The Curse of the Blue Figurine

by John Bellairs

  The flight of creaky steps turned once at a wooden landing and went on down to a hard-packed dirt floor. Johnny played the flashlight beam around. Some rickety shelves had been built into the wall underneath the steps. He saw a silver censer that was so tarnished that it looked black. A grimy, cobwebbed box that said AD ALTARE DEI INCENSE. A headless plaster statue of some saint. A glass tumbler full of cassock buttons. A pipe wrench and a section of brass pipe, left—no doubt—by the careless Mr. Famagusta.

  Johnny played the beam back into the darkness of the basement. He saw the brick pillars that held up the floor of the church. Beyond the first row of pillars was a stack of tabletops. Leaning against the stack was a raffle wheel, the kind they used for the turkey raffles at Thanksgiving time. And in the shadowy distance he could see the big sooty iron furnace that heated the church in the wintertime. Johnny sighed. The whole place was a lot less interesting than he had hoped it would be. He pointed the beam of the flashlight here and there. Without much interest he noticed a bookcase with warped, sagging shelves. The top shelf was empty, but the second shelf held a row of thick, black volumes. Johnny reached for one of the books, but he jerked his hand away with a disgusted cry. The book was crawling with little gray spiders.

  Johnny closed his eyes and shuddered. He couldn't help it. He hated spiders, and the small gray ones were, to him, the most disgusting of all. A bad taste rose into Johnny's mouth, but he swallowed, and it went away. Johnny opened his eyes. He shone the flashlight at the book again. The spiders were gone! Well, now, that was odd—where had they gone to? Johnny looked at the floor. Nothing there. Then he pointed the flashlight at the wall behind the bookcase. It was a brick wall, and it was in pretty bad shape. The mortar looked powdery and loose, and the bricks were crumbling. In one place the mortar between two bricks had fallen out, and there was a hole. Maybe that was where the spiders had gone. Johnny went back to looking at the row of books. For some reason he was interested in the book that had had the spiders on it. He wanted to take it out and look at it. Three times he reached out his hand to touch it, and three times he jerked his hand back at the last minute. Finally, on the fourth try, his hand closed over the end of the grimy book. He pulled it out quickly and stepped back. Now he carried the book over to the stairs and laid it down on one of the lower steps.

  Johnny played the flashlight over the cover of the book. The faint gold letters said ROMAN MISSAL. Now Johnny reached out in a gingerly way and took hold of the dog-eared cover. With a quick motion he flipped it back.

  And then he gasped.

  The inside of the book had been hollowed out. Only the outer part of each page was left. And in the hole that had been made were two things: a small rolled-up piece of yellowish paper tied with a faded red ribbon, and a strange little blue ceramic statue. The statue was shaped like an Egyptian mummy case. It had staring eyes and a tiny beaked nose and a smiling mouth and a scrolled goatee. The figure's arms were crossed over its breast in the Egyptian style. Apparently the mummy was supposed to be the mummy of a pharaoh, because it held in its hands the crook and the flail, the symbols of kingly power in ancient Egypt.

  Johnny was utterly amazed. With the flashlight held steady in his left hand he reached into the hollow book with his right hand. He did this very cautiously, as if he expected something to bite him. But nothing did. He pulled out the little paper scroll and yanked at the rotting ribbon, which was tied in a bow knot. The ribbon came off, and Johnny held the paper up to the light. It had been rolled up for so long that it was permanently curled. Nevertheless Johnny could read the shaded, heavy, masculine script:

  Whoever removes these things from the church does so at his own peril. I abjure you by the living God not to endanger your immortal soul. Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

  Remigius Baart

  CHAPTER THREE

  Johnny's eyes grew wide. He felt cold all over. Carefully, with a trembling hand, he put the scroll back in the hollowed book. He was about to close the lid when he heard a noise behind him, a rustling noise, like something moving about.

