The Icy Hand

by Chris Mould

  Later, he sat near the warm fire with Mrs. Carelli. She had warmed him through on his return from the moor with a large hot meal, and he was too tired to be bothered by piracy or any other such nonsense.

  Suddenly, there was Admiral Swift, sitting next to Mrs. Carelli. She was happily unaware, her eyes shut and her hands clasped across her middle, taking in the warmth from the fire.

  “Dear oh dear, Stanley,” began the Admiral. “I feel you may have had a close shave with our friends already. You have left me feeling slightly concerned—though, I must admit, you were on your toes.”

  Stanley eyeballed Mrs. Carelli. She had dropped off. He watched her chest gently rising and falling.

  “Was it really them?” he whispered.

  “Well, yes. Absolutely,” the spirit confirmed, with one raised eyebrow.

  “But he seemed friendly. He wasn’t at all what I expected.”

  “Of course he wasn’t, Stanley. Of course he wasn’t. That is his way of luring you into his trap. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. Something tells me that when you met me I was not what you expected either?”

  “Maybe,” Stanley answered, staring at his feet.

  “Then you must learn your lesson, Stanley. You must not let your preconceptions fool you. Mr. Partridge is a slippery customer. He has a certain way of doing business, very different from that of Mr. Flynn and friends. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall go and practice my fencing skills.”

  “Wait!” said Stanley. He had wanted to quiz his Great-uncle further. But no, he was gone.

  And then one eye opened and Mrs. Carelli’s voice came. “Stanley, are you talking to yourself? I’m gonna get Dr. Peebles over to you, sharpish. I’m sure you got a fever, lad.”

  “I’m fine!” he insisted. “I’m fine.”

  Night drew in quickly. The snow and wind were relentless and the temperature dropped even lower.

  The snow was piling up in a way that Stanley had never seen before. Thick drifts caused by the winds swept up the sides of buildings and into corners, bringing the roofs closer to the ground.

  Stanley sat watching it come down from his bedroom window. The lights were off and it was late. Mrs. Carelli’s snoring echoed down the corridor, confirming that she was soundly asleep.

  Crampton Rock looked desolate in the darkness. No one had been in the lookout posts for some time.

  Stanley sensed something was behind him and when he turned around Admiral Swift sat on his bed.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that!” squeaked Stanley. “You frightened me half to death. I thought it was them.”

  Admiral Swift leaned forward and stood himself up.

  “Listen, Stanley, and listen carefully. You may not see me after tonight.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tonight I will enter into a battle to protect what belongs to you and to the family. Bastabelle Partridge is on his way here again right now and he wants only one thing. We mustn’t let go of it, Stanley.

  “In a short while I will refuse to hand over the Ibis, and I will then engage in combat with my greatest enemy. I killed him before, but I need to prepare you in case this time I meet my end. When a spirit is killed by another spirit, he dies out for ever. That is the way it is. I cannot change it.”

  “That’s dreadful!” gasped Stanley. “Let’s be rid of the Ibis, so we can all live in peace on Crampton Rock. You don’t have to fight. We can solve the problem for ever. Just—give it to him.”

  “NEVER,” the Admiral huffed. “No one shall ever put enough fear in me to force me into submission.”

  And Stanley got a swift glimpse of the bold, brave pirate that dwelled inside his Great-uncle.

  “Come, Stanley. As I said, in case anything happens to me I need you to be prepared. Follow me.”

  Stanley followed his Great-uncle down the staircase and in a moment they were in front of the pike again.

  “I do hope Admiral Swift isn’t going to be foolish enough to take hold of the precious Ibis?” came the voice of the pike.

  “Stanley, could you fetch me some tongs? They are in the kitchen drawer,” Admiral Swift asked.

  Stanley did so and when he returned, the front of the glass case had already been removed and was resting on the floor. Admiral Swift placed the tongs carefully inside and curled them around the Ibis. Retrieving it, he held it up to where the moonlight shone in from the hallway window.

