grown into the sort of boy who doesn’t make a racket.” The beak-nosed man turned to the driver. “Yockly, put the luggage on the back.”
Yockly, the driver, clambered down from his post. He clucked and crooned to the pawing brown steed, then scuttled over to the luggage. As Yockly fastened the two suitcases to the back of the carriage, Uncle Max said to the boys, “Won’t you step into the carriage?”
Gregory muttered, “ ‘Said the spider to the fly.’”
They climbed in. It creaked on its springs. Uncle Max heaved himself in next to them. Gregory shoved his duffel bag to one side with his feet.
“I am just going to take the liberty of locking the doors,” said Uncle Max. “It’s the kind of world where sometimes if people see a carriage, they’ll attempt to clamber into it.”
He locked the doors and kept the keys in his hand, rattling them.
The carriage started moving.
“I envy people who can feel weather in their bones,” said Uncle Max, and pulled out a knife.
Brian blinked and put his hand on the door latch.
Uncle Max raised the knife. The blade rested on the window frame. The boys saw the wood there was scored with ten or so grooves.
“Don’t have the opportunity to entertain much,” said Uncle Max. “We like to mark the carriage for each guest who comes.” With the knife, he put two notches in the door. He said, “One for each of you. A rustic touch to remember you by.”
Brian and Gregory settled back into their seats and exchanged a glance.
Soon, the party jolted past the outskirts of town. Night fell swiftly. During the ride to the house, Uncle Max was silent, and the other two followed suit. In the twilight, they caught sight of tiny roads winding through forests of pine, oak, maple, and spruce. The leaves that Mrs. Thatz had envisioned had lost their summer green. In the falling darkness they looked blue.
After half an hour or so of silence, the buggy crunched over the gravel of the driveway. Finally, it came to a halt in front of the dimly seen house. A porch, framed by thin, embellished supports, was lit by a gaslight. Otherwise, only the outline of the mansion could be seen against the navy evening sky—a complex stack of attic dormers, gables, bay windows, and towers topped with conical roofs, the tallest crowned by a jagged weathercock. The coachman, Yockly, unlocked the door to the carriage and pulled it open. Uncle Max, then Gregory, and finally Brian climbed out.
“Thus. We are here,” commented Uncle Max. After a pause to look around at the darkness, he marched toward the porch. The door there opened, and the two boys caught their first sight of the butler. There were no surprises there. The dark, formal clothes. The chin, tipped up.
“Welcome home, sir. The children are here, I trust?”
“Yes, Burk. Boys,” Uncle Max gestured, and the two walked over to the door. “Burk, this is my nephew, Gregory, and his traveling companion…?”
“Brian Thatz, sir,” Brian interjected quickly.
The butler looked unimpressed. He nodded. “Thatz?” he said. “As you wish.”
“Get their luggage and put it into their rooms,” the uncle ordered, striding past
the butler into the foyer. As he walked in, he gruffly explained to the two friends, “I’d like you to wear knickerbockers and ties, of course. May seem rather strange, but I can’t see the point of”—he gestured to Gregory’s jeans—“I can’t see the point of garments such as these. They’re just unpleasant to look at. You appear to be some kind of tatterdemalion. There are appropriate clothes up in your rooms, to be worn in the future.”
“What are knickerbockers?” Gregory asked.
“I like some curiosity in a boy,” said Uncle Max, and went off down a hallway.
The foyer was large. A huge, mushroom-like seat sprouted around an octagonal pillar. A hall table stood against the far wall, supporting a picture of Uncle Max, quite obviously a few years younger, standing atop a mountain in plus fours. Everything, including the Oriental rug on the floor and the well-oiled banister on the stairs, had been perfectly restored to the state of how it might have been a little more than a hundred years before. Through an open door, Brian caught sight of a dining room where stiff, ladder-back chairs sat around a perfectly ordered table. Silver teapots and tureens glittered on the lace tablecloth. Uncle Max called out, “Prudence! Your cousin and his traveling companion are here!”