  Johnny panicked. He didn't have time for making decisions; what he did was sudden and automatic. He lunged at the book, gathered it up in his arms, and stumbled madly up the steps. He never looked back to see what had made the noise. And when he got to the top of the stairs, Johnny slammed the door and leaned his body against it. He was panting and breathless, and when he looked at his hands, he saw that they were black with dust. The front of his parka was dirty too. And here was the book in his arms, and inside were the things that Father Baart had put into the book. It was all true, then, about Father Baart and the magical something that the mysterious wood-carver had given him. Or was it? Johnny felt that his brain was whirling. Nothing made any sense. He thought about what it said on the scroll. Should he put the book back? No. He was not going down into that basement again, not right away. Then should he drop the book and run? Slowly he walked toward the middle door of the church. He pushed it open and peeked out. Eddie had gone at last. There was no one around, no one at all. With the book clutched tight in his arms Johnny edged out through the half-open door. He paused for a second more, and then he hurried down the steps.

  As he tramped along through the snowy streets with the book in his arms Johnny found that his mind was beginning to clear. He was thinking again. He thought about what Gramma would say if he came waltzing in the front door with this enormous black book. She would be upset about his dirty hands and his dirty parka, and she would certainly get nosy about the book. At the end of his own street Johnny stopped. He cut across a vacant lot and walked on down Marshland Avenue, which was the next street over. Then he stopped again in front of a big gray house that had a For Sale sign on it. This house was directly behind his own house. Johnny had used this sneaky shortcut before: down the driveway, over the bent wire fence, and into his own backyard. From there Johnny headed straight for the cellar door. It was an old-fashioned cellar entrance: two slanted wooden doors set up against the foundation of the house. These doors were never locked. Grampa was always going in and out this way, carrying papers to the incinerator or garbage to the garbage cans. Johnny glanced quickly up at the back windows of the house to see if anyone was looking out, and then he opened the doors. Quickly he raced down the steps and dumped the book in a dark corner. Then he raced back up the steps and closed the doors. Whistling softly, Johnny tramped up the snowy driveway and mounted the front steps. He took off his boots and stepped in the front door. He felt very pleased with himself—he had made it.

  That night, after Gramma and Grampa had gone to bed, Johnny went down to the cellar and brought up his prize. He carried it to his bedroom, closed the door, and threw the bolt. After putting the book down carefully on the floor Johnny went to the closet and dug a soiled undershirt out of his laundry bag. He used the undershirt to wipe some of the soot and grime off the old book. Then he opened the cover and knelt there, admiring. He looked like a worshiper, and in fact that was how he felt. This was—Johnny felt sure—a sacred object, a magic object. He had no doubt that this was the very thing that the mysterious wood-carver had given to Father Baart. Johnny felt awestruck and also a little afraid. Should he even touch the statue? Well, he had already touched it, and nothing had happened to him. He had done something else too. He had disobeyed the grim command that Father Baart had written out: He had taken the statue out of the church. Johnny gazed at the little figure that smiled up at him, and he wondered if maybe he had done something foolish. He wanted to talk to somebody about the statue. But who could he talk to? Not Gramma—that was for sure. She would go through the roof if she knew that he had this thing. Grampa would be more understanding, but he would definitely not approve of stealing things from a church. So who could he talk to? The professor! Of course!

  Johnny grinned. Why hadn't he thought of the professor before? The professor was smart, and he knew about a lot of things. He probably knew about magic. And he was the one who had told Johnn
y the story of Father Baart in the first place. He would be very interested in Johnny's discovery. Furthermore Johnny did not think that the professor would tell on him. The professor was kind of a nut, and nutty people don't rat on you. Nice, friendly, ordinary next-door-neighbor types —they would rat on you and think nothing of it. But a nutty person never would.

  Johnny closed the book up again and carried it to his closet. He put it down in the bottom and heaped old sweatshirts and bare blankets and copies of Boys' Life on top of it. Gramma wasn't nosy. She never poked into Johnny's private things. He figured his treasure would be safe there, for the time being.

