The Icy Hand

by Chris Mould

  “This is the master of the house. Though you wouldn’t think so to look at him, would you? Say hello, Stanley. This is Daisy. She’s Mr. Grouse’s niece, from the lighthouse.”

  “Oh, hello,” said Stanley. “Pleased to meet you.” He stumbled over his words slightly and his face reddened as he held out his hand to shake hers.

  “Hello, Stanley,” said Daisy, grinning widely as she greeted him. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I wasn’t here last summer so I thought I’d get in a winter visit. I was very sorry about your Great-uncle Bart. He was a nice man.”

  Mrs. Carelli jumped in. “Daisy used to help me clean here, didn’t you, poppet.”

  “Yes, I know this place very well, Stanley,” Daisy announced. He somehow felt that she was passing him a knowing look—but if she was, it was very subtle. He told himself he was imagining things.

  “Ah, I see,” muttered Stanley, not sure what to say.

  “But I got a new helper now, haven’t I, Stanley?” Mrs. Carelli grimaced. “Except he ain’t much help when he can’t get out of bed ’cause he’s been running around the house all night,” she carried on, clipping the back of his head as she walked past him.

  “Damn it,” said Stanley to himself. He’d thought he’d got away with it. He made his excuses and skulked off upstairs to straighten his hair.

  “We need firewood, young Buggles, before you disappear again!” Mrs. Carelli shouted after him.

  “He’s a good lad,” she whispered to Daisy. “He’s just … well. He’s just a boy, isn’t he. And, well … boys is boys, you know.”

  Stanley was outside filling the basket when Daisy wandered out through the back door.

  “I’ll be seeing you later then, Stanley,” she said. “It was good to meet you. You’ve got a great place here.” And she wandered down the path with her hands tucked neatly into her pockets.

  “Oh, yes. Ouch. Good to meet you, Daisy. Aahhhhhh! Ouch. Ouch!” Stanley had dropped a log on his foot, and then the whole basket, and now the logs were rolling down the path toward his newfound friend.

  “Are you okay, Stanley?” Daisy asked politely, turning and picking up the wood.

  “Erm, yes, I’m fine,” he smiled and they shared a shy chuckle.

  “I like you, Stanley,” she said. “You’re funny.” And she trotted off down to the harbor, toward the lighthouse.

  An hour later, Stanley was stoking the fire. The wood he had collected was burning away nicely, and his memory of the previous night was now far enough away for him to tell himself he had been dreaming.

  That was, until he turned to the window and realized he was not alone in the room. Great-uncle Bart was standing with his arms folded, tapping his foot impatiently.

  The spirit could not speak a word, of course. Instead he pointed his finger to the writing that could still be seen on the window.

  I need my head

  Admiral Swift’s headless figure would send Mrs. Carelli into a screaming fit, he was sure. She had hit the roof when she’d seen a spider.

  Admiral Swift lurched restlessly around the room. He found a patch of dust on top of the mantelpiece and wrote it again with his finger:

  I need my head

  Stanley was reminded of the fingerless pirates from the summer who had forced him to shoot the werewolf.

  “You know what? Can I say something?” said Stanley, hands on hips. “The trouble with you bloomin’ pirates is that you’ve always got something missing!” He slammed another log into the fireplace.

  His dead relative held his arms aloft and shrugged his shoulders. He stepped back, tripped up, and as he began to fall, he started to fade again.

  In a short while, Admiral Swift was gone.

  5

  A Walk Along the Harbour

  Stanley was meandering around down at the harbor. It was somewhere he always liked to be. He’d thought he was alone, when he turned to see a bony half-dead fish dangling in his face—and behind it a mischievous Daisy, grinning at him.

  “Hungry?” she laughed.

  “No thanks, I’ve eaten,” he said, straightfaced.

  She threw the fish over the wall onto the sand.

  “You look serious today!” she said, eyeing him closely. “What’s wrong?”

  “How well did you know Admiral Swift?” he returned.

