The Silver Casket

by Chris Mould

  She invited the guests to sit down and be comfortable, and someone brought a strange drink that boiled with smoke. They didn’t dare ask what was in it, but they drank it and licked their lips and asked for more.

  “My name is Greta,” said the old woman. She had a soft, gentle voice and she was old and craggy. “We want to help you, Stanley. You are a friend of the gypsies now, and your enemies are ours also. Give me your hands.”

  Stanley held them out to her and she clutched them in her own. They were dry and creased, but smooth to touch and much warmer than his. Then she took the velvet cloth away and revealed a glass ball in the middle of the table.

  “Lay them on the crystal. It will help,” she said, staring hard into the sphere. “Do you see them, Stanley? Do you see what awaits you?”

  It meant nothing to Stanley. He could not see anything except for the glass ball with his hands on the top and the old woman gazing into it with her face lighting up in surprise.

  “What … what is it?” asked Stanley.

  “They come from all corners of the earth. And they come in their thousands. From the depths of the ground they stir, like swarms of poisonous insects. Of all the enemies that come, one ship sails alone. When she arrives she will settle in the north bay. She wears the Yellow Jack and none will come near her.”

  “What does that mean?” Daisy piped up.

  “The Yellow Jack is the flag flown in warning of the fever,” Greta explained.

  “You mean that one of the ships is filled with pirates who are ill?”

  “Yes, dreadfully ill. They have the buccaneer’s bones, a disease to punish the worst of any pirate spirits. But they will try and get here all the same. The Ibis draws them near.”

  “We must be extra careful to avoid the sickness then,” said Stanley.

  “It cannot harm you, Stanley. It is an illness of those who wander the earth in their skeletal form. The spirit is willing, but the body turns putrid and poisonous and burns itself out through a ghastly fever. Foul and stinking is the stench of buccaneer’s bones. You will surely know it if you come across it.”

  “And what about the Ibis? How did you know of it, and that it’s here?” asked Stanley.

  “The legend is older than all of us. The sacred bird has been to more places than all the travelers here put together, and lived a million lifetimes. Most people know nothing of it and of the ones that do, some are good, some bad. Many think they own it, but very few deserve it.

  “Your image came to me in my crystal ball when you defeated the wolf. I watched you out there on the moor, brave and alone. From then on your shape showed itself many times in the crystal and I saw you through the spiraling fog of the glass when you discovered the Ibis.

  “Right now what matters is that those villains know the Ibis is here, and they want it. There are many traveling men here, Stanley, tough, hard men who will fight to protect you. But they are up against a tough enemy. Strong is he who fights by the side of his own brother. But unbeatable is the man who walks in the shadow of his own death.”

  Greta looked into the ball again, her face near the glass.

  “Who is this who walks along the ocean floor, dressed in red with a shock of white hair and a cutting blade held at his side? With eyes of green, and stumps upon his back?”

  Stanley and Daisy froze. So, Angel Cuzco was more than just a legend.

  Greta watched carefully. She described murky, darkened depths where weary pirate bones were reassembling themselves out of their old sea chest. A pair of skeletal companions were dressing their ragged selves, and rusted weapons hung from their hands. A broken padlock lay at their feet and the chest was scattered in splinters upon the murky sand.

  But two green eyes shone in the bubbling blue of her ball, and with blinding speed the Angel appeared to be marching toward them. He cut through the pirates without pausing and sent their limbs floating like dead fish until they settled in the sand.

  Stanley and Daisy sat silently, their faces pale.

  “Enough,” Greta said. She knew that what she had seen disturbed Stanley and Daisy, and that if she told them any more she would only frighten them further.

  8

  The Black Swarm

  In the days that followed, Stanley found himself spending more time with his newfound friends. Bartley watched him shadow box and showed him tricks and techniques as they sparred playfully. The big man would hold out his hands as Stanley hooked and jabbed into his palms.

  “You have a good pair of hands, Stanley. Quick and precise. You may need them sooner than you think.”