Cousin Prudence rushed in, a stiff, billowing blue dress whisking around her. A lace collar was wrapped tightly about her slender, white neck. She was young, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. Her hair was pinned elaborately to her head.
“Hello, Gregory!” she said, giving her cousin a quick hug.
Gregory indicated his friend. “Prudence, this is Brian.”
Prudence shook Brian’s hand, and both said that it was nice to meet the other.
“Well,” said Cousin Prudence, “I think dinner’s waiting in the dining room. Why don’t we all go in there and take a seat?”
Gregory nodded. “Good idea,” he said.
“After you change,” said Prudence.
“Do we really have to change?” asked Gregory. “I mean…really?”
“I wrote some instructions on how to work the collars.”
Uncle Max stepped into the foyer again and indicated the dining room with his hand. “The collars can wait,” he said. “We’ll eat.”
After the others had filed into the dining room, Uncle Max nodded to the butler, who still stood by the door.
Burk said, “I’ll fetch their things.”
Uncle Max frowned. “Yes. Get their things.”
“From the carriage.”
“During dinner, take the bags to the furnace and burn them. They won’t need them.”
The butler walked stiffly outside, shutting the door behind him.
Uncle Max lit a cigar and vented a cloud of smoke slowly before joining the others.
The table was set with silver utensils. On the wall hung a large portrait of Matthias P. Grendle, Venerable Ancestor, Beloved Father, dressed in Colonial clothes and biting his own lip. The room was dark; the light of the gas lamps was swallowed by dark wooden paneling.
Daffodil, the stout, unsmiling young maid, entered with steaming platters of sliced roast beef and various cooked vegetables and soups. Her maid’s uniform, deep black and antiseptic white, matched the butler’s outfit precisely. She poured wine for Uncle Max, tea for Prudence, and milk for the two boys (much to Brian’s dismay—milk made his face break out and irritated the webbing between his toes).
Uncle Max obviously didn’t wish to speak while he ate, so all remained silent, save to ask in subdued voices for, say, the squash. Occasionally, however, Gregory’s uncle would stop with his fork next to his lips and would mutter a short paragraph to himself, too quietly to be understood, before continuing with the meal. Daffodil hummed tunelessly and joylessly as she went in and out. Brian strained to hear what she was humming. He thought it might have been hymns, but it was hard to tell. It sounded like one dismal note.
After dinner, Daffodil took away the dishes, while Burk stiffly offered Uncle Max another cigar. Gregory threw Brian a quick, nervous look.
Gregory was trying to start a conversation. “So,” he said. “I came up to Vermont with my parents two years ago. We went skiing.”
There was a long silence.
“Ah, yes,” said Uncle Max. “You’ve been to Vermont before.”
“Yes,” said Gregory. “Skiing.”
Brian stared at his milk.
“Did you find it cold?” asked Uncle Max. “Some people do.”
“No,” said Gregory. “We all huddled in the refrigerator for warmth.”
It was not a very good joke. He was nervous. No one laughed.
Prudence looked bewildered. She said, “In a refrigerator, there isn’t any air.”
Uncle Max lifted his fork and laid it on the edge of his empty plate. “Ah,” he said. “I like humor in a boy. It’s important, you know. I made a witticism once, back, must have been thirty years ago. I was in…where was it, Prudence?”
“Budapest, sir.”
“Yes. Yes, the witticism was in Budapest. There was a man, and a building had fallen on him, and I said—how did this work? I said to him… No, as I recall, he spoke first. He said… First you must know, it was very hot. My company there made caulking. I had come outside, following the blast, and… On second thought, it was perhaps the kind of thing where one had to be there. But you see the point: It lightened up an otherwise very nasty situation, see?”
“Yes, Uncle Max,” said Gregory.
“Hmmph. Good. Yes, a bit of levity never hurt anyone. As long as one doesn’t overdo it, my boy—as long as one doesn’t overdo it! ‘To every thing there is a season,…a time to weep…and a time to laugh,’ hmm?”