  “Quite well,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Would you like to meet him again?”

  “Well, I guess so. But that’s a fairly odd question, if you don’t mind me saying so. After all, it’s not really likely, is it?” she quizzed.

  “Not as unlikely as you think, Daisy. There is something I need to tell you.”

  Daisy stared at him expectantly.

  “I have had a visit … from Admiral Swift.”

  Daisy narrowed her eyes, half-expecting that he was joking. But, studying his expression, she knew he was serious.

  “I’ve seen some strange goings-on up at the Hall, Stanley, but I haven’t ever seen anything I could describe as a ghost.”

  “Well, I’ve seen one, and it belongs to Admiral Swift,” he insisted.

  “What does he want, then?” she asked. Stanley noticed that she was trembling slightly, but Daisy insisted that she was frozen, not frightened.

  “They say that ghosts only appear when their souls are restless!” she continued. “He must want something, Stanley.”

  “He does. He wants his head.”

  Daisy stared harder still, and before he knew it Stanley had told her everything he knew.

  “That’s a lot to take in,” she admitted. “But if you need my help, it’s yours.”

  Stanley thanked her, smiling swiftly then looking down at the sand. They carried on walking. The seabirds scattered as they drew nearer, and they watched a handful of fishermen dismantling a large sail from a boat.

  “There’s never a dull moment here, is there?” said Stanley with a grin, breaking the silence.

  “Not when you’re here!” she laughed, breaking into a run.

  They spent a happy afternoon on the beach, splashing each other in the rock pools. Stanley chased Daisy with scrag-ends of seaweed. Then they headed to the lighthouse, and Stanley called in to say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Grouse. When he left he was supplied with a box full of fish, a present for Mrs. Carelli.

  Daisy followed him to the lighthouse door and they stood outside together, looking over the harbor.

  Stanley put on his best funny voice and pulled his face into a strange grimace. He placed the lid of the box on his head and wore it like a hat, saluting Daisy.

  “Very well, captain,” he began, “I shall return home. I will report back within twenty-four hours. Permission to leave, sir?”

  “You may leave now, Corporal Buggles,” she announced, giggling uncontrollably as Stanley marched away, dropping fish as he went and being pounded by the seagulls.

  The warriors marched onward, knee-deep in snow, down into the sinister darkness of the icy valleys. The harsh winter weather bit at their craggy faces and the wind whipped up the tails of their long coats, but they felt nothing. Nothing except the need to take what they felt was theirs, and take it soon.

  6

  A Dreadful Task

  When Stanley returned to the house, Mrs. Carelli was in the corridor where the pike hung on the wall.

  “This place is filthy! There’s so much to dust and clean around here I can’t get near the place. You make the meal tonight, young man, and I’ll go about my jobs. Thank you.” She bobbed around the pike’s glass case with a long feather implement, making funny little movements as she removed the layers of dust.

  She stood back from it and gave it a scowl. “You know something, lad, I think it’s time we got rid of some of these old ornamentations and decorations.”

  Stanley stopped and stared at her in a panic.

  “I mean, will you take a look at that. Did you ever see such an ugly, useless, baggy old lifeless lump of a fish in all your days? If ever a beast was
in need of an early retirement it’s this one. What do you say, Stanley? Shall we give him a swim in the drink?”

  “AHH, NO. NO WAY. Err, I mean … well, actually, I do like it … a lot,” Stanley squeaked.

  “My goodness, Stanley. Touched a nerve there, didn’t I? Had no idea you were so keen on the old trout.”

  “Pike.”

  “Begging your pardon, young man?”

  “It’s a pike, Mrs. Carelli. And a very beautiful example at that, and I should be happy to keep it, thank you very much,” he insisted.

  “All right, all right,” she said. “Now get down from your high horse and go put your apron on.”

  It was much, much later when Stanley had the chance to be alone with the pike again, and he had waited anxiously for the opportunity. He was standing in front of it and admiring the freshly dusted case when the fish finally spoke.

