Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “Aaaaahh!”

  Hot, white pain engulfed his side. Instinctively his back arched as if shot.

  “Mom, that’s enough,” Niels said, stepping between his mother and brother.

  “You get to your room, you ungrateful little bastard,” Llysa said to Cyrus.

  Her chest heaved and her hair stuck to her sweaty face.

  “We’ll talk more about this in the morning.”

  Stumbling, and barely able to breathe, Cyrus fled to his room and shut the door tight behind him. He took several moments to catch his breath. Then, cringing in pain, he blocked the door with a wooden chest. He winced every time he moved or twisted. His arms were covered in dark, red streaks. He took his shirt off and inspected his side in a round wall mirror. Like a hot brand, the steel belt buckle had stamped its imprint into his flesh, leaving what looked like a bloody capital E in his ribs. He shook all over, the terror and adrenalin slowly ebbing from his system.

  He wanted to kill his stepmother, choke her by her scrawny little neck. He began to fantasize about striking back at her. Grabbing his own belt and lashing at her with the steel end. Watching her beg for mercy and not receiving it. He thought about lighting the house on fire, watching her burn in the middle of the night. She would see Cyrus beyond the blaze and scream to him for help. But he would only stare back at her, and in that moment, she would know that he had had his revenge.

  But what if Niels was somehow caught in the blaze? Or what if Niels went in after her and was killed? Cyrus would never forgive himself. No, it was best just to run away and escape. Escape! The journal, he suddenly remembered.

  His blood began to cool, and his breath slowed to an even pace. He moved to his bedroom window, opened it and grabbed the book and turtle skeleton from where he had hidden them below the sill. He stashed the skeleton under his bed, then brushed the mud off the journal’s jacket. The pages smelled of dried wood. He looked to the door and listened for intruders. Hearing only the clatter of cutlery, he lit a small lamp, rolled into bed and opened the thick journal to the first page. The flame’s glow flickered and danced on the yellow paper. The parchment felt of autumn leaves, and even though the pages were water stained, the careful printing was still legible.

  “The Jimothy OddFoot Journal,” he whispered, as he read the title.

  He opened the book to the first entry and read aloud, “‘Day one. It is the sixteen hundred and seventy-fifth year after the great siege.’”

  That was almost thirty years ago… Cyrus thought.

  Made the long crossing to Myrkur by raft. Strange creatures inhabit these waters. Heard breathing and splashing out in the night and something kept pushing up against the raft. Also, saw blue lights moving below the surface. Beginning to fear I’ve made the wrong decision by fleeing Virkelot. Safe on land now and have set up camp on the northern shore for the evening. Rather cold and suffering chest pains. Plan to search for a more suitable home in the morning.

  Day 2,

  Something was in the camp during the night. Strange hand and footprints on supplies. Armed with a knife, I’m off to seek out a more fortified shelter.

  Day 2, second entry.

  Cleared a path to southern tip of island and have found a strange system of caves. The caverns look like they might be the ruins of some ancient inhabitants. Found a small hollow on the southwestern side of caves. Hope it will serve as a safe refuge.

  Cyrus leafed through several pages of Jim’s journal that described him adjusting to his new life on Myrkur. In the beginning, Jim had fed poorly, forced to snare small frogs and rabbits for food. But over time he had cultivated several small vegetable gardens and learned various ways to catch fish.

  Cyrus discovered that Jim had been an orphan raised by his grandfather. When his granddad had died, he had decided to leave his life of tax collecting and follow his dreams of animal study and research. Jim had wanted to understand how a caterpillar could transform into a butterfly, or how a dog’s sense of smell could be so keen. And how could birds leave the island for the winter, only to navigate themselves home the following summer?

  It seemed that with the exception of his granddad, Jim had never really enjoyed life on Virkelot, or living amongst its people.

  Cyrus heard footsteps, then a knock at the door. His heart jumped. He blew out the lantern, hid the book below the covers and pretended to sleep. The person tried the knob. The door gently bumped against the chest. The person attempted to push the door open. The chest began to grind against the floor. The grinding stopped. After a long moment, Cyrus heard something touch the ground. Then footsteps began to pad away. What was his stepmother up to, he thought?