Gregory sat stiffly and answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Now, boy. What say you fill me in on what your father has been up to. Knew him when your uncle was alive.”
“He’s fine,” said Gregory. “He’s…working. At his job.”
The silences between each phrase were huge and arctic.
“Excellent. Business good?”
Gregory shrugged. “I guess.”
“Bully for him. Just bully.”
They sat, and Brian stared at his undrunken milk.
“Well. Perhaps you two should run along to the old nursery and play a game or something, yes? Graces, or Chestnuts, or Wiggle-Me-Toe?”
“Certainly,” said Gregory, trying his best to be charming.
Burk moved forward to lead them upstairs.
The two were excused, and trooped up the grand, dark staircase. They were ushered into a room that appeared to have been unused for several years. All was in perfect order. Several chairs were placed around the nursery, along with doll cradles and ancient wooden horses. China dolls and bears losing their fuzz sat on shelves, taking tea out of diminutive porcelain cups. There were paddles, and skates, and a mechanical grabbing hand, and an iron pinwheel. The butler explained that on either side of the room were doors leading into the boys’ two bedrooms. After pointing out the tasseled bellpull, which would call a servant, the butler bowed quickly and stepped out.
The boys stood for a minute, looking at the shelves of worn toys. Brian approached a window seat. There was a game board open on the cushions.
He stood above it for a moment, then knelt down and squinted.
Gregory was frowning at some doll diapers.
Brian called, “Look at this, Gregory.”
When the other boy inspected the game, his first reaction was noncommittal. “Oh. What about it?”
It was a traditional double-folded game board, but the drawing on it had been completely obscured by extensive water damage, leaving only a dim haze of a track and brown ripples of old ink swaying across its surface. Almost none of the original writing could be read. One corner of the game was untouched, but all it revealed was an olive green border, illustrated with sprigs of oak and pine. There was a spot marked Start. It was a Victorian house, a mass of gables, turrets, and intersecting roofs. The house was painted brown, orange, and yellow. Bene
ath the house was an inscription reading Grendle Manor. The title of the game was written in elaborate scrolling letters: The Game of Sunken Places.
There were no rules.
“That’s this house,” said Brian.
“Hmm,” said Gregory, uninterested.
“The game looks old,” said Brian.
“And boring,” said Gregory.
Brian asked thoughtfully, “Has this house always been in his family?”
“Strange, but, uh, no, I don’t think so. I think Uncle Max just bought this house four or five years ago, just after he adopted Prudence. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? This board is obviously way older than that.”
Brian chewed his fingernail pensively.
Gregory shrugged. “I guess the Grendles must have always owned the house, but just, it hadn’t been used for several years when they moved here. The game looks really, really old. Hey, do you smell something?”
“Hm,” said Brian, inspecting the board. “Too bad we can’t see more of it.”
“Excuse me,” said Burk, sticking his head in the door. “Do the young masters know about the chemical properties of artificial fibers?”
Brian and Gregory looked at each other.
Gregory said, “The really funny and surprising thing is, you know, we don’t.”
“Jesting aside,” said Burk, “what one means is: Were one to burn rayon, would it be toxic?”
Brian said, “What? Rayon like clothes are made of?”
“Prob’ly toxic,” said Gregory. “Most things are.”
“Oh. Ah. Excuse me,” said Burk again, stepping into the room. “One thing. Don’t sit near the furnace vent. And you may want to crack the window,” he suggested, grunting and cracking open the window.
“What’s going on?” asked Brian.
“There we are, sirs,” said the butler. “Right as a new-found franc. You will feel the refreshing play of the breezes. They will drive away insomnia and phthisis.”
“Gee,” said Gregory. “Thanks. Oh, have you seen our bags?”
“No, sir.” Burk bowed and left.
The evening went on. They found some cards and played poker for a while, then war (during which they kept on making snoring noises as the tide turned). Finally, they pitched cards across the room at a doll that, when you pulled its cord, said, “My name is Ninny. I have a frightful lot of love to give.”