by Chris Mould
Stanley and Daisy by now had gotten back on their feet and they joined in. Daisy jumped on Angel’s back and yanked his hair. Stanley threw a battery of punches but none of them landed anywhere near Angel.
Then Cuzco dropped his sword and, using both hands with supernatural speed, he grabbed Phinn and Bartley by the hair and pulled their heads together. Crack. They fell to the ground.
Cuzco picked up his blade and tucked it into his belt. Then he turned to the Stanley and Daisy.
“When I return from the ships I will hang you urchins from the gallows,” he promised. The Angel grinned a sickly smile and marched toward the north bay. Back inside Greta watched the progress of the Angel in her glass ball but now it clouded over. The whirling mist became a green fog, and she could see nothing.
The gypsy encampment was in a frenzy. They headed to the bay, not knowing what they would find.
13
The North Bay Battle
The Rusty Blade was surrounded. You could not have counted the number of black silhouettes of sails and flags that swayed in the wind, whirling in circles around the bay. Screaming and shouting filled the air. As the ships neared one another, cannonballs began hurtling through the darkness and clouds of gunpowder popped here and there in the night.
“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,” he recited to himself. Cuzco watched from the cliff top as the fleet descended on the Rusty Blade.
Some pirates jumped from their ships into the water and climbed up the sides. Others climbed across the rigging of their own ships and jumped down on to the deck. Many sat back and simply fired everything they had at everybody else. It was pure mayhem.
But on board the Rusty Blade, no one made any effort to defend the ship. No one moved at all. Scribbles Flanaghan, one of the deadliest pirates ever to sail the salty waters, lay face down on the floor, loosely holding his last-ever drink of grog. Young Master Phipps had retired to his bed, never to make it out of his bedclothes again. Seafood Smith was slumped over a table with a plate of tentacles and seaweed sauce spilled down his shirt. And Doyle the Dentist, whose torturous treatment was the scourge of the seven seas, lay on his back with his best pair of pliers by his side.
Every one of the gruesome crew was dead, with yellow skin and slimy boils about their bodies. Their green tongues hung out like slabs of rancid meat and their eyeballs had turned black.
And now, the rest of the pirate fraternity climbed on board—unknowingly about to encounter the deadly infection that burned at a thundering pace.
Out on the upper deck, the clash of phantom pirate enemies had begun. They swung awkwardly at each other with cudgels and blades and cursed each one another’s names.
Very quickly their bodies became listless and weary. They were drawn to the Ibis, every one, but as they came near they were caught in Stanley’s effortless trap. The fever boiled on their brows and the energy of the ancient Ibis spiraled it into a furious force.
There were hundreds of pirates, but soon their grubby corpses lay scattered across the decks. Some had died from the fever and some from the battle. And yet still more came.
Angel Cuzco appeared as if from nowhere. His long white hair and scarlet coat glowed in the darkness, and the lights of his emerald green eyes were enough to frighten the fiercest of men. He was forced into terrifying battle.
Stanley and Daisy had joined back up with the gypsies, and now the full force of the Crampton army stood in silhouette along the cliff top. They watched the north bay battle from the safety of the hills. Through the stinking, filthy, darkness, the pirates battled and searched for the treasure all night.
After hours of vicious pandemonium the pirates who were left grew distracted from the fight, drawn by the Ibis. Still they sweated at the brow and felt the slimy boils pop up on their skin. They did not notice the illness that grew upon them. They found themselves almost hypnotized by the Ibis, as each and every one of them searched among the stones that lined the bottom of the Rusty Blade.
All except for Angel Cuzco, who stood staring hard at the pebbles, almost as if he could see right through them and then when he found the spot he would walk right over to it.
And that’s exactly what he did.
He was strong, stronger than most. He did not feel a fever or a shaking in his limbs.
Stomping his way through the crowd of sickly pirates, he sank his hand deep down to where Stanley had laid the Ibis. He wrapped his bony joints around it and plucked it from its nest.
Then, without a moment’s thought, he stood up straight and climbed to the upper deck. The pirates that still littered the ship were on their knees. The fever was taking their lives quickly, and as they lay upon the deck their gruesome features rotted and only their stinking bones were left. It grew quiet as the noise of gunfire and the screams of war were banished by the silent grip of death.
The ships lay battered and broken on the rocks, and soon the evidence of their presence would be swallowed by the gulf waters.
14
The Pirate Wolves
But Angel Cuzco was not done. He was strong and he was hungry, and he had not come this far only to suffer illness.
He walked around the deck in the early morning light, picking his way through the bones. He kept the heads of those he knew belonged to the hardest of pirate captains, holding them by their hair: those he had fought in the past and those he had struggled to beat that very night.
With his arms full and his sword tucked by his side, Angel Cuzco headed for the gypsy encampment.
“Put the children in the wagons!” someone cried out. But Stanley and Daisy avoided being rounded up and mingled with the warriors.
The travelers were preparing for the onslaught. Weapons appeared and the horses were brought forward. Bartley and Phinn, stripped to the waist, held their fists high.