  He let several tense moments pass. When he felt all was clear, he relit the lantern. Then, keeping one eye on the door, he continued to read. He arrived at the Day 50 entry. He could not help but notice that Jim had rushed his usually tidy handwriting.

  Day 50,

  Moments ago, had first encounter with the strangest creature. I was crouched behind the stove, repairing the chimney, when the thing crawled in on all fours. It was hard to see by candlelight, but its skin was black and sleek, and it looked the size of a tall, underfed child. Like a cat, it sniffed and studied several objects in the room.

  It must have sensed my presence, for, without warning, it stood on hind legs and, with glowing blue eyes, turned in my direction. In the darkness, could not discern its face, but its eyes seemed to grow brighter as it looked about.

  With frog-like agility, it leaped from the cave and dashed out of the door. Damp, webbed hand and footprints remain on the floor, with only the faintest scent of seawater in the air.

  Heart racing and chest pains have returned. First thing tomorrow morning, must fortify entrance.

  Cyrus’ jaw fell slack. Is that what stalked them on the island?

  Day 146,

  Have spent much time researching plants and animals on island, but the creature that most intrigues me has been most elusive. Have seen evidence of its presence. A ripple in ponds, wet handprint on rock, but no new sightings of the blue-eyed phantom. Wonder if it is the last of its kind, or if there are more? Does it have a connection to these caves?

  A loud hoot came from outside the bedroom window. Cyrus jumped. Instinctively, he hid the journal. Only an owl, he thought. His nerves began to calm. He noticed his candle beginning to flicker and fade. He crept out of bed to use the outhouse. His side had grown stiff, and a large bruise had formed around the belt’s bloody brand. Outside the door, he found a plate of food. Niels, he thought. It had been Niels at the door. His brother had created a happy face using sausages and brussels sprouts. Cyrus felt his eyes begin to well.

  When Cyrus returned from the toilet, he checked the time. There were a few precious hours of nighttime left. He lit a new candle, dug into his dinner, and delved back into the dead man’s journal.

  Day 9693,

  Was on the seashore, studying one of the island’s many turtles, when the webbed hand of the blue-eyed phantom reached out of the ocean and pulled the shelled creature below. Could that explain the cavern’s symmetry? Have little time to lose. There is much work to do.

  Day 9723,

  Spent past thirty days measuring and mapping out caves as well as the island’s topography, but still, notes are inconclusive. There is one final thing I must do before my theory can be proven. But if caught, I fear it may mean my death. First thing tomorrow night, must steal back to Virkelot Island.

  He came back? Cyrus thought, he must have been crazy.

  Day 9724,

  The crossing was dark, but the water calm. Heard what I believed to be the blue-eyed phantom occasionally surface and take breath from out in the fog. Two-thirds of the way across heard the toll of a bell from out to sea. After that sensed the phantom no more. Was it as afraid of the sound as I?

  Once on Virkelot, first point of interest was the shoreline. Using my lantern, measured and sketched large tiles along coast. Again, heard bell toll, and saw what
looked like a large ship off eastern shore of Myrkur Island. Was my fear getting the better of me? Lost sight of apparition behind fog.

  Entered Hekswood Forest and climbed over the Dead Fence. Many changes have taken place in the village. All around, deep trenches have been cut into the earth, embedded with pipes and hoses. In addition, several wells have been drilled and fitted with water pumps and well covers. Every person in Virkelot must be working on what signs call, ‘The Hoblkalf Water Works Project.’

  Spent the rest of the night trekking across the island, recording various lengths, widths, and elevations, before making my way back to the fence.

  Back on Myrkur, have double and triple checked my maps, notes, and calculations and keep coming back to the same startling conclusion. It is almost too remarkable a discovery to believe.

  Virkelot and Myrkur Island are the skeletal remains of a long dead, giant, turtle-like creature. Virkelot is its fossilized body and Myrkur its skull. The caves here on Myrkur are its nasal cavities and eye sockets.

