Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  The two trespassers sailed through the dawn with sea spray in their faces and briny air strengthening their resolve. They zigzagged their way towards Myrkur Island with only the seabirds as witnesses to their bold endeavor, or at least that is what Cyrus thought…

  FROM THE DISTANT SHORE, keen eyes and a sharp wit stalked the newcomers. It watched with deep interest as the two interlopers neared its forsaken island.

  Chapter 5

  THE SECRET STAIRS

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Cyrus and Edward reached Myrkur Island. Cyrus dragged the boat up the beach and into the cover of the woods. The scent of dried kelp clung to the shore like a fog.

  “We made it,” Cyrus said, exhaling a shaky breath.”

  “What now,” Edward asked, brushing sand from his fur.

  “We scout the island,” Cyrus replied, “We’ll make our way to the southern shore. If all seems safe, we stick to the plan; head back to Virkelot, steal supplies and leave for good in the morning.”

  They hid the craft under several branches and fern leaves and began to explore the forest. The trees and undergrowth looked very similar to Hekswood, and if Cyrus had not known better, he would have sworn that they were still on Virkelot.

  “Look,” Edward hissed.

  He crawled along Cyrus’ shoulder and pointed a shaky leg at a nearby footpath.

  “How is that possible?” Cyrus asked, “No one’s supposed to live here.”

  The path led into the woods and was overgrown with vines and poisonous creepers.

  “You hear that?” Edward asked.

  Crack!

  The sound came from the trees. Cyrus froze. Barely audible under the wash of the tide, he heard twigs snap and pop underfoot, and branches scratch against skin… Or was it fur? Then it was gone.

  “A wild pig maybe,” he said, trying to fight back the fear, “I think whatever made this path is long gone. It hasn’t been used in years.”

  Edward’s hair stood on end, and his eyes were wide and searching. Cyrus found a stick and began to bushwhack their way along the neglected trail. Scavenger birds squawked from tangled trees and rats scurried through ragged shrubs.

  “It’s weird,” Edward said, “the animals here don’t seem to be as frightened of me.”

  “The animals are no more afraid of you here than anywhere else,” Cyrus replied.

  But that was a lie. There was a strange absence of rodents and seagulls near Edward’s tree, and the one time that Cyrus had tried to sneak his best friend home, the forest creatures howled and fled as if a storm approached.

  Cyrus saw movement through the woods to his right. At first, he thought it was his shadow, for the dark shape too seemed tall and slender. His pulse quickened. A deer maybe? It was too small. He began to track the figure out of the corner of his eye. Its motions were slow and graceful, like a cat through grass.

  “Watch out!” Edward screamed, digging his legs into Cyrus’ arm.

  Cyrus turned and found himself at the edge of a chasm.

  “Holy Sea Zombie!” he gasped, teetering on the verge.

  The rent was about four feet wide. It cut across the path, delving deep into the forest on either side. His legs felt numb. Stumbling, he stepped back from the pit, loosening a patch of gravel from the edge. The pebbles rained into the chasm. Several breaths passed before,

  Sploosh!

  “Edward, you okay?” Cyrus asked, his breath labored.

  “It sounds like another underground lake,” Edward said, panting, “like under Virkelot. The cavern’s roof must be starting to cave in.”

  Cyrus looked about for the thing that had distracted his attention. The shadow seemed to have disappeared.

  “You’ve got to keep your eyes on the trail,” Edward said.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  The two continued deeper into the woods. The smell of mud and forest cabbage blanketed the earth.

  By late afternoon they arrived at the southern tip of Myrkur Island. There, the forest receded into the island’s white, stone foundation; then rolled off into a steep cliff. The bluff rimmed the entire southern coast. As they walked down its slope, they saw a vast underwater sandbar that surrounded the land.

  “I’ve never seen the ocean look so clear,” Edward said.

  Cyrus peered down the slope. His stomach twisted. Someone or something had cut a stairway into the island’s face.

  “Edward, look,” he whispered.

  The wind-worn stairs snaked over the cliff side and out of sight. What if they had discovered the Sea Zombie’s den or the lair of some troll or demon? Cyrus wanted to run, leave this place and never come back. He weighed his options. Go home to his stepmother, or explore the strange pathway. Summoning all his courage, he began to make his way down.

  “What are you doing?” Edward asked, skittering around his neck.

  “If we’re going to live here, we have to see where it leads,” Cyrus said, his voice quivering.

  He hugged his body to the wall as he descended the stairs. The cliff’s face was smooth like a massive egg. His heart raced, and his flesh grew cold and sweaty. He reached the end of the steps. There lay a large plateau. The stone bluff acted as a threshold to two yawning caverns.

  “The caves are mirror images of one another,” Cyrus said, forcing himself to peer into each.