  “I know,” said Stanley,“and I will be ready.” But he knew in his heart of hearts that no man on earth was strong enough to defeat the evil spirits of the dead, and he was plotting a way to keep the island safe from the deadly crew that moved toward them.

  Meanwhile, Daisy was making herself popular bringing fresh fish to the camp.

  “Courtesy of Mr. Grouse, from the lighthouse,” she would say, and she’d hand over a box of sea bream or mackerel. Then she’d hang around all day, playing with the dogs and the children, until Stanley had tired of his training with the mighty Bartley.

  Two more days had passed and Stanley knew that what was coming in their direction would arrive sooner or later. He knew nothing of how far the pirates had traveled, how long they would take, or which way they would come. But still he knew for sure that eventually they would appear, and his anxiety grew and grew until it gave his stomach a twisting, knotted pain.

  The very next morning was bleak and black. It was almost as if the sun had not woken, and a misty fog circled the harbor all day. The whole mood of the island seemed to turn, almost as if it knew what was coming.

  Black clouds hung heavily over the sea, rolling and rumbling in a brisk wind.

  Then, as night was arriving, something poked through the tops of the misty clouds far in the distance. At first it looked like a flock of crows, flapping on the wind. But no. It moved too slowly and steadily.

  “Flags,” said Stanley. “They are black pirate flags.” And as he said it he knew he was right, and his heart sank into his belly. “There is only one thing to do, Daisy,” he said calmly.

  “And what is that?” said Daisy, staring into his face. “Aren’t you terrified?”

  “No, Daisy, I am not. I am prepared. At nightfall, I will take the Ibis and be gone. You must cover for me. The ships are close and I must act soon.”

  “Let me come with you,” she begged.

  “No way.”

  “What makes you think you can handle this more than me?” she said angrily, tucking a playful punch into his belly.

  “Ooof. All right,” he answered. “If you want to be part of it you can. But it will be the hardest thing you ever did.”

  And that was that. In that instant it was decided.

  Within five minutes they were feeling their way through the blackness of the tunnel.

  When he reached the cupboard, Stanley grabbed the pike hurriedly.

  “Dear oh dear, whatever next,” began the pike. “I was just beginning to get comfortable.”

  Daisy climbed into the little wooden boat that had sat in wait for them as it bobbed up and down in the pool of the cave. Stanley handed her the pike and pushed them away from the rocks. When he was soaking wet up to his waist, he jumped in.

  “Hold on tight to your slippery friend there, Daisy. We don’t want him to end up in the water!” warned Stanley.

  “I am sure you are fully aware that I am a freshwater creature,” muttered the pike. “I am far too sophisticated to dwell among the dregs of marine life.”

  “You would get on well with my mother,” said Stanley. “It’s just a shame you will never make her acquaintance.” He began to row with all his might, pushing them out through the narrow opening onto the ocean surf. They were around the other side of the island now, away from the onslaught of piracy.

  A full moon was pouring light across the harbor, and the mischievous p
air readied themselves in their trusty boat. But Stanley soon found he was no oarsman. He couldn’t control the boat, no matter how he tried.

  “You take hold of our friend here,” said Daisy,“and I’ll do the rowing. I don’t think you’ve found your sea legs yet,” she joked. She took the oars from him and immediately the ride became sure and steady. Stanley watched her rowing: despite the rough water, she made it seem effortless. And for someone quite small she was surprisingly strong.

  “Where are we heading?” asked Daisy.

  “To the north side of the island,”’ said Stanley. “To where the Yellow Jack is heading with its sickly crew.”

  “Stanley, what on earth are you thinking of? We are supposed to be avoiding them, not joining them!” Daisy panicked. Suddenly the boat was carried along on the crest of a wave, and Daisy fought hard to keep them from crashing against the rocks.

  Daisy panted, pulling harder on the oars as the little boat bobbed up and down on the swell.

  Then, as they cleared the rocks and came out into the deep, they saw ships heading toward them from the other direction.

