“The blue-eyed phantom, I think…” Cyrus whispered.
“It left something behind.”
A familiar shape lay on the log; a husky, brick-like body. Cyrus stabbed at the water as he paddled closer. The ice in his chest evaporated, becoming acid in his throat. He reached out and turned the body to face him. Cyrus felt as if he was dangling over the edge of a cliff. All the air left his lungs, and his knees buckled.
It was Niels. His face was serene but lacked spirit beneath the flesh. Gently, Cyrus shifted his stiff body down into the boat. With Niels’ head on his lap, Cyrus caressed his icy cheek.
“No,” he half blubbered, half shrieked.
His thoughts became stilted and frozen. He felt trapped in frigid waters, pinned under endless waves. Cyrus wanted to rage, wanted to run away, wanted to smash himself in the face. But all strength abandoned his being and he was left shaking with sorrow.
“I’m so sorry…” Edward whispered.
Like a key in a jammed lock, Cyrus felt something in his heart twist and break off. The tiny fragment began to burrow itself into his soul. He recalled his brother’s terrified face, as he dangled alone at the edge of the dark chasm.
“Why couldn’t I help him?” he asked, through gritted teeth and glassy eyes, “Why?”
He had failed his brother, the only family that had ever cared for him. And he had failed himself. A useless bastard, everyone was right. And he would have to suffer that shame for as long as he lived. Which would not be long at all, he thought, in a moment of morbid hope, for his tiny world of Virkelot was crumbling, and the end was surely near.
Chapter 13
TRAPPED
THE FOLLOWING DAY was like a dark and hazy dream. Cyrus had still not grasped the fact that he would never see Niels again. He sat at his stepmother’s bedside. Neither spoke.
Several villagers had found Llysa floating unconscious inside a wooden bathtub and had towed her ashore. She spent the night in a deep coma, but as her temperature rose and the pale color returned to her skin, she began to rouse in the early morning hours. She had said little since the news of Niels’ death. She just lay in her bed, staring at the wall.
Cyrus felt numb all through his being. He was afraid to think about his brother. He had to keep his guard up, for even in Llysa’s weakened state, he felt as if trapped in a room with a poisonous viper.
The one saving grace was that, because Cyrus had rescued Sarah Heiler, her father, Dr. Heiler, had given him and Llysa their own private room. Like the main infirmary, their square tent was constructed with salvaged fence posts and donkey blankets. In the corner burned a makeshift stove that kept the shelter toasty and dry.
Cyrus heard rustling and saw the doctor duck into the room. He was a pear-shaped man with slicked back grey hair and a long slender nose.
“How’s our patient doing?” the doctor asked.
He took a seat at Llysa’s bedside and felt her forehead.
“Hmm… I’ll try to get some more wood for the fire and scrape together a hot meal. Warm stew should bring back some of your strength.”
With the loss of most of the animals and all the farmland, provisions had become scarce on the island, and the villagers were forced to ration what food remained.
“By the way, Cyrus,” the doctor continued, “I never got the chance to thank you for saving Sarah. I don’t know what I would have done had you not been there.”
“You’re welcome,” Cyrus replied, not knowing what else to say.
The doctor put a comforting hand on his shoulder, then slipped out of the tent.
Llysa looked over at Cyrus for the first time since she had received the devastating news. Her hair hung thin and lank, and her skin appeared stretched tight over her sharp features.
“It should have been you,” she said.
Cyrus’ heart began to quicken.
“You think Niels would have been off saving some hussy instead of his own brother? You should be the one lying dead at the bottom of that lake.”
Cyrus said nothing. He just stared at the floor, his head low.
Without warning, Lars Hoblkalf stuck his fat head through the door flap.
“Excuse me, Mrs. LongBones, but I was wondering if I could have a word with your son?”
“What’s this all about?” Llysa asked.
She coughed deep from her chest.