A huge crowd of troops stood in wait: some on horseback, some on foot, many with weapons and many with hardened fists that knew their trade.
The crazy stare of Angel Cuzco came close. Now he wanted the silver casket, and he wanted it desperately. The gypsies could see that he was alone, but that he carried something in his hands.
Inside her tent, Greta had been looking into her ball. She cried out in panic when she saw familiar eyes peering back at her.
“Wolves!” she cried. “I thought we were free of the wolves. Why do they show themselves in the glass?”
Before she could see clearly, but now the green mist came again and choked the picture in the ball. Outside Angel Cuzco stood before the crowd.
The travelers’ army looked strong. They would be a handful even for the Angel, and especially since he stood alone.
Angel Cuzco scattered the skulls around him, then began to whisper his words once more.
“Deliver thy casket forged of silver. Prepare for the coming of the Angel, for he walks alone among the dead.”
He took his sword and split each skull down its middle. From each shattered head emerged a black shape. At first it was not clear what had materialized, but after only moments, a huge pack of wolves stood at the side of Angel Cuzco. Grisly, slavering, hungry, filthy wolves. If anything was sure to frighten the travelers, it was the sight of wolves. They had already suffered too much at their mercy of these animals.
But bravery welled up inside them and they stood together.
Bartley took a long look. Before him were the same kind of beasts that had taken his brother. His anger pushed back any fear deep down into his stomach, and he stood tall at the front of his army.
Suddenly the encounter began. The beasts lurched forward and darted speedily in the direction of their enemy, and the travelers fought back with fists and cudgels. The horses circled and pushed the wolves back, but they bit awkwardly at their heels and the first blood was drawn.
Cuzco danced around with his arms whipping up a storm as he slashed his blade through the air.
Bartley and Phinn held him off with poles of wood and shields made from barrel tops. But the wolves snaked in around anyone who came close and snapped at them: it was impossible. The dogs reacted, barking with bared teeth, but they were anxious against the might of the black wolves.
As the mist in Greta’s ball drew away, something else came clear. Faces. Evil, yellow-eyed faces with shining blades held fast between their rotting teeth. Where did they come from?
Latecomers! The very last of the ghostly pirate ships. Three of them, all filled with sea scoundrels of one kind and another. None of them had caught the fever of the Rusty Blade. Instead, they were heading for the excitement out on the moor, where they grasped a vague sniff of the Ibis.
They scrabbled their way on to the cliffs over rocks and boulders. Daisy noticed them first. She hurled rocks at them and forced them back for a moment. Somehow they made it through, and now the Crampton army was surrounded.
Whether Daisy and Stanley liked it or not, they were in the middle of the fight. Every so often someone would pull them back and push them to one side, but they were not the kind of children to stand and watch. Besides, it was not the first time they had been eye to eye with the full force of the supernatural.
Cuzco moved so fast it was hard to see him. His long white hair flew about his head as he turned and twisted, thrusting wounds here and there. By now, several travelers had been injured, but they pushed on bravely.
Stanley was worried. Perhaps the spirit of Cuzco could not be defeated no matter what.
The screams and shouts of battle rose up. The crunch of clogs on bones, the thwack of poles and sticks, the whoosh and swipe of the blade, and the cries and screams of pure pain rang out.
Stanley remembered all the moves that Bartley had shown him: throwing punches then moving swiftly out of danger, staying on his toes so he could nimbly step back or forward. Daisy had watched him often, and she followed his lead. They used their fast moves on the new arrivals, and when they had them confused and distracted, the dogs moved in and took chunks out of their legs. Sickly cries and screams of pain emerged from the ghostly faces of the pirate clan.
These pirates had not been affected by the illness, but still they were foul and rancid as they came up close.
Three skeletal fiends pounced on Stanley and pinned him to the floor. A fourth approached with something heavy, about to bring it down on the boy.
Thud. Good old Daisy. Armed with a pole, she brought the villain to the ground and then ran at the rest, holding it out lengthways. Three bony buccaneers fell like skittles, shattering into pieces.
But they reassembled themselves from their fragments, and the violent struggle continued.
The Angel tore through the crowd, leaving many injured. But it was the good fortune of Crampton Rock that he saw every man as his enemy, and soon he tore into the last of the pirates. They sensed that he had the ancient prize, and every one of them was drawn to him, but he cut into them so fast his triumph was effortless.
Then Stanley saw, as if in slow motion, a moment of suffering that appeared on Angel’s face. Sweat was pouring from his brow, and it appeared as if his supernatural force was waning.
Perhaps he had given the fight all he had. Maybe his efforts had sapped all his energy. But no, it was not the fight that tired him, it was the fever. And now his sweat was black.
He had fought so hard all night and all day he had not stopped to notice that he too was ailing. His blade grew slower, his movements more shallow. The wolves grew slower too, panting and heaving, losing their appetite for blood.
The tide had turned. Now the gypsy blows came thick and fast.