  It was beautiful. Every color Stanley could think of seemed to show on its silvery surface.

  “There is good reason for me showing you this again, young fellow. Something you haven’t yet discovered.”

  The Admiral turned it over, and at the back of it were two interlocking segments. He took out his sword and gently used its tip to flick the segments upward, so they stuck out like prongs.

  “There you go,” he said. “It still works.”

  “What do you mean, it still works?” quizzed Stanley.

  “The Ibis is a key, Stanley. These prongs are made to push into two small holes. You see, the Ibis is only a part of something much more valuable: a casket crafted from silver. Needless to say, an ancient and valuable casket. It houses three keys below its lid: two of them, the Bison and the Jackal, are in place. The third, of course, is the Ibis. No one knows where the casket is, but the pirate world knows that the Ibis is the missing link. I don’t think giving the Ibis away would stop those scoundrels from darkening your door, Stanley. All eyes would be on this place, because they think that the casket is here also.”

  Stanley felt a leap of excitement, contained by his concern that he was involved in something dark and dangerous. He could see no way out of it.

  “I saw her once,” the Admiral continued. “Beautiful, she is. Pure silver, with the same cascade of colors as the Ibis when the light is on her, and wonderfully crafted. Only small, yet big enough to house what she conceals comfortably behind her closed lid. I do not know exactly where she is, but many think that the Ibis and the casket are close to each other. I cannot say if that is true.”

  “When was this? When you saw the casket, I mean?”

  “Oh, many years ago, Stanley. That is another story. Perhaps when we have more time I will tell you it.”

  “And what is the secret she holds behind her closed lid?” begged Stanley.

  “Aah, now even I haven’t got that far. And if you ever do, then you have my blessing and I wish you every ounce of luck.”

  The Admiral placed the Ibis carefully down the throat of the pike and put the case back in position.

  “Ah, such gentle hands,” said the pike. “I wish you had been as careful when you took the hook from my lip. Still it hurts, even now.”

  Stanley’s Great-uncle turned to look at him. “Some people become bitter as they grow older, Stanley,” he smiled. “Whatever you do in your life, don’t grow old and bitter.”

  “People?” questioned the pike. “People? I am not a person. I am a pike.”

  “Mrs. Carelli thinks you are a trout,” said Admiral Swift.

  “There is only one old trout in this place,” the pike returned. “And I think she fits the description better than I do.”

  And that was all he would say before he returned to sleep.

  “He has never forgiven me,” said the Admiral, “and he would not have retrieved my head if he hadn’t wanted to help you. You have a good friend in him, Stanley. He likes you.”

  Stanley smiled. It felt strange to think of a preserved fish in a glass case as a good friend, but he did not say that out loud. He would never do that.

  They returned to Stanley’s room and sat in wait. It was a long vigil, and every minute seemed like an hour. Stanley must have peered from the window a thousand times as his Great-uncle paced up and down the room. Every so often Admiral Swift would whip out his sword and take a slice at the empty space in front of him. Then he would put the sword back by his side and say in his best voice, “And that is why they call me Swift.”

 
At almost three in the morning, the black carriage finally rolled up under the window. The Admiral shook Stanley’s hand.

  “Wish me luck,” he sighed. “Don’t come out. It’s cold and there’s nothing you can do. This is a spiritual clash of swords, my friend, and the best man will win.”

  Then he was gone. A tear welled up in Stanley’s eye. What if he never saw his Great-uncle again?

  Stanley was almost too scared to look from his window, yet somehow he had to look.

  Admiral Swift was standing outside the carriage. Bastabelle Partridge opened the door and stepped out. He was huge, almost square, with a great black beard that cascaded down his front, and he seemed to be alone. To Stanley’s surprise, when the pirate approached Admiral Swift he shook his hand and they spoke politely to each other.

  Then he was just as surprised when Partridge whipped out his sword—and in a flash they were battling blades in the snow. Admiral Swift denied his old age and moved around nimbly, twisting and turning. What a professional. Partridge was quick, despite his monstrous frame, but Swift was moving too fast and took a sly slice at his opponent’s middle, wounding him badly. But Partridge would not give up and he clutched his wound with his free hand.

