The House with a Clock In Its Walls by John Bellairs Read Free Book Online

date, April 30, which is Walpurgis Night. That’s the night when witches and warlocks all over the world get together for whoop-te-doos. Ours was just a convention of the Capharnaum County Magicians Society, but some of them are real wizards. At any rate, to get back to what I was saying . . . ”
    “Never mind,” said Lewis, turning away with a pouty look on his face. “I’ll tell Tarby that you can’t do it.”
    “Oh, Lewis!” cried Jonathan, throwing the pack of cards down on the table. “You are the most easily discouraged boy I ever met. If I did it once, I can do it again. It’s just that it’s not a normal occurrence. And everything has to be just right. In the heavens, that is.”
    “Oh.”
    “Yes, oh. Now, as soon as I have won this silly game from myself, you and I will go to the library and consult the almanac. So be quiet for a minute.”
    Lewis fidgeted and clasped and unclasped his hands and stared at the light fixture until Jonathan finished his game. Then the two of them went to the library, slid back the panelled doors, and entered the marvelous room that smelled of damp paper, wood smoke, and Turkoman’s Terror, Jonathan’s personal tobacco blend. Jonathanmoved the stepladder to the part of the wall that contained his magic books, climbed up, and pulled down a thick dusty volume labelled:
    HARDESTY’S
    Universal Omnium Gatherum

    Perpetual Calendar, Date Book,
    Almanac, and Book of Days
    He flipped to the section on eclipses, did some rapid mental calculations, and said, “You’re in luck, Lewis. 1948 is a good year for lunar eclipses. The planets will be favorable next Friday. Invite Tarby to dinner for that night. I’ll be ready.”
    Friday night came around, and Lewis brought Tarby home for dinner. There was nothing especially magic about the meal, except that the cider jug on the table burped a lot, and that might have been because the cider was getting hard. After the dishes were cleared away, Jonathan asked Lewis and Tarby to help Mrs. Zimmermann carry some kitchen chairs out into the back yard. Then he walked out into the front hall and consulted his cane rack, a blue Willoware vase full of walking sticks of all sizes and shapes. Some had ivory or bone handles, some were tough, crooked old pieces of hickory or maplewood, and some had thin springy swords concealed inside. But only one cane was magic.
    It was a long black rod of some very hard wood. At one end was a ferrule of polished brass, and at the other was a glass globe the size of a baseball. It seemed to be snowing inside the globe. Through the swirling little flakes you could see, now and then, an odd little miniature castle. The globe burned with an icy gray light. Jonathan picked up the cane, hefted it, and walked back toward the kitchen with it tucked under his arm.
    Out in the back yard, the audience was ready. Mrs. Zimmermann, Lewis, and Tarby sat in straight chairs facing the birdbath. It was a chilly, clear October night. All the stars were out, and a large full moon was rising over the four elm trees at the far end of Jonathan’s yard. The screen door slammed, and everyone looked up. The magician had arrived.
    Without saying a word, Jonathan went around to the north side of the house. An old mossy rain barrel stood there against the sandstone wall. Jonathan looked into the barrel, breathed three times on the dark water, and with his left forefinger cut the faintly shimmering surface into four quarters. Then he leaned low over the mouth of the barrel and began whispering in a strange language. The three spectators had not left their chairs—Jonathan had told them to stay where they were—but they craned their necks around a good deal trying to figure out what the wizard was doing.
    The whispering, weirdly magnified by the mouth ofthe barrel, went on for some time. Lewis twisted way around in his chair, but all he could see was the dark shape of Uncle Jonathan and the faintly glowing gray globe of the magic cane.