In a final attempt to win the battle, Angel Cuzco raised his sword high to deal a fatal swipe to Stanley. But the mighty Bartley sent a crushing blow into the Angel’s middle, and his bony carcass shattered into pieces and scattered over the ground. And as it did so the wolves fell too.
Angel Cuzco’s broad cutlass dropped. Stanley had fallen, and the point of its blade landed perilously close to him. It pinned the collar of his shirt to the ground. He was so shaken that he seemed to lose consciousness.
He came around as he felt a tongue lashing across his face. It was one of the gypsy dogs, desperate to bring him back. He stroked its face and laughed, then jumped to his feet.
The enemy lay defeated on the ground. The whole of the gypsy encampment roared in triumph.
Stanley took a close look at his enemy. The light from the two emerald eyes was dying out like failing candles, turning to sheer black. His body and those of all the wolves turned from grisly festering skin to pure white bone in moments. And before long every scrap of proof that they had ever existed had wisped into the air. The only thing left was the shining silver amulet that they all knew to be the Ibis.
Stanley’s eyes were drawn to it as it lay upon the ground. The Angel had found it after all, drawn to the hold of the ship, just as he had planned. He grasped it tightly and tucked it away in his pocket. He now knew that in the darkened privacy of Candlestick Hall, he was about to uncover the greatest secret in pirate history.
15
Unlocked
Phinn came to Stanley and then to Daisy, gathering them together. “Come and speak to Greta,” he asked.
Stanley and Daisy followed him back to Greta’s tent to the sound of cheers and roars. There would be a celebration soon, but they would need some sleep first. Stanley had been away from home for too long and he knew the consequences, but right now he was not too concerned. His biggest worries had been dealt with.
“Come in Stanley, Daisy,” said Greta. “Have a drink, and take a moment to calm yourselves down.”
They sat and talked a while, and soon they were laughing and joking. “Go on, Stanley,” smiled Greta. “Take yourself home now—after all, you’ll have some explaining to do when you get back. And we’ll be happy for you to pay us a visit whenever you please. You too, Daisy.”
So much had happened, yet Stanley and Daisy barely spoke on the way back. They were feeling shock or exhaustion, or a combination of both. They stopped every now and then and stared at the peaceful harbor. They were on their way back to reality.
They entered the house through the old coal bin, hoping to sneak in unnoticed and pretend they had been around for some time. In theory it was a good plan, but when they’d climbed in they could hear the adults in the kitchen. It was twice as hard to avoid detection now that Mrs. Carelli had Victor back.
Stanley and Daisy could hear the Carellis in full discussion about their whereabouts. And then, a stroke of luck: it sounded as if they were putting on their coats and heading out to find them.
Good. Time to move through the house.
In they sneaked, like bilge rats slinking over the ballast of the ship, lurking and snooping, then darting through the winding corridors until they arrived safely in the comfort of Stanley’s room.
With bated breath, they placed the silver casket on the chest under the window. Stanley fumbled in his pocket for the cloth-covered Ibis. She did not bear any scars, despite her long journey since she left the comfort of the pike’s belly.
Stanley flicked out the two prongs at the back of the Ibis. His great-uncle, Admiral Swift, had explained this part to him, though he never thought he would see the day when the Ibis and the casket were reunited. Then Stanley lined her up with the empty space in the lock. He gently pushed it inward and waited until a neat click sounded.
Daisy looked at Stanley and Stanley looked at Daisy. He turned the small horizontal bar until it was in a vertical position and it clicked again. Stanley felt the lid release its age-old grip, and they peered inside.
“Candles?” they both asked.
Stanley counted them. “ … Four, five, six candles. Mmmmm.”
He and Daisy took them out and stared at them for a good while. There was nothing special about them, or at least it didn’t seem as though there was. After all, they were only wax. No sign or special mark about them except for a small �
��C″ stamped in the base of each one.
The casket alone was enough to set their hearts alight, but the candles were a mystery.
“Perhaps there was nothing in particular inside it, so someone thought it was a good place to store things?” suggested Daisy.
“Maybe,” said Stanley. It didn’t matter. To see the casket complete was more than they could have hoped for. Who cared what lay inside.
Later, he found the perfect place for the silver casket. He put it behind the false panel in his cupboard, and it was safely out of sight. After all, he did not know when sinister company would next throw a shadow across his door.
16
Beyond the Candlelight
The children were foolish to think they could avoid the adults forever, and that night Stanley had to endure a dreadful argument. He was in serious trouble, confined to his room.
Disappearing for days at a time! Nowhere to be seen! No messages left! Nothing! Mrs. Carelli couldn’t cope with it. It would have to stop.
Daisy was sent home and suffered equally when she returned to her aunt and uncle.
Stanley knew he would have to weather the storm and wait until Mrs. Carelli’s anger had blown over.
He spent hours looking over the intricacies of the silver casket. However closely he looked, there was always something new to see. Strange patterns and shapes; little heads of lions; the claws and tails of slinking lizards, each of them like a tiny silver gargoyle, winding their way around the casket almost as if they were alive.