  They danced around the black carriage, crossing their blades as the snow and wind whirled around them. And then suddenly, in a flash of a movement, Swift had Partridge right where he wanted him. The Admiral was backed up against the carriage door, but Partridge had dropped his sword and Swift had his piercingly sharp blade perched under Bastabelle’s chin.

  The two of them were still and silent. This was it. The very moment had arrived. Partridge grinned a wide grin. Stanley thought he looked extremely calm, considering he was about to say goodbye to the world of wandering spirits.

  Admiral Swift hesitated. And in that moment’s hesitation, Swift found that Partridge was not alone after all.

  Jackdaw McCormick was right behind the very door the Admiral was backed up against. Like the sting of a bee, McCormick’s blade shot through the carriage door and straight through Admiral Swift.

  That was all it took. Bastabelle Partridge stayed right where he was, and watched as Admiral Swift dropped to his knees and then fell flat on his face.

  And that, I am afraid to say, was the end of Admiral Swift.

  Stanley watched in horror. As he looked through the frosted panes of his window, the flickering colored light of the Admiral’s spirit soared upward into the falling flakes and petered out toward the stars. He was gone for ever. Not far away, in the churchyard where he had been buried, his headstone cracked and crumbled to the ground in a million pieces.

  Right there and then, Stanley’s shock and horror were overshadowed by the terrible danger. There was no Admiral Swift to look after the house anymore, and the evil figure of Partridge stood by the door to the Hall.

  But Stanley had one stroke of luck. Admiral Swift had managed to wound his enemy, and Partridge could not stand without the aid of his long-legged sidekick, McCormick. They hobbled pathetically into the coach, vowing loudly enough to reach Stanley’s window, that they would return. The blackened shape of the carriage disappeared into the night.

  Stanley was wrapped in grief. He had barely gotten to know his Great-uncle, and now it was all over. He could not turn to Mrs. Carelli. She knew nothing of this and she would think him mad.

  He stood staring from his room across the harbor and the tears cascaded down his face. The snow was piling up and he watched from his bed until all he could see was white. Then he fell asleep.

  11

  A Touch of Magic

  At daybreak, Stanley ran to the Lighthouse and beat at the door until Daisy appeared. He was shaken by the death of his Great-uncle, and desperate for Daisy to know of the danger they would be in as soon as Partridge returned.

  Daisy agreed to come back to the Hall with him, and they sat for hours talking of plans and plots. It was no easy task.

  Eventually Stanley fell asleep on his bed, weary after his long night.

  Daisy wandered across the hallway into the room opposite. They had spent much time in here: it was home to a host of ancient books and papers, and the drawers and cupboards were filled to the brim with every kind of weird and wonderful object. Birds’ eggs, butterflies, insects and spiders, all neatly labeled. Jars and bottles of colorful potions and lotions that had stood for years unused.

  “Surely something here will help,” said Daisy to herself. She searched alone as Stanley slept, rooting through the parchments and papers and delving deep into the sinister contents of long-untouched manuscripts. In a corner, propping up the broken leg of a small table, was a large book with a black cover. It had an intricately scribbled title:

  Notes and Notions

  Inside it were endless notes in elaborate handwriting—strange ideas, spells, and magic filled the pages. Little drawings peppered the corners and spaces between the paragraphs. Daisy searched and searched.

  She was interrupted by Mrs. Carelli. “Ah, there you are, poppet. I think you should stay here tonight.” The weather had grown so foul that even the short walk to the Lighthouse was treacherous, and Mrs. Carelli had already shouted down to one of the villagers at the harbor to call on Mr. Grouse and tell him she was safe and warm for the night.

  Daisy was just down the corridor from Stanley, in a large room with a huge bed that had been unoccupied for almost as long as it had been in Candlestick Hall. She couldn’t see the sea, but the window overlooked the churchyard and the bed was postcard-pretty under a crispy white covering.