  “Row, Daisy!” cried Stanley. “Row for your life!”

  “I’m trying,” she gasped, as the drag of the water yanked at her arms.

  Stanley had not planned on a choppy sea. The harbor had seemed relatively calm, but here on the other side of the island they were struggling to steady the boat. White froth rushed up the sides and the splashes of water were icy cold.

  Before too long, the shape of Crampton Rock was growing smaller as they steered away from the island and the pirate ships.

  Darkness and endless water surrounded the little boat. On board, the two small warriors and their fish headed fearlessly into the unknown.

  To the pike, Stanley announced something that he knew would not be popular.

  “I’m going to take the Ibis from you,” he said.

  “I had a feeling this was coming, and I fear that you are making a wrong move, Stanley,” the pike returned. “I think perhaps there is a better way.

  “I don’t think you have a better way,” said Stanley. “Firstly, you have no idea what my plan is and secondly, if you do and there is an easier solution I’d like to know what it is.”

  “I’m thinking!” insisted the pike, and he closed his mouth tightly so that Stanley had no chance of retrieving the Ibis.

  “This is no time for games,” said Stanley, who felt a growing frustration. “Open wide, please.”

  But the mouth stayed shut and the eyes glared at him.

  “Very well,” said Stanley, thinking quickly. “If you refuse to cooperate, then I shall have no option but to place you in the salt water among the sea life.”

  “Yes, and I hear the tiger sharks are particularly hungry at this time of year,” suggested Daisy. She still wasn’t entirely sure of Stanley’s plan, but nonetheless she was prepared to see it through.

  The pike’s eyes seemed set even wider as Stanley lifted him up and dangled him by his tail. The Ibis rolled to the front of his mouth and finally he allowed it to drop into the bottom of the boat.

  “Thank you,” said Stanley. He didn’t want to upset the pike, but time was of the essence. He retrieved the Ibis from the boat and slipped it neatly inside a square of cloth.

  They rounded a cliff face, and suddenly a blackened shape hung over them. A filthy silhouette of sheer evil swayed on the surf. Voices bellowed out, and the torn and ragged shapes of sails flapped noisily in the gust.

  They had no idea what ghastly contents this vessel would contain. But all three of them knew that they were about to find out.

  9

  The Evil Within

  Stanley and Daisy were dwarfed by the might of the hulking shape of the ship’s silhouette and they huddled tightly beneath it. On board, lamplights twinkled like stars here and there. The ship’s name was painted on its side. The Rusty Blade.

  Stanley told Daisy to steer right up to the underside of the ship. It wasn’t easy, by any means, but somehow she managed it.

  “Perfect,” said Stanley. “Hang on here.” He pulled himself up onto the side of the boat with the aid of the anchor chain that speared downward through the water. He had the Ibis tucked neatly into his inside pocket.

  There was no one on deck. That was a stroke of luck. Stanley crept across the boards to the main mast and clambered up toward the yellow flag. Then when he could grasp hold of it, he tore it hastily from the ropes and shoved it inside his shirt.

  “Now where on earth are you going?” whispered Daisy as loud as she dared.

  “Just making a little delivery,” he said, waving the Ibis at her with a spare hand.

  Daisy was confused, but she trusted his judgment and knew that if she did her job and kept the boat right there waiting for him, everything would be all right.

  She sat and watched him lurch down the barnacled side of the rotting ship. He wasn’t far from the water before he stopped and dug his hand into a rotted hole. He tore at it fiercely until it was big enough for him to sneak through. Bits of splintered wood plopped into the waves.

  Daisy cringed, clenching her sweating hands into fists. She did not know what she would do if someone appeared. She watched until the soles of Stanley’s shoes were the last thing to drop through the hole.

  Inside, Stanley crept around in the dark. He had stumbled into the crew’s quarters, and knew that he had to scramble his way down to the stores at the bottom of the ship without being found by any of the spirits that lurked on board.

