The Silver Casket

by Chris Mould

  “I remember you. We fought together along the coast of South America,” said Angel. He felt his rusty memory come back to life. “We were the pride of Peru for many years. Everyone feared us. You, Alvaro, were my captain and we were, all of us, like a band of brothers.”

  The twins stared, their memories coming back too. They remembered the might of Angel Cuzco and how they had been proud to fight for each other like mad men.

  “Why did you awaken from your ancient tombs?” asked Angel.

  “The same reason that you did,” declared Alvaro. “The Ibis is alive, and the silver casket sits in wait for the final piece in the puzzle. Will you join us on the journey from Peru?”

  A green glow appeared in Angel’s eyes, a fire from within. His passion for the Ibis was strong. Stronger than anybody’s, he thought. The Ibis belonged to him and only him.

  “No. I shall not join you. I shall go alone, and when I reach the home of the Ibis I will take it for myself and no one and nothing will stop me.”

  He said no more. And before they could show their surprise, he drew his sword and cut both of them in two.

  Their bodies lay slumped at his feet. He grinned the most evil grin, which turned into vicious laughter. It rang out into the air, and even the parrots in the branches above flocked away.

  He pulled back the lid of the ancient tomb and threw the brothers’ filthy bones back inside.

  Only then did he set off. He walked for days until he reached Arequipa and then he headed to the southern coast. When at last he reached the sea, he kept on walking directly into it. There was no boat or ship to take him, but he didn’t care. He simply kept on going in the right direction. The water washed around his feet and he felt his weight sink slightly into the sand. Shoals of sea life darted around him.

  Soon his submerged body was walking along the seabed. His lank hair floated in back of him, along with his coattails, and his sword was drawn at his side.

  On he went through night and day, through the light and dark of shallow and deep waters. As he walked he spoke these words:

  “Drive my ancient spirit unto the sacred bird. Deliver thy casket forged of silver. Prepare for the coming of the Angel, for he walks alone among the dead.”

  If he had said it a million times, he would surely say it a million times more. Over and over it went. He crushed small bones and fossils beneath his feet as he trod along the cloudy sea bed. His blade swished through the water, and on he marched, farther and farther into the sea.

  4

  In Search of the Ibis

  Stanley and Daisy were deep in discussion about the Ibis. It was time to get their hands on it, whether Mrs. Carelli liked the idea or not. Perhaps she would be too busy cleaning to notice what they were up to.

  “What’s the plan then, Stanley?” asked Daisy cheerfully.

  “The plan, Daisy, is that we don’t have a plan,” he announced.

  “Very well,” she sighed in an unconcerned fashion, and they set off together over the moor.

  The wind was against them and it was harsh out on the hills. Most days you would feel the worst of the weather there, in one of its many forms.

  They passed the old water mill and Stanley remembered the rough winter, when they had ventured out together into the blinding snow.

  It wasn’t long before they were back at the lake. It was calm and serene, save for the wind blowing ripples across the surface and the reeds shaking in the breeze.

  Stanley and Daisy stood staring across the water for some time. They did not really know what they should do about retrieving the pike, but it was peaceful and right now they were happy to sit and enjoy the moment.

  Soon the wind dropped and the sun came out.

  “We should have brought a picnic, Stanley,” laughed Daisy.

  “Yes, too bad we are empty-handed,” said Stanley.

  But at that moment the huge body of the pike leaped up out of the water and landed neatly in his arms. Freezing water drenched Stanley from head to foot and the icy body of the fish chilled him through.

  The pike began to speak.

  “Ahh, Stanley. I knew in my heart that you would have the good sense to return. Now let us take to the hills, and we can get me home, where the warmth of the Hall awaits me. I have had quite enough of the dark depths of the lake. I don’t think I shall be returning, not just yet!”

  Stanley and Daisy looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “Come along, come along. I will catch cold out here in the open air,” instructed the pike. “Once you put me in place, we can discuss your next move. There is much to be done.”

  “Do you still have the Ibis?” questioned Stanley.

  “My dear boy, of course I do. Why do you underestimate me so?”

  “I wasn’t sure I could trust you once you’d entered the water!”

  Stanley admitted. “Well in all my watery days, I have never been so insulted,” the pike started—and as the unlikely trio marched across the moor, the argument continued.

  Stanley and Daisy weren’t sure how to best approach the house with the pike in hand. They decided to slip in through the coal bin at the back of the house and into the kitchen. From there they would sneak across the ground floor and wind their way unseen through the maze of corridors to where the bronze warrior stood in wait for them.

  Gingerly, they crept toward the garden gate, taking a good look at the back of the house. All was quiet.

  Unbeknownst to them, Mrs. Carelli was staring out of the bedroom window that looked out over the garden.

  Something out on the moor caught her eye. She looked up: nothing. Must have been a bird. As she moved to the back of the room, doing this and that, Stanley and Daisy quicky carried the pike across the lawn.

  Mrs. Carelli moved back to dust the window. She could hear noises, but by then Stanley and Daisy had clambered through the opening to the coal bin.