  I am currently living in a section of the right eye that was most likely the attachment point for a ligament or tendon. Have also studied several fossil samples and by my calculations, these two islands have roughly five hundred to one thousand years left before they become dust and are scattered to the sea.

  Below the entry was a map of the two islands, along with a legend describing each part of the skeleton’s remains. The artwork was finely detailed and jumped from the page as if the creature was real. Cyrus’ mind began to spin.

  “This can’t be,” he gasped.

  But of course, it was true. Cyrus thought of the tiles along the beach. He grasped the small turtle skeleton below his bed and inspected its back. Virkelot’s shoreline tiles were merely larger versions of the scales on the skeleton’s shell. He thought of the underground lake. Virkelot was hollow, like the empty turtle shell, and he recalled all those strange caves on Myrkur Island. He studied the skeleton’s skull. He realized, back on Myrkur, he had walked through the skull’s nostril and had arrived at its right eye socket. So that explained the caverns’ strange symmetrical shapes.

  He wanted to show Niels, show anybody. People had to know. But if he did, there would be questions. And the answers to those questions could lead to his imprisonment or death. What was he to do? The only thing he could do. First thing in the morning he would go see Edward. Maybe his best friend would have the answers.

  Just then, a large tremor shook the earth. The candlelight extinguished, and a picture frame swayed.

  “These two islands have roughly five hundred to one thousand years left before they become dust and are scattered to the sea,” Cyrus read, with a shaky voice.

  He lay in his bed wide-eyed for what seemed hours, hugging the leather-bound book to his chest. Then, in the early morning light, the journal slipped from his hands, and he found sleep. Turbulent, troublesome sleep.

  Chapter 7

  THE PIT

  THE NEXT MORNING Cyrus woke to a rumbling in his bones. The pictures on his bedroom walls shook, and the ceiling lamp swayed. He shifted in his bed. He found the turtle skeleton lying next to him and the journal resting on his chest. He looked around, eyes wide. The bedroom door was shut. No one had seen. He exhaled a shaky breath, stowed the skeleton under his bed and hid the journal beneath his mattress. Then he jumped out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Niels, what’s going on?” he asked.

  “Mom’s using the drill. She’s finishing the third well,” Niels said, trying to keep plates from jiggling off the wall.

  “Angels, she’s going to kill us all,” Cyrus said.

  He ran out the kitchen, still in his pajamas.

  “What, Cyrus. No, wait.”

  The sun was shining, and the air was cool. He followed a chugging water hose to the southern half of the farm. There, he found his stepmother sitting on top of a steam-powered drill, a deep scowl of concentration carved into her face. Cyrus felt his cut and bruised side and hesitated. Then he reminded himself of the journal.

  “Mom, you have to stop. It’s too dangerous,” he shouted over the noise.

  The machine was eight feet high and shaped like a steely, riveted ice cream cone. The smell of steam, boiling metal and rock dust wafted from its toil.

  “Go help your brother. I’ll deal with you later,” she shouted over the drill’s racket.

  The hose fed the bottom half of the contraption, and with carnivorous, corkscrewing threads, it twisted and tore itself into the earth.

  “No, it’s not safe. This whole place could cave in.”

  The top half of the machine shook and jangled as it sputtered and spurted jets of water and vapor into the air.

  “You’re only making things worse for yourself,” she growled.

  Cyrus searched his mind for some way to make Llysa listen, make her understand the danger she was in; they were in. But it was too late. Cracks started to web out from beneath the four-legged contraption, and all Cyrus could do was scramble away in fear.

  “Mom!” he pointed to the newly formed rents in the earth.

  “If I have to tell you one more time,” she spat over her shoulder.

  Like the sound of a hundred trees snapping, the ground shunted, then started to give way.

  “What in Kingdom?” she screamed.

  “Jump,” Cyrus yelled.