  He felt his way along the slime and grease that seemed to coat the ship’s sides. Voices grew nearer. Too near.

  Stanley hurried as much as he could. He had decided to place the Ibis in the ballast at the bottom of the ship. Here it would be concealed, and no one would stumble on it. He was sure that we would be able to make it back to the ship to reclaim it when this was all over.

  Something opened up to reveal a lower level. He stepped down carefully and felt for the floor beneath him. A layer of cold hard stones. This was it, the ballast. The stones were used as a weight to stabilize the frame of the ship.

  In the far corner, he found a memorable spot. Bilge rats scurried over his hands and around his feet as he burrowed his fingers through the hard rugged surface that cut at his knuckles. He buried the Ibis right there, wrapped in its cloth protection.

  And then he made his way back through the blackness the way he had come.

  “What’s that?” asked Scribbles Flanaghan, pricking up an ear, and his dreadful figure stepped into the light of the oil lamp. A cascade of endless tattoos was illuminated in the dark, and his two yellowy eyes opened wider.

  “I can’ear somethin’. Down in the stores. Ain’t no one down in the stores, is there? Mister Smiff, will you be so kind as to investigate and while you’re at it, take Mister Doyle with yer in case someone needs a reminder that we ain’t’ere to be messed with!”

  “Aye, aye, Mister Flanaghan, sir. Seafood Smiff at your service.” He got to his feet, swallowing a handful of cockles, and was followed by Doyle into the damp darkness of the hold.

  Stanley was still feeling his way back and he cringed as he creaked on the floorboards.

  “There’s someone’ere, or that’s a huge rat I can’ear,” said Doyle. “And when I get my’ands on’em I’m gonna do’em some damage.”

  Abruptly and unintentionally, Stanley’s outstretched hand landed in Doyle’s grizzly face.

  “Agghhhh!” They both screamed, but Doyle held on to Stanley’s arm and twisted it as he gripped.

  “Who goes there? Friend or foe?” said Doyle as he squeezed tightly.

  Stanley felt the cold slimy grip of death. Whatever or whoever it was that held him stunk to high heaven. He held his free hand over his mouth.

  “Nothing … nobody … I mean …” struggled Stanley as he tried to think of the right thing to say. Doyle’s gruesome face came closer through the dark. He was holding up a pair of pliers.

  “Ov
er’ere, Mister Smiff,” grunted Doyle to his companion. “We got a customer for the dentist’s chair.”

  Stanley really didn’t like the sound of that.

  The foul-smelling twosome leered at him through the dim light. Their yellowy eyes came far too close.

  “It’s a boy! An ugly little feller’e is an’ all,” exclaimed Doyle. “Shall we kill’im now?”

  “O′ course we will,” Smith croaked. “We’ll do it with this.” He shoved a cutlass under Stanley’s nose.

  Stanley panicked. But he was now only an arm’s length from the hole where he had squeezed in. He lunged for the escape route with his free hand and began pulling himself out. Doyle held on to him tightly, but his arm was forced through the hole along with Stanley.

  Smith lunged at him through the dark, swinging his blade, but he just kept hacking at the side of the ship. Chips and splinters of rotten wood fell to the floor as he swore in frustration.

  Daisy looked up at Stanley in panic; she could see he was in trouble. But before she could act, he was out. He had shoved the weight of his body through the hole, and now he was dropping headlong into the boat. Daisy let out a piercing scream. As Stanley sat up he realized why: Doyle’s bony, skeletal arm had ripped out of its socket and had held on to him as he fell into the boat. The fingers were still moving. Stanley ripped it off his shirt and threw it into the water.

  “Row, Daisy, row!” he cried.

  Inside, Doyle and Smith snarled in despair, but their anger was overtaken by the onset of a strange sickness. Beads of black sweat began to form on their brows.

  On the way back Stanley and Daisy did not speak. They just kept rowing. At one point Stanley swapped with Daisy to give her a rest, but he was sloppy and unfocused and Daisy was forced to resume rowing by herself.