The Icy Hand (2 page)
Authors: Chris Mould
The Stormbringers
Stanley woke in the night. He was alone downstairs. The roaring fire had eased itself into a gentle glow, still lighting the space around the hearth. He could hear something, he was sure: a voice, whispering his name.
“Stanley. Stanley.”
It was coming from the hall, he thought.
His heart beating faster, he left the warmth of the room for the darkness of the hallway, following the voice.
His heart beating faster, he left the warmth of the room for the darkness of the hallway, following the voice.
As he drew closer, he realized it was the pike in the glass case. Stanley had been so eager to come in from the cold and satisfy his hunger that he had neglected to pay the pike a visit.
He rubbed his tired eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Pike,” he began. “I am sorry I have not greeted you. I take it you still have hold of my friend the Ibis.”
Stanley received a sideways glance from the pike that suggested something was wrong. He was about to unscrew the case and check that the Ibis was still concealed inside, but the pike stopped him in his tracks.
“Do not hold her, Stanley,” it began.
“What?”
“You mean pardon. The word is pardon,” the pike insisted.
“What? I mean, pardon?”
“Stanley, listen. You are in grave danger. The Stormbringers are drawing near. Their frozen prison lies in pieces and they are heading south even as we speak, never stopping or resting, only moving ever forward until they get here.
“I shall send my greatest enemy to help you.”
“What? Pardon?”
But that was it. The pike was silent once more, and Stanley knew that no matter how he tried the pike would speak only when it felt moved to. It might be days or weeks before it spoke again.
Stanley went back to the front room and looked out through the window at the pitch
black of night. He slumped back into his chair and wrapped himself in his blanket. He would try and get some sleep, but he knew it would be difficult now.
black of night. He slumped back into his chair and wrapped himself in his blanket. He would try and get some sleep, but he knew it would be difficult now.
In the morning, Mrs. Carelli was on the warpath straightaway.
“Stanley! How come I has slept like a baby for six months in this big old place all alone since you leftâand then as soon as you come back I can hear you wandering around in the night, up and down the hallway, mumbling away like some demented ghost! What's going on now? I thought we'd cleared up all our problems.”
Stanley could only stare, speechless and groggy with tiredness.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sleepwalking! I'll stay in my room tonight.”
“Oh, and another thing,” Mrs. Carelli
continued. “The fire needs cleaning out, the garden wants some help, and when you've done all that we're gonna have to start the winter decorating.”
continued. “The fire needs cleaning out, the garden wants some help, and when you've done all that we're gonna have to start the winter decorating.”
She fired her orders at him like little arrows and he felt them pounding his head.
“Winter decorating? What's winter decorating?”
“You know, lad, winter jobs inside the house where it's warm and the paint can dry. There's the kitchen, the dining room, and then there's a couple of rooms upstairs. This house won't grow arms and paint itself, young Buggles. You has to look after your inheritance.”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Stanley agreed. He wandered upstairs, climbed into his bed still clothed, and slept until midday.
And so began Stanley's second visit to
Crampton Rock. Mrs. Carelli was already all over him like a rashâand unless Stanley was very much mistaken, his friend the pike had greeted him with the news that he was in grave danger.
Crampton Rock. Mrs. Carelli was already all over him like a rashâand unless Stanley was very much mistaken, his friend the pike had greeted him with the news that he was in grave danger.
The Return of the Old Buccaneer
Stanley fell into bed that night, worn out by the day's exertions inside and outside the house. But he was not destined to sleep in peace.
The clear, yellow-white light of a longdead and well-respected scoundrel began to take shape by the side of Stanley's bed until it was the fully formed (but headless) figure
of a man. Of course, Stanley was blissfully unaware of this. It was three in the morning and he was wrapped in his bedclothes, keeping himself warm and dreaming furiously.
of a man. Of course, Stanley was blissfully unaware of this. It was three in the morning and he was wrapped in his bedclothes, keeping himself warm and dreaming furiously.
The spirit began to grow impatient. He stamped his feet against the floorboards and paced up and down the room, feeling his way around, stumbling here and there. He knew the place well but it was still a task to find his way around with only his hands and feet.
Still nothing. The spirit felt for Stanley's sheets, and when he was sure he held them in his hand, he unrolled the tight chrysalis with a prompt jerk. Thrashing wildly, Stanley rolled onto the floor.
Finally, Stanley was awake ⦠but he felt sure that he must still be dreaming. He could feel the hard wood beneath him and something
had very definitely and deliberately hurled him from his nest. But in front of him was a headless man in a naval uniform, with a long sword secured at his side.
had very definitely and deliberately hurled him from his nest. But in front of him was a headless man in a naval uniform, with a long sword secured at his side.
Stanley rubbed his eyes. But no matter how he looked, the headless man was still there, and it was becoming clear that what he could see did not have to do with being half asleep. In fact, it had everything to do with being wide awake.
Stanley found himself shaking uncontrollably, and tried to calm himself with big deep breaths. His mother had always told him that there was an explanation for everything. Stanley had to conclude that the most reasonable explanation at the moment seemed to be that the house was haunted.
