by Chris Mould
As they walked on, it tailed off into more little tunnels. On they went, this way, that way, upwards, downwards, sideways. Long honeycombed networks of passageways all littered with jeweled stones for as far as they could see.
The three buccaneers were speechless. Save for a few gasps of wonderment, they barely managed to speak to one another.
MacDowell broke the silence. “Wallopin’ weevils! I ain’t never laid eyes on such a treat in all me days. The devil sure was full of ’imself the day he put this place together. It’s enough to turn any sane man into the worst of sea dogs.”
Stanley didn’t have a clue what MacDowell was saying.
“This ain’t no ordinary find, Stanley. Yer need to keep this one firmly under yer hat. There’s serious consequences in this gettin’ out in the open.”
“What do you mean by that?” Daisy asked.
“Listen now,” he began, “and listen good. This ain’t no buried treasure we’re lookin’ at. Oh no, this is a gold mine. A place where gold occurs naturally in the rock. Where it’s dug from in the first place. Are yer with me?”
“Aye, captain,” said Stanley. “I’m with you.”
“Daisy?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“If this ’ere secret creeps outside o’ this old mine, you can kiss good-bye to Candlestick Hall and every other thing in sight. If ever yer needed to keep a secret, me dears, this’ll be it.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying,” quizzed Daisy as she squinted through the darkness.
“Well, pin yer ears back now and take heed. If the rest o’ the pirate world gets to know that Crampton Rock is hiding a gold mine, they’ll be here in a flash. Them and every gold prospector that ever lived, chinking away at these hollows until every last little piece has been claimed. And when that’s been done, this whole island will collapse under the strain and you’d better find another Rock to put down your roots in.”
Stanley stared at Daisy and she stared back at him. Their wide grins had turned into serious expressions at the thought of what might come.
They turned back and tiptoed out through the mine, back out into the cellar, replacing the stone flag in its place … where just ahead of them, the watchful eyes sneaked away unseen.
6
Desperate Measures
Edmund Darkling awoke in his cell. The same four walls were still around him. He had been here for only a short space of time, but frustration and desperation had already taken their toll. He was not prepared to give in to this dreadful life of half-existence when he knew there was a way out.
That night Grace Darkling came to visit, with the children following at her heels. She was allowed a short while to sit with her husband, but usually before the conversation had even begun they were herded back out into the street.
“Grace, I am at my wits’ end,” declared Mr. Darkling. “I need to walk outside under the moonlight. I need to feel the earth beneath my feet. My children will grow up outside these walls and I will be confined inside them. I’m sorry, Grace, but I must make my escape in the only way I know how.”
“No, Edmund, please. Wait. There is another way, I’m sure. We can make a plea to the court. They may show some leniency if we wait a while,” Grace begged.
“There is no other way. Prepare yourself; you will not see me in here again after tonight.”
Moments later, Mrs. Darkling was dragged in tears to the door of the jailhouse. She stole through the village under the moonlight, with the children trailing behind her.
Stanley was tucked up in his bed, trying to drop off to sleep. The image of the gold mine had stayed with him all afternoon, and he could barely contain his excitement. But he knew MacDowell was right, it was a secret that must never escape. It would put the Rock at risk, and the cost would be too great.
Each of the treasure seekers had made a promise: that they would never, as long as they lived, take a single piece of gold from beneath the surface of Crampton Rock.
The slab of stone was put back in place, and the secret was safe again.
Stanley worried that this great secret would wheedle its way out. And if it did, it would be his fault. He climbed out of bed and walked to the window, rubbing his eyes. He could see the brim of the ocean lapping up against the harbor. The tide was in and he knew that no one could get into the mines right now.
And he knew that every time he looked out to sea he would think of the mines, with their long honeycombed trails lying beneath Crampton Rock like a huge beehive. Whenever the tide was out he would feel nervous.
And what if someone found their way in? There must be at least one way in from the cliffs, thought Stanley. Sure, it might not be big enough for someone to creep through, but nonetheless it preyed on his mind.
“Arrrrrghhhhhhoooooooooooooo w w w l,” came an unearthly cry through the air as Stanley stared into the darkness.
His heart thundered.
He had heard that cry before. But surely he hadn’t heard what he thought he had heard.
“Aaaoooooooooooooooooooooo,” it came again. Only this time clearer, almost as if the howler was getting stronger and finding his voice. It rang through the night, and spots of light appeared in a few of the houses as candles were lit and curtains pulled back.
And then Stanley was sure, absolutely sure, that he saw something long and black and slender slinking through the village.
He rubbed his eyes again. “I’m dreaming,” he murmured, and climbed back into bed.
As he slept the noise continued, and Stanley dreamed of the wolf’s return. He was following the great beast, pursuing it through the smugglers’ mines, pushing through the long dark tunnels, and thundering over the rocks and stones. But he was too late. The wolf had got there first, and taken hold of someone or something. A great moan echoed out across the Rock.
Stanley woke with a start. Silence reigned. The night was still.