  Both entrances were oval, and their ceilings at least ten times taller than Cyrus. A draft of sea air gusted through both as if the very island exhaled breath.

  “Come on, this is far enough,” Edward said, “Let’s turn back.”

  “I don’t like this either,” Cyrus said, “but if we’re going to leave home, we have to know what this is.”

  Carefully, they entered the cave on the left and walked into the depths of the island.

  “The walls are so smooth,” Cyrus whispered, gliding his fingers along the yellowish stone, “They look almost hand finished.”

  At the end of the tunnel, they found that they did not need a lantern. Both caves opened up into an even larger, brighter cavern. Cyrus craned his head out of the tunnel and Edward poked his head out of Cyrus’ hair.

  Another pair of cave openings lit its interior. The passages to the east and west were several times larger than the one the two friends had entered. The ocean sprayed outside of each as seagulls flew through them like threads through the eye of an oversized needle.

  “Look at that,” Cyrus said, as he entered the chamber, “Somebody carved pools in the ground.”

  Near the back of the cave lay mirror image ponds. Dark purple barnacles framed the pool’s edges, and their black waters reflected their surroundings like glass.

  For a moment, in the western pond, Cyrus thought he saw blue lights move below the surface.

  “Edward, did you see that?”

  “What?”

  Cyrus looked again. The lights had vanished.

  “Nothing- I guess…”

  He turned his gaze from the pools to the vaulted ceilings. The arches were symmetrical with cracks running through the stone like that of a fractured pot. Long, dark roots had forced their way through the rents. Water dripped from the tendrils like tears.

  “I think this whole place was carved out by hand,” Cyrus said.

  He turned and saw a round wooden door set into the cavern wall.

  “Angels help us,” Edward said, spindling down from his friend’s ear.

  Cyrus stood frozen. What sort of creature waited beyond that door? Why was he risking his life for this? He felt his black eye; remembered again the home he would be returning to.

  The door did not seem to be part of the cave’s original design. Cyrus forced himself to move closer and study the hatch’s details. An undisturbed, salty film clung to the metal and wood, and sand filled the cracks between the door and the wall. With a shaky hand, he reached for the handle.

  “What are you doing?” Edward gasped.

  “The hinges are all rusted through. This door hasn’t been opened in ages.”
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  The metal latch felt grimy with salt. Carefully, Cyrus began to open the weather-beaten hatch. The hinges crumbled, and the covering crashed to the ground like a broken shield. Cyrus’ heart jumped, and his skin prickled. Sunlight shone through the entranceway. Freshly churned dust danced and swirled in its beam. He masked his nose with his denim shirt and peered into the egg-shaped room, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. The air smelled of old potato sacks.

  “Someone used to live here,” he whispered, noticing tattered fishnets and oil paintings hanging from the curved walls.

  The depictions were of dark woods and seas. In the center of the room, on a large wooden table, several teardrop-shaped glasses sat on metal stands. Dust and cobwebs clung to the apparatus as if they would collapse without their aid.

  Every muscle in Cyrus’ body tensed as he passed through the threshold.

  “What is all this?” he asked, peering about.

  Edward said nothing.

  Cyrus stepped towards the table and inspected a pair of rusted tweezers and a long skinny knife that was more handle than blade.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Edward hissed.

  Cyrus studied a dried turtle skeleton that lay on the table.

  “Someone used twigs and moss to model a forest, fence, and village on the top of its shell.”

  “Whoever lived here must have been mad,” Edward replied.

  Against the wall, a large wooden bookcase brooded over several volumes of leather-bound books. To its left hung a steel rack that displayed vials of animal organs as well as several reptile skeletons.

  Cyrus felt movement from the entryway. He spun. The door stood empty.

  “Cyrus…”

  He looked to where Edward sat frozen on his shoulder. The spider pointed a long, needle-like leg to the back of the room. In a darkened corner sat a clothed skeleton with a book in one hand, and a quill pen in the other. Cyrus’ limbs tingled, and butterflies filled his ribs.

  “It’s a man,” he whispered.

  He forced himself to move closer.

  “Cyrus, no.”

  The skeleton wore a pair of blue overalls and a sealskin jacket and boots. On what had once been its face, rested a pair of wire-framed glasses. A web stretched from its skull to its hands, and a large, brown maus spider occupied a finger. It scurried off its perch and into the skeleton’s eye socket.

  “I think the old guy died writing something,” Cyrus said.

  He crept over to the dead man’s bedside. The air smelled like a disused attic.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Edward asked, “What’s it say?”

  Cyrus leaned as close as he dared and read the text, “‘Early winter, day eleven thousand, three hundred and fifteen. The blue-eyed phantom watches me from the water. Too tired for further study, need rest…’ from there it just trails off.”