  Days passed. Johnny bided his time, waiting for a chance to go see the professor. The time came on a Saturday afternoon. Gramma and Grampa went down to the A&P to shop, and Johnny was left alone in the house. From the bay window in the front parlor he could see the professor's big gloomy gray stucco house. The professor's car was sitting in the driveway, so Johnny figured that he had to be home. He ran upstairs to his room and dug the black book out of his closet. In no time at all he was on the professor's doorstep with the book in his arms. Johnny set the book down on the doormat and pushed the doorbell button. He waited—no answer. Again he pushed the button, and again. Still nothing. Johnny shifted nervously from one foot to the other. What was the professor doing? Johnny fussed and fretted. He really wanted to talk to the professor, and he wanted to talk to him now. Finally he got so impatient that he took hold of the knob and turned it. The door was not locked —it flew right open.

  Johnny stood and watched as the door swung back. Should he go in? It would certainly not be polite. But what if the professor had had a heart attack? Shouldn't he rush in and try to help him? Johnny decided that the professor needed him. He picked the book up, took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold.

  Straight down the long front hall he walked, and into the dining room. Nobody there. He peered into the kitchen. There was nobody there, either, but on the drainboard next to the sink lay a large hinged metal gadget. Johnny knew what it was—it was a jar wrench. You used them to get the lids off bottles and jars. Curious, Johnny moved closer. He peered into the sink and saw smashed pieces of glass, a jar lid, a lot of olives, and a pool of green brine. Johnny stared at this mess for a few minutes. Then—still holding the book carefully in his arms before him—he moved into the dining room. Now he began to hear muffled thudding and bumping noises. They seemed to be coming from upstairs. Johnny was becoming alarmed. He set the book down on the dining room table and galloped up the stairs. "Professor! Professor!" he called. No answer. Johnny ran down the hall and paused by the door of the room that the noises seemed to be coming from.

  "Professor! Are you all right?"

  A muffled answer came. "Yes, blast it, I'm all right! Half a minute and I'll be with you!"

  Johnny waited, and presently the door of the room opened. There stood the professor, and he was quite a sight: He was wearing a baggy gray sweat shirt and gray sweat pants. His feet were bare, his hair was a mess, and he was not wearing his glasses. He blinked peevishly at Johnny.

  "Yes? Yes? Who is it? I can't see a blasted thing without my glasses. And what are you doing here, anyway, whoever you are? This is a private home, you know. And if you're selling something, I'm not interested."

  Johnny was bewildered by this crabby speech. "It's... it's me, Professor. Johnny Dixon. I heard these noises, and I thought maybe you were being strangled or having a heart attack or something, so I came on up."

  The professor's manner changed. He blinked some more, and then he smiled. His cheeks turned red, and Johnny saw that he was really quite embarrassed. "I'll... I'll be with you in a moment," the professor muttered. He turned and groped his way over to his desk. More groping, and he found his glasses. He put them on.

  "Ah! Ah, yes, it is you, isn't it? And I'll bet you're wondering what I'm doing all dressed up like this, aren't you?"

  "I... I was, kinda," said Johnny shyly.

  The professor took Johnny by the arm and led him over to an open closet door. Johnny looked in. He saw that the walls and the floor of the closet were covered with padded gymnasium mats. Taped to the inside of the closet door was a hand-lettered sign that said:

  TO FUSS IS HUMAN; TO RANT, DIVINE!

  "This is my fuss closet," the professor said casually. "As you know, I have a rotten temper. And I lost it, just a few minutes before you came in, because I could not get the lid off that bloody jar downstairs! So, I came up here—as I always do in such cases—and I put on these clothes and took off my glasses and went into my fuss closet, and I fussed! I cursed and yelled and pounded the walls and floor. And you know, I feel much better now. Sweatier and tireder, perhaps, but better!" The professor heaved a deep, self-satisfied sigh and folded his arms. He smiled kindly at Johnny. "Now, then, what can I do for you? Hmmm?"

  Johnny was so flabbergasted by the tale of the fuss closet that it took some effort to drag his mind back to what he wanted to talk about. "I... I found something, Professor," he began slowly. "I was... kind of pokin' around in the basement of the church, and I think I found the... the stuff that that wood-carver guy gave to Father Baart."

  Now it was the professor's turn to be amazed. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "Are you serious? Do you really mean what you just said?"

  Johnny nodded emphatically. "Uh-huh. It was all inside of a fake book. Do you wanta see it? It's downstairs. I brought it over so you could have a look at it."