  “Strange,” said Mrs. Carelli to herself. “Young Buggles is up to something, I swear it.”

  She pressed her face to the window and peered down. But the three were already winding their way carefully through the corridors.

  Their feet raced across the floor, and at last Stanley and Daisy reached the lonesome soldier.

  Daisy tugged at the handle. It was stuck!

  The familiar clang of Mrs. Carelli’s brass dustpan resounded nearby. They looked up in panic. She wasn’t there, but she was close.

  “Hurry, Daisy, hurry!” pleaded Stanley.

  “I’m trying,” she panicked.

  And then the pike started complaining. “Stanley, where is this? I did not request to be placed in this part of the house.”

  “Quiet!” insisted Stanley.

  “Is that you, Master Buggles?” came a familiar voice.

  CLUNK. Daisy did it. But she was forced to pull the heavy door open by herself while Stanley stood with his arms full, feeling frustrated.

  The gap was forced wide enough for them to sneak through. Once inside, they pulled it shut, realizing that they were without a light to show the way. Daisy bravely went first, and pulled Stanley along because his arms were full.

  “Ridiculous,” continued the pike. “It is as cold and dark in here as in the dreary lake. This is a punishment, is it not?”

  They felt their way through the darkness.

  “Where will we put him?” quizzed Daisy.

  “What about the old cupboard?” suggested Stanley.

  “Yes. Good,” said Daisy. When they finally reached it, Stanley was desperate to be rid of the pike’s weight. He hurled it through the door, and it landed with a thud.

  “This is nothing short of bullying and abuse!” persisted the pike. “I was not aware I would lose my status in the house simply because I’ve been away a short while. How can I be an adviser from here? Ridiculous!”

  In the midst of the waves of protest, they closed the door on the ill-tempered pike. But his voice resounded through the casing of the cupboard. What if it echoed through the
cave and was heard in the house?

  Stanley gritted his teeth. “Please bear with us. We cannot let Mrs. Carelli know we’ve rescued you. It’s either here or the lake, I’m afraid.”

  Stanley knew that would shut him up and sure enough, the pike was absolutely silent. Stanley had great respect for the pike, but there were times when he had all the qualities of a badly behaved dog.

  They closed the bronze door on the dear old pike and headed back into the hallway.

  “That’s sorted out then,” smiled Stanley, turning to Daisy, who was staring over his shoulder. Mrs. Carelli was standing behind him, peering at the two of them, with one eyebrow raised.

  “That’s what sorted?” she asked. “You’re up to something, Stanley. Something sinister. I do hope it’s not one o’ your crazy plans.”

  5

  The Legend of Angel Cuzco

  Much later, Stanley was in his favorite room, which was full of drawers that held interesting contents. He searched through the piles of books and papers, trying to find something to stop the coming of the ghostly villains who were headed their way. Was there anything he and Daisy could say or do that would be of assistance?

  He had searched all afternoon and not found much, but one scrappy piece of old parchment caught his attention. It was a letter. The top part was missing, but beneath it was clear.

  An icy chill took hold of Stanley as he read it, and he decided he needed to find Daisy. The letter was something to be shared.

  Stanley ran down the stairs shouting Daisy’s name. She was in the scullery, leafing through a book.

  Stanley sat down at Daisy’s side, placing himself in a tall wing-backed chair near the fireplace.

  “The first part is missing, Daisy, but listen to this.”

  Do you know who comes to find you? Have you seen their deadly figures, their ragged bones, and stinking foul faces? They belong to nightmares. To tales of woe and terror.

  Do you know of the legend of Angel Cuzco?

  Stanley stopped, and he and Daisy looked at each other. The two of them huddled together around the fire and Stanley continued.

  Angel was the scourge of the South American coast. Often he joined forces with others, but he was known to like his own company and he feared no one. Dressed in scarlet, with plaited golden-white hair and nut-brown skin, he was a sight, to be sure.

  It was maybe two hundred years ago that the Ibis sat buried in a church in Cuzco. It rested under a stone slab of a tomb adorned with the statue of an angel.

  They say the power of the Ibis was so strong that the body returned to life in the form of the angel and stole away with the sacred bird. In a bid to keep it, the angel donned the robes of the pirate trade and fled to the east. He fought so hard to keep it that he became the most feared buccaneer of the seven seas.

  He lost the Ibis when he was overcome by a ship carrying monstrous buccaneers.

  It is said that his evil ways reduced his wings to stumps upon his back, and that in the end he died defending a gang of Peruvian brothers that he had befriended.

  If I were you, I would gather my belongings and escape while there is still a chance that I shall see you again.

  Make haste.

  Your affectionate brother,

  And the rest was torn away.

  “Is that a true story, Stanley?” asked Daisy, who, even though sitting by the roaring fire, was shaking like a leaf.

  “Well, maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. But I’m sure that sooner or later, we will find out.” With nervous hands Stanley folded it back into its age-old creases and returned it to the drawer.