In the end he must have drifted back to sleep, but it felt to Stanley like he’d been up all night.
A loud knock at the door disturbed him. He looked at the old clock by his bedside and saw that it was early. Mrs. Carelli was calling to him.
“Stanley! Stanley! Can you come down, lad,” she cried in a soft voice. Something was wrong. He leapt up and jumped quickly into his clothes, blustering down the stairs.
His good friend Bartley and the old lady Greta were there, from the gypsy camp out on the moor.
“Sit down, Stanley,” instructed Mrs. Carelli. But he stayed standing and stared at their serious expressions.
No one smiled or exchanged pleasantries. It was too early for a social call and that meant only one thing.
Bad news!
“What is it?” Stanley asked.
“It’s my brother Phinn,” Bartley began. “Something took him in the night, lad. Something beastly. It looks like the curse of the werewolf has returned to the island.”
Stanley felt sick. He asked them to tell him once more, so that he could be sure he heard them, though there was nothing else on earth that could have sounded worse to his ears.
A wave of dizziness came over him and Mrs. Carelli gently took his shoulders and put him in a chair.
“No!” cried Stanley.
“Not Phinn. Are you sure?” And then the previous night came flooding back to him. The strange howl, the lights in the windows, the black shape slinking through the village.
He’d been right. He really had seen it.
“Phinn was returning from the inn alone,” explained Bartley. “We had taken a drink together, and returned separately. Not for any real reason—I was talking with some of the fishermen and agreed to catch up with him on the moor. But when I did, it was too late.”
Bartley dropped his head and hid the tears that were rolling down his cheeks.
Only a stone’s throw from where they sat in tears remembering their good friend Phinn, a commotion was bubbling in the jailhouse. The prison warder was inspecting the cells. Mostly they were empty, save for
the odd short-term visitor. But at the far end lay the cell where Edmund Darkling had been condemned to spend the rest of his days.
The warder turned the long key in the lock, pushed down the handle, and opened the door—then looked on in astonishment as he saw that the cell was empty. The bars of the window had somehow been twisted and broken to force an opening.
And in the far corner of the room, a pair of shoes and a pile of torn and tattered clothing were the only signs that Edmund Darkling had ever even been there.
7
Complications
In the days that followed, things began to change dramatically on the island. The lookouts returned to their watchtowers at dusk, which was a sure sign that the villagers believed the wolf had returned. Stanley watched from his window and with a growing sense of worry, he saw the silhouettes of figures clambering up the stilts to the very top.
A sense of fear and darkness returned to the Rock and on top of this, Stanley and Daisy were greatly saddened at the loss of their good friend Phinn. His lonesome grave now stood out on the bleak moor, with only the wild winds to keep it company.
And to worsen matters further, the gypsies had decided they had no choice but to leave the island again. They knew that one day they would return to the peaceful charm of the Rock, but right now the same dreadful creature that had driven them away before had worked its wicked way once again.
Stanley and Daisy stood at the harbor with the Carellis and a handful of villagers as they watched the wooden wagons crawl down across the moor. The long timber trail snaked through the hills and finally arrived on the cobbles, making their way to the ferry.
One wagon stopped, and out came Bartley.
His huge figure stooped to climb out through the small frame of the door. His eyes were reddened and he threw his huge frame around Daisy and then Stanley.
“Before we go, Stanley, I thought you might like to take this,” he said, struggling to get the words out through his tears, and he put something into Stanley’s hands. It was Phinn’s hat.
“He always said it brought him luck,” he continued. “It’s just a shame he wasn’t wearing it the night he was attacked.”
Stanley and Daisy begged him and Greta to stay. They could leave the wagons out on the moor and stay at the Hall. Sure, it would be chaos, but it was big enough for all of them.
But no, the decision had been made for them. That was how they saw it.
“One day, Stanley, we will return. And you had better promise me that when we do, you will still be here,” said Bartley, shaking his hand and almost crushing it without even realizing.
“I shall be here,” said Stanley, brushing off a tear and massaging his fingers. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
They stood at the harbor wall until the ferry had grown tiny and the waving hands had merged with the flapping wings of the seagulls that followed them.
As they returned to the Hall, someone from the Mayoress’s office was nailing posters to every post he could find.
Stanley and Daisy stopped and stared. Surely not!
Edmund Darkling escaped from his prison cell!
“How on earth could he possibly manage that? Those bars are made of the strongest iron,” exclaimed Stanley.
And then he began to wonder.
“What is it?” quizzed Daisy.
“Oh, er … nothing. I had a thought, but I’m sure it’s wrong,” he mumbled.
“Well, come on then,” she said as they stood staring at the poster. “Don’t keep me in the dark, Stanley. What is your little thought?”
“Well, when the Darklings first came to claim the Hall, Greta explained something to us about their past. Do you remember?”
“You mean, about their connection to the werewolf, that they had an ancestor who had suffered the curse?”