  “Blue-eyed phantom?” Edward asked, his fur bristling, “Cyrus, we need to go!”

  “Just a sec.”

  Cyrus pulled the book out of the skeleton’s grasp. Its hand crumbled to dust.

  “Sorry.”

  He brushed the book off and stuffed it under his arm. Then he sprang across the room and gathered up the strange turtle skeleton with the model village on its back.

  He and Edward rushed out of the dead man’s dwelling. As they crossed the entryway, they found fresh, webbed footprints leading from the nearest pool. Cyrus froze, cringing as if about to be struck. The blue-eyed phantom…

  “Run,” Edward hissed.

  Cyrus shook the terror from his limbs and scrambled out the caverns. He hurried back through the forest with Edward looking over their shoulders and set sail under the dying sun.

  Myrkur was not safe. That was clear. But Virkelot seemed little better. What was Cyrus going to do? The book! He had to read the book.

  Chapter 6

  THE ODDFOOT JOURNAL

  IT WAS JUST AFTER SUNSET when Cyrus stumbled into the kitchen and found his brother and stepmother hunched over the dinner table. The kitchen smelled of beef stew, but the round table stood bare. Niels looked up, his face pale.

  “Where were you all day?” Llysa asked, staring down at her hands clasped on the table.

  Her black hair cast a dark shadow across her face.

  Cyrus looked to Niels. Niels shook his head slowly, but Cyrus could not read the sign.

  “I was helping Niels,” he lied, his stomach turning.

  Niels’ head slumped.

  “All day?” his stepmother asked, in an even tone.

  Her calmness sent tingles over Cyrus’ flesh.

  “Mm- most of it,” he said, growing sweaty and hot.

  Niels shifted in his chair.

  “And where did you go after that?” his stepmother continued, looking up.

  She wore a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. Niels shot Cyrus a look. What was its meaning?

  “The Western Woods,” he finally said.

  “And what were you doing there?” she asked.

  “Ga-gathering berries.”

  Llysa reached down to her lap and brought up a leather belt.

  “Gathering berries after a long day’s work?” she said in an almost sweet voice, “You’re a little liar. Niels needed your help. Where were you?”

  “Mom, I was fine,” Niels started to say.

  His mother cut him off, “And where are these so-called berries?”

  “I- ate them,” Cyrus said.

  His eyes shifted back and forth between Llysa and the belt.

  “We both know you weren’t with Niels or gathering berries. If you were, I would have found you. So, I’m going to ask you one last time. Where were you?”

  Llysa rose from her seat, her voice becoming a growl. Cyrus’ hair bristled, and a chill sweat coated his flesh.

  “I was in the Western Woods,” he stammered.

  She started to move slowly towards him around the table. He wished he had taken his chances and stayed on Myrkur Island.

  “I also went mushrooms picking a little near the North River. I swear.”

  “Liar!”

  Llysa threw a chair aside and lunged at Cyrus. Niels stood up.

  “Mom, please, don’t,” he shouted.

  “You stay out of this.”

  Cyrus cowered away, his back crashing against the kitchen door, “Please, no. I’m telling the truth.”

  She grabbed him by the hair and let the belt unravel.

  “I won’t tolerate lying in this household,” she shouted, pulling him up by the roots.

  Raising the belt high, she bared her teeth and whipped at his backside. Instinctively, Cyrus tried to shield himself. The blow struck his arms. He clenched his teeth, fighting back a scream. It felt as if he had been slashed with a blade.

  “Stop covering up, or I’ll get the stick!” she snarled.

  “Please, I didn’t do anything wrong,” Cyrus begged.

  She whipped him a second time across the forearms.

  “Aaahh!”

  The pain was too much. He pulled his arms away. She lashed at the back of his thighs. The sting was like a glowing rod of iron.

  “Aaaahhh!”

  Again, he shielded himself.

  “I said move those arms,” she shouted.

  But Cyrus could not any more than he could keep himself from shrieking. She began to whip at him with wild fore and backhand strikes. Cyrus fell against the wall and curled up fetal. She struck him around the head and shoulders. Cyrus took most of the blows on the arms and hands. Finally, he kicked at her ankles and scrambled free, crawling across the floor and recoiling into a corner of the pantry.

  “How dare you lift a hand to me!” she spat.

  Rage filled her hate-creased face. She grasped the belt at its leather end.

  “Mom no!” Niels cried.

  She raised the belt high and swung the metal buckle around her head in a single, smooth circle. Cyrus’ eyes grew wide. He tried to somehow scurry further into the pantry’s corner. She l
ashed at him with a furious, snarling grunt. Wincing, he spun away. The steel buckle caught him in the ribs.

  “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.