The figure was pointing to where it knew the door would be and it gestured to him to
move. Stanley felt he had no choice. When they reached the hallway, the headless man turned his finger downward.
move. Stanley felt he had no choice. When they reached the hallway, the headless man turned his finger downward.
He wanted Stanley to head down the staircase. Stanley took great care to avoid all the creaking steps, although his knocking knees seemed to be making the most noise. He didn't want Mrs. Carelli hearing the commotion. But his great care was spoiled by his midnight partner, who thudded down the steps like an elephant, tripping on the carpet and getting a leg stuck through the balustrade.
When they finally reached the ground floor, the spirit frogmarched Stanley through the house, using his hand along the walls to find his way and sending all the small paintings higgledy-piggledy.
They entered a room where there was a
large portrait on the wall, and the headless man pointed to the name.
large portrait on the wall, and the headless man pointed to the name.
ADMIRAL SWIFT
Then he stood beside it so that the head and face of the painting were on his shoulders.
“Oh my goodness. You're ⦠you're Admiral Swift. You're Great-uncle Bart!”
The spirit was unable to reply, of course, so he held out his hand to Stanley and shook it with a firm ghostly grip.
“Err ⦠pleased to meet you, Great-uncle Bart!” Stanley announced, feeling slightly uneasy at the thought that in the freezing cold at the dead of night he was shaking the hand of a man with no head. But ah well, who cares, he thought. He'd try anything once.
Admiral Swift kept hold of Stanley's hand and dragged him through to the front room and over to the window where the panes were so cold they were frosted on the inside. Stanley waited. His dead uncle lifted the forefinger of his right hand and drew four words, one inside each small square pane that ran along the bottom of the window.
I need my head
“Ahh,” said Stanley. “I see. Well of course I'd like to help but, well, the thing is, you see, that, well ⦠erm.” And as he struggled to find the right words, his Great-uncle Bart faded slowly until there was nothing there at all.
Stanley knew that he had not seen the last of Admiral Swift.
He returned carefully to the warmth of his bed and studied his thoughts, tossing and turning until at last he found his way back into a deep sleep.
He dreamed he saw the Admiral's head everywhere. Under the bed, in the cupboard, in the fireplace, under his old hat which still rested on the hat stand. He even saw it mounted on the wall in the hallway next to the old moose. One minute the head had glowing eyes. The next minute it had only one eye. Then it was just a skull. Then it was laughing loudly with its jaws wide open and after that it was talking away to Mrs. Carelli on the kitchen table as she baked bread.
And what on earth would Mrs. Carelli do if she saw Admiral Swift wandering around the house?
All of this had given Stanley a very disturbed night, and his tired body would not allow him to wake before lunch.
But when he woke, something had clicked into place inside his head.
The pike had said it would send its greatest enemy to help Stanley.
Of course, Admiral Swift was the one who
had fished the pike from the lake, ending its life, and having him preserved. So surely Admiral Swift must have been who the pike meant when it said it would send its greatest enemy.
had fished the pike from the lake, ending its life, and having him preserved. So surely Admiral Swift must have been who the pike meant when it said it would send its greatest enemy.
Now it made sense. And in that case it meant that Great-uncle Bart was here to help Stanley. To help him with the coming of the Stormbringers, whoever they were.
When Stanley finally emerged from his room, it was almost dark again. He looked out through the hallway window. The air was still freezing cold and low clouds hung over the harbor waiting to announce an early dusk.
Stanley turned downstairs. He wanted to consult the pike, but was confronted by Mrs. Carelli straight away.
“Ahh, here he is, look,” she said, smiling
from one ear to the other. “Come on, Stanley. Come and say hello. You got a guest!”
from one ear to the other. “Come on, Stanley. Come and say hello. You got a guest!”
Stanley peered around the archway that led into the kitchen, half-expecting that his dream had come true and Admiral Swift's head would be perched on the table, talking away. But instead, there at the table sat a girl about his own age. Her eyes were a pale blue and her little pupils seemed to stare right at him. Short tufts of cropped hair gave her the look of a young orphan and she was dressed in ragged winter woolens with a pair of black fingerless gloves.
“This is the master of the house. Though you wouldn't think so to look at him, would you? Say hello, Stanley. This is Daisy. She's Mr. Grouse's niece, from the lighthouse.”
“Oh, hello,” said Stanley. “Pleased to meet you.” He stumbled over his words slightly and his face reddened as he held out his hand to shake hers.
“Hello, Stanley,” said Daisy, grinning widely as she greeted him. “I've heard a lot about you. I wasn't here last summer so I thought I'd get in a winter visit. I was very sorry about your Great-uncle Bart. He was a nice man.”
Mrs. Carelli jumped in. “Daisy used to help me clean here, didn't you, poppet.”
“Yes, I know this place very well, Stanley,” Daisy announced. He somehow felt that she was passing him a knowing lookâbut if she was, it was very subtle. He told himself
he was imagining things.
he was imagining things.
“Ah, I see,” muttered Stanley, not sure what to say.
“But I got a new helper now, haven't I, Stanley?” Mrs. Carelli grimaced. “Except he ain't much help when he can't get out of bed 'cause he's been running around the house all night,” she carried on, clipping the back of his head as she walked past him.
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