  6

  The Timber Trail

  That night, Stanley and Daisy looked out at the darkness of the ocean from the staircase window. A huge boat had arrived in the harbor.

  “They’re here,” panicked Stanley. The pair of them peered more intently through the glass, squinting their eyes.

  “That’s no pirate ship, Stanley. It’s a ferry!” claimed Daisy.

  The two of them stood watching.

  Then there was movement. Something began to move down the gangplanks at one end of the boat. The fire baskets were burning, and they illuminated a long winding shape that snaked upward into the harbor, moving toward the moor. It was creaking and grinding like the train that had brought Stanley to the island. What was it?

  Stanley and Daisy looked more closely still, and soon they realized that a trail of wooden wagons, one behind another, was approaching them. Flickering lamps hung from them, dancing in the dark.

  They ran from room to room, chasing the trail from window to window.

  “Wait, I know these people! Don’t worry, Stanley,” said Daisy. They are travelers, and they have been here before. They are good people, with many friends on Crampton Rock. They will be welcomed. They stay up on the moor when they are here, but recently the curse of the werewolf had driven them away, because many were lost in its grip. They must know the beast is gone—they say that word spreads fast in the world of the traveling man.”

  On they went to the moor, and when the travelers were far enough out, they rested in a large circle. The light from a campfire laid an orange cast across the hill, and the howl of dogs sailed eerily through the night air. A tent was pitched and sat comfortably protected by the wagons. Silhouettes of people moved around in the warm glow.

  The fire danced all night, and Stanley fell asleep to the distant sounds of laughing and singing.

  In the morning Stanley was sitting by the fire with a warm drink when a knock at the door disturbed the moment. A tall gypsy man stood in the early light. He had long hair and wore clogs. A heavy coat hung from his shoulders, tied around the waist with rope.

  “I come to thank the good lady for the fresh water when we arrived,” he chirped. He had an accent that was strange to Stanley, and his manner was pleasant. He pulled his coat open to show a brace of rabbits, and handed them to Stanley.

  “Oh … er, thank you!” said Stanley.

  “You must be the lad,” the man added. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Oh! About what?” Stanley quizzed.

  “You misunderstand me, son,” he said. “I mean, I wanted to see what you look like.”

  Stanley looked confused. Daisy joined him at the door and they glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “The name’s Phinn. The folks would like to see you,” the man said, confusing Stanley further. “So when you’re ready, come along.”

  And he clomped down the path in his clogged feet and walked back across the moor.

  Mrs. Carelli was behind Stanley now. She placed warm hands across his shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, Stanley. They are good people. They were the first ones on the island, and they gave this place to us. Sometimes they are here for months, and sometimes only days. But this time they come for you. Among other things they bring help and they bring hope. We may have a fight on our hands, but all is not lost. Not yet.”

  They looked out to sea and wondered what would next appear over the horizon.

  “The pirates are coming,” said Stanley. “And we cannot keep them at bay forever.”

  “Go and see the travelers, Stanley. They may hold the answer to our problems,” suggested Mrs. Carelli.

  Stanley went to get himself ready. In half an hour he would be climbing up to the moor.

  7

  The Glass Ball

  “Will you come with me, Daisy?” asked Stanley, wrapping his coat around him.

  “Of course,” she replied, and they made their way out of the kitchen door and across the back lawn to the rusted gate. They trod the beaten track on to the moor, where the home of the travelers spread out before them.

  As they drew near they could see that there were more tents pitched around the central one and that the fire was still burning. Small children ran in and out of the wagons, and lank dogs with missing legs meandered aimlessly around the camp.

  Stanley remembered his first encounters with the dogs
of Crampton Rock: all of them with lost limbs, and all of them escaped victims of the werewolf. Here was a sure sign that the travelers were no strangers to this peculiar island.

  A group of people were standing around in a ring, and in the middle two giant men were boxing each other bravely with bare hands.

  It was strange to see so much activity out on the moor.

  But when Stanley and Daisy came close, everything stopped. People turned and looked, putting down their tools or whatever they were holding. The children stopped playing and the boxers lowered their fists.

  They all came forward and held out their hands to Stanley. Phinn appeared again. He stood on a wheel of one of the wagons and addressed everyone.

  “This young man is Stanley Buggles. He banished the curse of the wolf from these lands, killing the beast that took our brothers and leaving us free to settle here whenever we please.”

  The crowd cheered and the people shook Stanley’s hand and ruffled his hair. One of the boxers picked him up and carried him above his head. They arrived at one of the tents and Phinn followed, bringing Daisy with him.

  The boxer placed Stanley back on his feet and held out a giant hand. “My name is Bartley. My brother was taken from me by the wolf, and I wear his memory on my heart. Thank you, boy,” he said. “I will be forever grateful to you.”

  He had the biggest, strongest hands that Stanley had ever seen, yet he seemed as gentle as it was possible to imagine.

  Inside the tent, an old woman sat at a small table. A length of fabric was thrown over it, concealing its legs and lower section. On top there was an object covered in a velvet cloth. Two halves of a barrel were placed at her side to form a pair of seats.