“It will only take a moment,” the mayor’s son answered, with a slapped-on grin.
“Go then, the both of you. Get out of my sight.”
Cyrus rose from his seat, thankful for the excuse to leave, and followed Lars out of the tent.
Lars Hoblkalf was a portly, middle-aged man with thinning curly hair and a freckled face. He waddled through the muddy streets of the make-do village with Cyrus trailing after him.
Rubbish and muck lined the narrow pathway while bloated clouds drizzled rain from above. The pair stepped aside as several villagers ran past with coats over their heads, collecting whatever materials they could claim to cover their temporary homes.
“Cyrus, if it weren’t for you finding a way out of that pit, I surely would have drowned in that lake. I just wanted to thank you in person. I always knew you were a good lad.”
Lars ruffled Cyrus’ hair.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Hoblkalf,” Cyrus said, as he pulled away and straightened his yellow locks.
The mayor’s son smelled of beer and cheese.
“You can call me Lars, Cyrus.”
Cyrus did not reply.
“Say, how did you find that cave anyway?”
Again, Cyrus remained silent.
“Come on, I have something that might cheer you up,” Lars continued.
The fat man led Cyrus through the rain-spattered streets and towards the temporary town square. The air smelled of soil and mold. Cyrus could hear the mayor’s voice booming through another of his longwinded speeches. He was talking about rebuilding the Hoblkalf Crane, salvaging what they could from the lake and repairing their damaged island. The crowd booed and jeered in response.
“What’s going on?” Cyrus asked.
“You’ll see.”
The mayor’s son guided him through an alleyway, which led to a backstage curtain guarded by one of the mayor’s men.
“He’s here,” Lars said.
The guard nodded, then stuck his neck through the curtain and gave someone the thumbs up.
“Please, now everyone calm down. Calm down!” shouted the mayor.
Through the curtain, Hoblkalf waved Cyrus over.
“You’re on,” Lars beamed.
“What?”
Cyrus tried to pull free from the mayor’s son. Lars took him by the arm and handed him over to the guard. The burly man lifted Cyrus onto the stage. There, two more men dragged him towards the mayor. He tried to turn and run, but the mayor seized his right hand and shook it vigorously as he smiled wide for the crowd.
“If it weren’t for this young lad, none of us would be here today,” the mayor boomed, “He was the one that warned me against building the Hoblkalf Crane, and he was the one that told me of the impending doom. Isn’t that right, m’lad?”
The mayor stank of soggy cigars, and his teeth were crusted with brown plaque. After a long hesitation, Cyrus nodded yes. The crowd grew silent. What was going on, he wondered? Was the mayor trying to align himself with Cyrus to gain favor amongst the villagers?
“No more Hoblkalf Crane!” one old woman shouted from the crowd.
“This is all your fault, Hoblkalf!” another shouted.
The mayor waved off stage. Lars waddled over and handed his father a book. It was the OddFoot journal! The mayor’s grip squeezed tight on Cyrus’ hand. Cyrus felt ice run down his spine. He looked to Lars. The fat man held the small turtle skeleton in his other hand.
“Yes, this young lad came to me with this book, and the strange skeleton that my son holds, and told me that our island faced grave danger. He warned that if I built my Hoblkalf Crane and t
ried to rescue his mother, the whole island would cave in on itself and all would be lost.
And where did he find these two peculiar items, you ask? And who created them? Well, the boy claims one Jimothy OddFoot created them. He says he found the items in the old abandoned OddFoot home. The journal speaks of Jim trespassing over our Dead Fence and meeting with blue-eyed demons. It says that Jim collected this turtle skeleton from the sea and modeled a village similar to Virkelot on its back. See for yourself.”
The mayor flung the book into the crowd. Lars threw the skeleton. Several pages came loose from the journal and fluttered through the air. A man with a bandaged eye caught the book. An old man attempted to catch the skeleton. It slipped through his fingers and struck the ground with a crack.