  “Aaahh, young Master Buggles. I see you have found it necessary to seek out my help again. Or perhaps, like your housekeeper, you simply wish to insult my appearance,” he began.

  “Ah … I’m sorry about that. Mrs. Carelli means no harm, I’m sure,” Stanley explained.

  “Never mind. She has dusted my window and improved the view, so I shall forgive her.”

  “I need your help,” started Stanley. “I have had two visits from Admiral Swift, whom I know you sent to help me—but he is without his head.”

  “Yes, of course. First things first, my dear boy, first things first. I sense a little excursion for myself in all of this.

  “Let me explain. Poor old Admiral Swift found out how it felt to be the victim of a predator—much as I did when he pulled me out of the lake and had me gutted. Still, I bear no grudge and I am here to help you, Stanley. You need your Great-uncle badly, and he needs his head. But his poor old noggin lies at the bottom of Crampton Springs. They are very deep and dangerous, I’m afraid—but I know an excellent swimmer who could spear down into the darkness and retrieve that watery lump.”

  “You mean … yourself?”

  “Ahhh, Stanley. You have the mind of a genius. Always thinking ahead.”

  Stanley scratched his head. How could the pike swim, since he wasn’t alive? But then again, how did the pike speak, since he wasn’t alive? He did not like to ask an impertinent question; the poor old pike had heard enough insults for one day.

  “And you said that I should be fearful because the Stormbringers are coming?” Stanley asked instead, taking his opportunity to put more questions to the pike while he could.

  “So you should, Stanley. So you should, for still they come. Through icy winds and rain and over hills and valleys they move. For many miles they have trekked, without stopping or resting. Through night and day they press on fearlessly.”

  “But what does that mean?” asked Stanley. “Who are these people?”

  “I think your deceased Great-uncle is the best person to explain all that, Stanley. Let us first deal with the retrieval of his head. I prefer to swim in the morning. Tomorrow will be fine. Thank you, Stanley. I shall see you then.”

  The pike had made his mind up, and Stanley dared not challenge him.

  Tomorrow would be an interesting day.

  7

  A Fish Out of Water

  Outside, the cold had taken a firm grip over Crampton Rock. Stanley stared out from his bedroom window. Frost scratched at the panes, and an icy draft slipped in around the window frame. Stanley could feel in the air that it was about to snow heavily; a freezing wind was whipping up a storm in the distance.

  And it was carrying something with it.

  Stanley knew he had to be up early the next morning, and that alone was enough to give him a poor night’s sleep, never mind all his other. By the time he saw Daisy again there would be so much more to tell her. And he wasn’t sure she would even believe most of it.

  At six a.m. he was unscrewing the pike’s glass case, in the dark of the early morning. He placed it carefully on the floor.

  And now for the pike. Stanley was almost afraid to touch him, and he was also worried about the safety of the Ibis. He knew that he must not touch it again. But just as he was reviewing this very thought, the pike spoke. “Take the tongs from the kitchen drawer, Stanley, and remove her carefully from inside me. Place her under the loose floorboard that sits directly beneath me. Don’t be afraid. I trust in you.”

  Stanley felt good. The pike trusted him. But when he fumbled with the floorboards, he found himself unable to lift them at all. Frustrated, he ran to the kitchen and returned with the tongs and a sharp blade that he used to ease up the edge of the boarding.

  “That’s it,” encouraged the pike. “She will be fine resting there. We do not want to waken every crook and villain from here to eternity. You would not wish to start the quickening—otherwise you can say goodbye to all you have.”

  Stanley was listening with the tongs in his hand, waiting for the pike to finish. He knew nothing of this thing the pike called the quickening.

  “You look confused, young Stanley,” continued the fish, “but don’t be. It is quite simple. When you held the Ibis in your hand, a faint quiver echoed across the earth. But if she touches the water, a monstrous tremor will waken the world of the dead and buried, and you will have to fight for your life.”