  Llysa leaped from the doomed machinery. Her dress snagged on the pedal shifter. The ground around the drill dropped three feet. Llysa screamed as she kicked and pulled at her dress. The material began to tear and come free. The foundation gave way, and the drill slipped through the crust like a sinking ship. It fell several feet before the leather hose reached its length. The drill jerked to a halt and began to sway like a large church bell. Cyrus knew he should have cried for help, but he just stared speechless at the ruin.

  “Cyrus,” Llysa shouted, her head barely visible above the verge of the chasm.

  Cyrus hesitated. What if this was the answer to his prayers?

  “Please!” she screamed, grasping and straining towards the edge.

  He gazed at the pit, unable to move…

  “Do something!” she shrieked, her expression a mix of terror and fury.

  Cyrus’ daze broke. He scrambled over to the edge and began to pull at the waterline. Llysa’s cries echoed within.

  “Try to climb back up,” Cyrus yelled.

  Wiry fingers emerged from the cave-in, gripping the swelling tube. Cyrus crawled forward on all fours. He grasped the back of Llysa’s right hand. The hose could no longer support the drill’s weight. It tore free, whipping and spraying like a severed artery. The drill dropped into darkness. The leather snake slapped Cyrus’ injured ribs, kicking him to the dirt and folding him up like a crumpled napkin.

  “Noooo,” he groaned, his side on fire.

  Several moments passed before…

  Sploosh!

  The drill hit what sounded like water far, far below.

  “Help!” Llysa shrieked.

  Her fingers clung to the edge like claws, tearing desperately at the earth. Cyrus found himself again hoping she would slip. Then she did, her hands vanishing from sight. Oh Angels, what have I done? Cyrus thought. He listened to her cries descend into the nothingness as his mind reeled and chest wheezed.

  Sploosh!

  Silence. She was gone…

  “What’s going on?” Niels shouted, running down the slope.

  Cyrus turned, trying to catch his breath.

  “Mom fell,” he gasped, fighting for air.

  He pointed a shaking finger at the newly exposed chasm. The pit stared back at them, dark and bottomless.

  Chapter 8

  HOBLKALF’S WAR

  CYRUS AND HIS BROTHER burst into the town hall, past the mayor’s secretary and straight into Mayor Hoblkalf’s office.

  “Mr. Mayor, we need your help,” Niels demanded, “My Mom’s fallen into a pit, and she’s going to die if we don’t do something!”
/>
  The ninety-two-year-old man sat slouched in his chair, snoring like a pig. Cyrus felt he resembled a shriveled potato that smelled of wet boots and cigar smoke.

  “Mayor Hoblkalf!” Niels shouted, forming a blow-horn with his hands.

  On the desk in front of Hoblkalf, laid a sheet of paper with titles such as The Hoblkalf Games, The Hoblkalf Stone Cutting Project and The Hoblkalf Twenty-Four Hour Work Day Project. All had been crossed out in red ink.

  “Mr. Mayor,” Cyrus said, gently shaking Hoblkalf’s shoulder.

  Reluctantly, the three-and-a-half-foot man awoke from his slumber. He straightened his tie and smoothed back his bald head, mumbling something about the good old days.

  “Mayor, we need your help,” Niels repeated, “My Mom’s fallen into a pit, and we can’t rescue her by ourselves.”

  At first, Hoblkalf did not seem to hear a single word. He looked more preoccupied with trying to ignite his cigar. But as Niels explained that the very earth had opened up and swallowed his mother whole, the mayor’s eyes began to twinkle, and he started to pace the room with a bounce in his limp.

  “She’s still alive,” Niels said, “We heard her screaming, and we promised we’d get help. If we don’t get her out of there as soon as possible, she’s going to drown or freeze to death. We need to do something NOW!”

  “We’re going to need the whole village in on this rescue operation,” the mayor said, “I’ll fill out the paperwork and order an emergency town meeting. You two ring the town bell.”

  ***

  A HALF HOUR LATER, the entire village waited outside the town hall.

  “What’s taking the Mayor so long?” Niels growled through clenched teeth.

  He paced beside Cyrus, squeezing his hands into fists.