Cyrus tried to pull free from the mayor’s grip. His hand was trapped. His stomach began to swirl. He looked around for a place to escape. He saw the mayor’s men watching him from dark corners off stage. He was a rabbit caught in a snare. He turned to the crowd. People were looking at him with frightened and confused stares. He saw Sarah Heiler move towards the front of the stage with a dirty blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
“But I ask you this,” the mayor continued, his hairless face squished into a wrinkly expression of doubt, “If Jim OddFoot wrote that book, did he also build this boy a floating craft and tell him how to escape the pit?”
Villagers began to murmur and curse in terrified tones.
“It says our village was built on the back of a giant, fossilized turtle,” the man with the journal yelled.
“Just like this monstrosity,” the older man said, holding up the small skeleton.
There was a large hole broken in the turtle’s shell, and half the model village had fallen in.
“No,” the mayor shouted, his monocle falling from his face, “Our village was no more built on the back of some creature than that book was written by a man who vanished over forty years ago. This boy is a liar and a traitor. Clearly, he has trespassed over the Dead Fence and joined forces with the Sea Zombie. Where else would he have gotten that book or his strange floating craft? And how else could he have received secret knowledge of the land beyond our wall? Everyone rescued in the cave-in claims it was Cyrus LongBones who showed them the one route of escape. How could he have known about it if he had never been beyond the Dead Fence before?”
“Look at the turtle shell,” Cyrus cried, pointing to the man holding the skeleton, “It’s old and fragile, just like our island. It’s caved in and hollow, just like our island. It’s not a lie. Jim’s journal tells the truth!”
The crowd stared at the strange object in the old man’s grasp. Then they looked around at each other, as if unsure what to do next.
Cyrus turned to the mayor. He saw a single drop of sweat run down the old man’s wrinkled brow.
“Could it be true?” one young man asked.
“It would explain a lot,” another voice said.
Cyrus looked across the crowded square. For the first time, he was not invisible. The villagers were watching him. They were listening to him. They were actually taking him seriously.
“You’re going to believe StrangeBones?” one of the guards shouted.
The crowd began to murmur low, all seeming to look down at their muddy shoes. Come on, Cyrus thought, you have to believe me!
“You stupid little boy!” shouted an old woman, “This is all your fault.”
“Look for yourself,” Cyrus cried.
“Throw him in the pit,” yelled the man with the journal.
“No, the mayor’s wrong!” Cyrus continued.
“Do you deny handing me that book and giving me that warning?” Hoblkalf asked, his bald head swelling red.
“No,” Cyrus replied, “but…”
“And would you like to explain where your craft came from?”
Cyrus fell silent. He had walked into an ambush. The Hoblkalf Crane had failed, and the mayor needed a scapegoat. Cyrus found Sarah’s face again in the crowd. Her eyes were full of sorrow.
The mayor began to shake his head slowly.
“It is clear that this young man has broken our most sacred of laws, and brought the curse of the Sea Zombie down upon our village. He has exposed himself to the devious ways of the enemy, and let himself be manipulated into deception and murder. It is clear that the book and turtle shell were meant to confuse us, divide us, stop us from building our Hoblkalf Crane and saving our village. It is my unfortunate duty to demand that this boy be punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
The crowd’s bewildered faces shifted into a sea of hateful and hostile glares.
“Murderer!” they shouted.
“Traitor!”
“It’s not how it seems,” Cyrus cried, “The mayor’s going to get us all killed.”
Cyrus felt his world closing in. He had to escape. He stomped on the mayor’s foot, pulled free of his grip and began to run. He ducked under one man’s clutching grasp and made for a gap in the makeshift stage wall. Two guards appeared out of dark corners and tackled him to the ground. His bruised ribs seared. They mashed his blackened eye into the floor. He looked around for help. He saw Sarah leaving the square, shoving and pushing her way back through the churning mob. The men hauled him up and began to drag him off stage.