“Exactly.” Stanley grimaced. “A direct bloodline to the wolf, the very man who built Candlestick Hall in the first place. Brice Darkling. Bitten by the wolf, but lived to tell the tale and father a line of children who spread the lupine strains through generations.”
“Are you saying that Edmund Darkling is our werewolf?” Daisy asked, open-mouthed.
“Maybe.” Stanley was unsure. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but how else could he break through those bars?”
Their discussion was broken in two.
“Blisterin’ blood boils, whatever next? Escaped criminals! Werewolves! Folks leavin’ the island in despair! This place be goin’ downhill, lad.”
It was MacDowell, scratching his head and staring at the poster over their shoulders. They chatted away, wandering into the village, and found themselves outside the candle shop. The door was slightly open, and inside Victor was working away.
The three of them went in to say hello and sat a while, talking over the unfolding drama and predicting what would come in the days ahead.
But Daisy could see the old Darkling place from where she sat, and she caught sight of something she didn’t like. She nudged Stanley and they stared out through the window.
Young Berkeley was heading around to the back of the house, and they could hear the hatch of the coalbin lifting and a small person disappearing down the chute. Berkeley’s sisters were in the kitchen, but little did they know what he was up to under their very feet.
MacDowell had caught on, and now he too was filled with panic. What was the boy up to? How much did he know? And when would they get the chance to find out what he was doing in the Darkling cellar?
8
The Littlest Pirate
It was late the following afternoon when they spotted Berkeley again. Daisy had been out fishing with her uncle in the morning, and when they returned with their catch she took a good amount of fish up to the Hall for Mrs. Carelli. She stayed awhile, and they all sat out in the sun, basking on the lawn.
They watched the sea move back into the distance and Stanley wondered about the mine being exposed while the tide was out.
Then Berkeley ran across the harbor. He was on his own, and most likely up to no good. Stanley got to his feet, watching Berkeley’s every move. But he’d gone right down into the village and was now out of sight.
“Anybody want to take a walk?” asked Stanley.
Right away, the rest of the treasure-seekers’ alliance were on their feet, trotting along in the sun in order to spy on the young lad.
Stanley had been given a key of his own for the shop, and this made things a little easier when they were snooping. They cut across the back of the shops and houses and entered Victor’s place through the rear door, piling up at the window, shoving their faces at the little square panes and forcing their eyelids wider in the hope that they would see more.
They knocked a row of candles to the floor as they pushed up to the window, each one breaking in half as it landed, before rolling across the floor.
And again, from where they watched, they could see a small figure disappearing around the back of the house. They listened quietly. Bang! They heard the sound of the coalbin door opening and closing.
“Why doesn’t he just go through the house from the kitchen?” quizzed Daisy.
“He’s like us,” said Stanley. “He doesn’t want to be discovered. His mother knows only too well what a pest he is, always up to no good.”
“Very true,” said Daisy.
Back outside they went, looking this way and that. Luckily the warm afternoon had sent most people down onto the baking sand, and the village was deserted.
They couldn’t decide how to enter the basement. They needed a silent approach so that they could stealthily look in on mischievous Berkeley, but there was no way of sneaking in because the drop was too dramatic—they always landed with a thud and went rolling across the floor. There wasn’t really any other way.
Or was there?
“I got an idea, lad,” claimed MacDowell. He explained some harebrained plan to Stanley that Daisy wasn’t sure about at all. She watched in great doubt as MacDowell clasped tightly on to Stanley
’s ankles and let the rest of him dangle down the chute so that he could peer in.
If Stanley kicked his right foot, it meant that he wanted to be lowered farther in. And his left? That meant there was danger and he needed to be pulled back. Who knew what dark danger might be lurking there? Perhaps if they were right about Edmund he was hiding out in there, and Berkeley was bringing him food and water.
But Stanley could see and hear nothing. No sights or sounds that gave anything away. Lower he went, farther and farther … until old MacDowell’s back could take no more.
“Ahh, Stanley, old MacDowell don’t ’ave the strength ’e used to ’ave!” he cried, letting go of Stanley’s ankles and watching him disappear headlong into the darkness. The fall was followed by a THUD, and Stanley arrived on the floor in a heap.
“Er, sorry, lad. Me back gave way,” called MacDowell, poking his head through the opening. “Can yer see owt?”
Stanley lit the stump of a candle in his pocket and the room came to life. Berkeley was not to be seen, and in the corner of the room the stone had been lifted again and the access to the mine had been exposed.
“The little devil!” Stanley snapped. “Quick, come down here!”
The other two joined him, and all three stared at the corner of the room.
“And how do you think he’s done that?” gasped Stanley. “I couldn’t have lifted it in a million years and he’s half my age and size.”
“Keep the noise down, Stanley. They’re just above us,” whispered Daisy.
MacDowell scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes in thought.
“Mmmmm. Most of them are above us, Daisy, but I think at least one of them is below. Come on,” Stanley insisted. “We need to find him.”
Down they went, back into the dank blackness of the mine. MacDowell pulled out more candle stumps from his pockets and handed them around.