  The professor sighed and looked down at the clothes he was wearing. "Well," he said, chuckling, "I hardly feel professorial in this getup, but I would like to have a look at what you've found. Sure. Go get the stuff and bring it up, and meanwhile I'll get some shoes on. These floorboards are like ice."

  A few minutes later the professor was sitting at his desk with the fake book open before him. Johnny stood behind the desk, next to the professor's chair. The expression on his face was anxious. The room they were in —the room with the fuss closet—was the professor's study. Along one wall was a bookcase made out of bricks and boards. It was full of paperback books. Stacked here and there on the floor were blue exam books with grades and comments scrawled in red ink on their covers. Framed diplomas with gold seals hung crookedly over the bookcase. And next to the desk, piled against it like a rampart, was a wild, disorderly heap of papers and notebooks. In the corner behind the desk stood a stuffed owl on a tall fluted wooden pillar. And on the owl's head, perched a little to one side, was a small Boston Red Sox baseball cap.

  The Professor harrumphed and jiggled around in his chair. Johnny wanted him to get down to business, to start examining the figurine. But the professor liked to take his own time about things. He brushed eraser dust off the faded green blotter that lay on the desk. Then he reached into a drawer and took out an ashtray and a small, flat cardboard box. The box was black and on its lid was a splendid golden two-headed eagle. The lettering on the box said BALKAN SOBRANIE. The professor opened the box and peeled back two whispery layers of gold-leaf paper. Johnny saw in the box a row of black cigarettes with gold tips. As he watched in exasperation the professor searched in the drawers of his desk for matches. At last he found some. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Then, finally, he reached out toward the cavity in the hollowed-out book.

  First he took out the scroll. He unrolled it and read it. His face was absolutely expressionless—he might have been reading the want ads in the daily paper. The professor put the scroll back in the box. Carefully, using both hands, he lifted out the blue figurine.

  Johnny was on pins and needles. He watched as the professor examined the thing, puffed on his cigarette, said "hmmm" several times, and pulled the floor lamp closer to his desk. Now the professor tilted the figurine up so he could look at its base. Johnny noticed—for the first time—that there was a small, faded brown-paper label on the base. The professor adjusted his glasses and peered closer. Then he let out a loud whoop of laughter. He set the figurine down, threw back his hea
d, and roared.

  "Hah! That's a good one!" exclaimed the professor, pounding his hand on the desk.

  Johnny was startled and utterly bewildered. "What... what is?"

  The professor giggled some more. Then he picked up the figurine and held it so Johnny could see the label. "Here, have a look! This is funny, it really is! See—right there. There it is!"

  Johnny looked. There was printing on the faded brown label, old-fashioned Victorian ornamental printing. It said:

  SOUVENIR OF

  CAIRO, ILLINOIS

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Johnny felt crushed. He felt cheated and humiliated and angry. He had been so sure, so absolutely sure, that he had found a genuine bona fide Egyptian magic amulet. And now, to find out that the thing was a souvenir! A crummy, cheap, stupid souvenir! Johnny had souvenirs in his room. One was a small birchbark canoe that he had gotten when he visited Glen Ellis Falls in New Hampshire with his parents. And there was the old crusty bronze hand bell with a handle shaped like Father Junipero Serra, a priest who explored California in the eighteenth century. Johnny's uncle had gotten that in California, and he had given it to Johnny. And now... Johnny gazed forlornly at the professor. "Are you sure it's a souvenir?" he said weakly. "I mean, couldn't the label be a fake or something?"

  The professor had stopped laughing. He saw now that Johnny was very disappointed, and he felt sympathetic. "I'm sorry, John," he said, shaking his head sadly. "But I'm afraid this is a real genuine souvenir and nothing more. I'm not an Egyptologist—my field is the Middle Ages. But this is just the kind of thing that a town like Cairo, Illinois, would peddle as a souvenir. They pronounce it Kay-ro, by the way. It's a town way down in the southern part of Illinois, and it happens to have the same name as the capital of modern-day Egypt. So somebody probably thought it was clever to make a souvenir that looked like an Egyptian ushabti."