“So, in accordance with village law,” the mayor boomed, “tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp, Cyrus LongBones will be hanged by the neck until dead.”
The crowd jeered and shrieked with glee.
Chapter 14
TREACHERY
THE TWO GUARDS HAULED Cyrus down the alleyway like a sack of rubbish.
“Where are you taking me?” Cyrus asked, dragging his feet.
“To the Mayor’s tent,” growled one of the guards, “where you’ll await execution.”
Cyrus could hear the mayor begin a lecture about the importance of following village law.
“Hoblkalf’s going to get us all killed,” Cyrus said, “I’ll only be the first,” he uttered under his breath.
And in some small way that made him feel better, as if it would absolve him of Niels’ death. But once he imagined the noose draped around his neck, all thought of absolution left his mind. He knew he would become helpless and cowardly and scream for release.
The wind started to pick up and blow debris off several shelters. He noticed one of the tents had ‘HQ,’ freshly painted above its door flap. He could not believe that it was in this patch-worked heap that he would spend his last hours.
“You ever seen somebody hang before, boy?” the tall, burly guard asked, “You wet your pants for the whole village to see.”
Cyrus imagined the coarse hemp squeezing tight around his neck. Wetting his pants seemed the least of his worries.
When they arrived at the tent, the guards shoved Cyrus head-first through the door flap. He hit the ground hard, trying to protect his bruised and lacerated ribs. He winced and yelped in pain. The tent smelled of mold and stale cigars, and at the back sat an extinguished, wood-burning furnace. Cyrus peered about for escape.
“Don’t even think about it,” the fat guard said.
Beside the furnace rested a pile of scavenged wood and to Cyrus’ left lay a mattress stuffed with hay.
The guards shoved him to his belly and pressed his face into the cold, damp earth. Then they bound his wrists and ankles in rope.
“No, stop!” Cyrus cried.
But the more he struggled, the more they twisted his limbs and knelt on his back. He remembered a time when he saw a farmer, with a blade in hand, go out to butcher a pig. The pig knew what was coming and began to squeal wide-eyed, running in terror. Cyrus could not get the image out of his mind.
The men rolled him onto his side and tied him to the furnace. How much longer did he have to live? He dared not ask, too frightened of the answer.
“We’ll be outside,” the burly guard said, “Keep whining, and there’ll be nothin’ left to hang when the time comes.”
Cyrus heard digging and rustling sounds behind him. Then came what sounded like something large sliding into the tent. The shouts of the mayor’s speech had vanished. Was this one of the villagers back from the gathering? A small scrabbling came from near the furnace. Cyrus held his breath. His skin began to prickle. He tried to roll to his opposite side. He was tied too close to the furnace. He began to twist and struggle, feeling almost claustrophobic. A cold, slender hand clasped him over the mouth. A pale figure with long, lank hair moved over him.
“Sarah?” Cyrus gasped, into her palm.
She had the prettiest, grey eyes. She put a finger to her lips and began to untie his bonds. One of the guards uttered something outside the tent. Sarah froze. Cyrus clenched his teeth and stared at the door flap. The other guard chuckled in response. Sarah knelt like a statue for several moments. Then her hands began to shake as she continued to untie the ropes.
Once the restraints were loosened, she waved for Cyrus to follow her. Was this a trap? What was Sarah doing? Why would she risk her life like this? He watched as she crawled on her belly under the flagging side of the tent. Then he followed.
As he wriggled beneath the canvas, he found two of the tent posts unearthed. So that is how she had crawled in. Outside, on her feet again, Sarah began to thread her way around several shelters, keeping crouched and quiet along the way. Cyrus stood and looked over his shoulder. What would they do if he were caught trying to escape? Was there anything worse than being hanged? Sarah poked her head around a brown, water-stained tent and waved frantically. Cyrus ducked low and followed.
Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 7
