The Icy Hand (9 page)

Authors: Chris Mould

BOOK: The Icy Hand

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The wolf stood breathless, staring intently at Stanley, saliva still dropping from its open jaw. The snow and wind abruptly stopped and there was calm.

Wheezing badly, the beast dropped to the ground, its heart thumping in its chest.

Stanley ran forward.

“Careful, Stanley,” squeaked Daisy. “Don't go too near!”

Nearby, the pike was lying forgotten in its case.

“Stanley, you are either brave or stupid. I am not sure which.”

But Stanley was unafraid. As he neared the wolf, he could see a large wound in its side. He fell to his knees in the freezing snow and softly stroked its weary head, its eyes half-open as if in sleep. Stanley wrapped his arms around the great body and tucked his frozen face into the warmth of its belly.

Running his hands through the wolf's long fur, Stanley felt its solid shape. With his head pressed to its chest, he listened to its beating
heart slowing down. He held the wolf tight and watched as its spirit slowly died, the same flickering light soaring upward and disappearing.

“My father once said that even your greatest enemy is a friend somewhere along the road. You just need to take the trouble to make the journey and find out where.” Stanley sniffed.

Daisy took her hand out of her pocket and when she opened it, the tooth had disappeared.

Stanley felt a great sadness come over him. But as he glanced up, he realized that Partridge and McCormick were gone for ever. He and Daisy were safe, and the worst thing that could happen to them now was a roasting from Mrs. Carelli.

“Perhaps you could come and get me now,
if it isn't too much trouble,” grumbled the pike. “I don't wish to lie in the snow all night. I have had quite enough trial and tribulation for one day.”

Daisy giggled. She had not heard the pike speak before.

The fish's huge mahogany case was battered and broken and way too heavy for Stanley to lift. As the storm died away, the two friends removed the pike so that Stanley could carry him neatly in his arms. Then they headed home.

Not Quite the End

They had gone only a short way when Stanley struggled more with the pike's weight.

“I'm sorry, I need to stop, Daisy.” He was worn out and his arms had taken as much punishment as they could absorb.

“What a fuss about nothing,” teased Daisy. She was always prepared for everything, and produced a short length of rope from her
coat pocket. Swiftly, she secured the pike onto Stanley's back.

“That's much better,” he declared, and they pushed on.

They decided to take a different route home; they'd gone so far across the moor that it would be easier to go back down past the lake, by the water mill, and through the churchyard.

It was a relief to avoid the howling wind and snow battering at their faces. So much so that, what with getting rid of Partridge and McCormick as well, the journey home was almost pleasant. Bright moonlight illuminated their way and the worst thing they had to deal with was the heaving snow drifts that crossed their path.

As they walked they chatted happily. Stanley was looking forward to the next day, planning it in his head. They would sit around a great fire, drinking warm drinks and toasting marshmallows over the flames, and they wouldn't have a care in the world.

He smiled a big smile and looked across at Daisy. Soon his winter visit would be over, but for now he would enjoy Crampton Rock and his newfound friend.

They were nearing the lake now.

“Ah, the water. I can almost feel the ripples against my scales.”

It was the pike. He was awake again, mumbling to himself.

“I can smell it,” he continued. “It is almost too hard to resist. Once I was king there. I held council with many friends. I was held in high esteem â¦ and now I sit wearily in
my glass case, bearing despicable insults and harboring stolen goods.”

His voice was growing louder.

“Please just go back to sleep, will you?” said Stanley. “There's not far to go.”

The lake was in front of them now and as they passed by they saw that the surface was frozen. Stanley couldn't resist pressing his foot on to the ice, testing it until it made a cracking sound and a small fracture appeared.

“
A sardine!
” the pike cried. “A sardine! How could she call
me
a sardine? I come from a long line of great and powerful pikes. I have the strength of a
million
sardines. My markings are distinguished and inimitable. How could she think I was anything else?”

“Please!” continued Stanley. “I'm sure Mrs. Carelli didn't wish to hurt you.”

Daisy concealed her amusement. “Poor old
Mr. Pike,” she whispered. “He has had a hard time lately. Perhaps he will settle down once he is back in place and things are quieter. Now come on, Stanley. There's a hot meal waiting at home.”

The thought of a meal spurred Stanley into action. He turned sharply, ready to race after Daisy, but at that crucial moment his foot slipped. The pike jerked out of its bindings on his back and fell, sliding for a long moment before its weight pierced through the ice.

In what seemed like an instant it was gone, once more gliding through the shimmering water.

Stanley turned in horror. But it was too lateâthere was nothing he could do.

In some ways it was the best thing for
the dear old fish. Indeed, it would not have mattered â¦ but the Ibis was still lying in the stomach of the pike.

For the first time in a hundred years, every fragment of the Ibis's beautiful, delicate shape was surrounded by water. A ripple of tremors resounded across the earth and at that very moment, right there and then, the quickening began.

An ancient, crusty old treasure chest filled with aching bones lifted open ten thousand leagues under the sea, and a horde of fiendish skeletal forms began to assemble.

The soil moved beneath a gravestone out upon the moors of old England, to reveal a long purple-fingered hand searching through the dirt.

A tombstone was heaved to one side many,
many miles away and two glimmering eyes stared out from the blackness.

From every dark corner of the earth they began to move and soon, in all their ghastly forms, the seekers would be on Crampton Rock.

Children's Books, a division of Hachette Children's Books, an Hachette Livre UK company.

Published by Roaring Brook Press

Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck Publishing

Holdings Limited Partnership

175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

www.roaringbrookpress.com

eISBN 9781429992435

First eBook Edition : March 2011

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Mould, Chris.

The icy hand / by Chris Mould.â1st ed.

p. cm.â(Something wickedly weird ; 2)

Summary: Spending the winter at Candlestick Hall, the home he inherited from his great-uncle Bartholomew, young Stanley encounters a headless ghost, a talking fish, and a female companion who joins Stanley in a battle against “deadly” pirates bent on stealing a magical family heirloom.

ISBN-13: 978-1-59643-385-4 (alk. paper) ISBN-10: 1-59643-385-X (alk. paper)

[1. SupernaturalâFiction. 2. GhostsâFiction. 3. DwellingsâFiction.]

I. Title.

PZ7.M85895Ic 2008 [Fic]âdc22 2008011260

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First Edition September 2008

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