  Stanley stared wide-eyed in disbelief, but deep down he knew that the pike had always told him the truth. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “Now, take me in your arms and let us do what we need to do,” instructed the pike.

  Cupping the fish’s belly with his left hand, Stanley placed his right arm over its back, just in front of the large fin. At first it felt awkward, but then the pike seemed to wriggle right into place.

  Oh, what a strange feeling! The sensation of holding the great fish was hypnotic, and Stanley felt himself swooning and buckling at the knees.

  “Keep your head, little hero!” requested the pike.

  Stanley gathered his thoughts and carefully made his way to the kitchen door. The fish was heavy and the walk up to the lake was a lengthy one. He remembered the inscription on the casing: “A preserved 22½-lb pike caught by Admiral Bartholomew Swift in Crampton Springs, 1827.”

  An icy blast assailed Stanley as he fumbled at the door. He set out into the morning with his scarf-wrapped head down, struggling to pull on his gloves as he held on to the pike’s carcass. His footprints gave away his route as he crunched across the frosted lawn toward the gate, to make his way across the moor.

  As he walked he sang, to cheer himself. The strange sensation of carrying the pike warmed him, but it grew heavier as he ventured farther.

  In a short while they were up by the old water mill. When they had crossed the wooden footbridge he stopped to rest a while on a milestone.

  “You are doing well, Stanley. It is cold for you I know, yet I do not feel it myself.” The pike felt a surge of excitement, and his belly tingled. He longed for the water.

  Stanley did not answer. He was regaining his breath. Instead, he patted the head of the pike to acknowledge him, then he rose to his feet and carried on.

  Unfortunately it was all uphill from there. On a summer’s day Stanley would have trotted there in ten minutes. The journey had taken forty minutes in the freezing cold, but at last he was at the edge of the lake.

  “Ahhh, home again!” said the pike—and for a second, Stanley wondered if it was a good idea to let him back into the water. But he hadn’t come this far to change his mind at the last minute, so he braced himself over the water’s edge.

  “When you’re ready, Stanley. When you’re ready.”

  The great fish slithered downward into the icy water, and the last Stanley saw of him was his tail flickering and propelling him into the depths.

  Stanley sat and waited for what seemed like hours. He felt the ends of his stringy hair freezing together in lumps as he watched the morning light start to appear over the sea.

  Below, the pike glided gracefully. Oh, the feeling
was too good. I could stay here, he thought. I would really be so much happier if I was still here among the reeds.

  He searched through the flowing tendrils of plants and watched the water life dart out of his way. Oh yes, they feared him. He was really someone down here. Someone grand and respected. No one thought he was a trout down here. They knew the difference, and it meant a great deal to all of them.

  The pike shot downward into the deep. He was searching now. He knew the head of Admiral Swift would lie at the bottom. Then, out of the darkness, he glimpsed the milky white skin of the Admiral’s face. He wanted to nip off the admiral’s nose and leave it there while he settled back into life among the reeds. But Stanley needed him.

  The pike took a good length of Admiral Swift’s wispy white hair between his sharp teeth. Then, with a sharp flick that stirred up the silt from the bottom, he turned and pierced upward toward the oncoming morning light.

  And finally he was back. As Stanley sat waiting, the pointed nose of the pike and his glassy eyes suddenly appeared beneath the water, then he rocketed out and landed, THUMP, back into Stanley’s arms, nearly knocking him flying.

  Something gray and grisly was held fast between the pike’s sharp teeth. It swayed from side to side, spraying cold water, almost unrecognizable at first, but Stanley could soon see that it was Admiral Swift’s head.

  Stanley tried not to look at it too closely, and began striding back, hoping to be done with this dreadful task. By the time he had reached the Water Mill, he could bring himself to take a quick glance at the face. Its eyes were shut and it seemed to be changing from pure white to ever so slightly purpleblue. Stanley almost felt the urge to tell Admiral Swift he was looking a bit better.