  She had placed the black book in her room, with the intention of reading it that night, clinging to the hope that she would find the answer she needed between its damp pages.

  Late that night, sleepily turning over yet another page, Daisy was confronted with a short passage headed: “Life and death and back again.” She read it through once or twice, then folded the corner of the page so that she could find it again. Soon after, she fell asleep, the book still laid out in front of her.

  Some time further into the early hours, Stanley awoke from a light sleep and thought he heard something moving. He felt sure that there was movement in the corridor.

  His door creaked and his heart leapt as he watched the gap open and a face stare in at him from the blackness.

  “Stanley, are you awake?”

  Thank goodness. It was Daisy.

  “Yes,” he answered. “What’s wrong?”

  “Come quickly and take a look from my window.”

  Stanley fired into action. He half-knew what to expect, and threw clothes over his nightwear as he went. They went into Daisy’s room and drew close to the window.

  Together they watched as the black carriage came into view, wading through the drifts. It was silent as it went, but the wind whipped up around it like a tornado.

  The coach moved awkwardly, its huge bulk leaving a deep furrowed trail behind it, gliding right under their window. It almost disappeared out of sight and Daisy and Stanley pushed their frozen faces up to the glass to see where it stopped.

  “The eye of the storm is here, Daisy. This is it. Somehow we are going to have to deal with this … But I don’t know where to start!”

  Stanley didn’t have to wait long. A smash of glass came from the dining hall, followed by a horrendous thud and crack. He and Daisy ran down the corridor and headed down the long staircase, bursting into the room.

  A huge cannonball had been hurled through the window, splitting the grand table clean in two. The icy snow blew in through the hole, intruding on the warmth of the house. Through the darkness, a fat silhouette was forcing itself through the broken glass and pulling on the long drapes.

  But it wasn’t just Daisy and Stanley who’d been woken by the noise.

  “GET YOUR FILTHY STINKIN HANDS OFF MY BEST CURTAINS, YOU BIG LOUSY LUMMOX!”

  Mrs. Carelli bustled up behind Daisy and Stanley, rolling pin in hand. But Stanley knew that she was no match for Partridge and McCormick. He
urged her to stay back.

  “YOU’LL PAY FOR THOSE WINDOWS, YOU BEARDED OAF!” she cried as Partridge came closer.

  McCormick slithered in behind his friend, holding a long weapon close to his chest. He bent down to speak to Mrs. Carelli. He was massively tall: Stanley reckoned he must have been eight feet in height, and his face was desperately unpleasant. A patch covered his left eye and his long slope of a nose matched the contours of his chin. Stanley knew right there and then that Jackdaw McCormick had never had a good bone in his body for as long as he’d lived.

  “Now, now, miss. Let us not lose our heads. We don’t all want to end up like Admiral Swift now, do we?” sneered Jackdaw.

  Mrs. Carelli really didn’t like that. In a burst of temper, she lunged forward at him, but he was way too powerful and batted her off like a fly. He sent her hurtling into the corner of the room, where she lay gasping for breath.

  Stanley and Daisy ran to her and held on.

  McCormick let out a sinister cackle. Stanley would have loved to punch him square in the teeth.

  Partridge carried on as if nothing had happened, dusting himself down as he came nearer.

  “I’m very sorry about Great-uncle Bart, Stanley. He was a noble man—but I’m afraid our differences had become too great. No one lasts for ever, my dear. It was a fair fight but a tough one and now I bear a scar to prove it.” He pulled his coat open and revealed his horrendous wound to Stanley.

  Stanley didn’t answer. He just

  stared and waited for the next sentence from the man who always made himself sound reasonable, despite what he was saying.

  “There is only the small matter of the Ibis to be dealt with, and we can be on our way,” Partridge continued. “This weather will cease, and you can all get back to normal. How does that sound? I know it’s here. I can feel it,” he said in a very matter-of-fact voice.