The Icy Hand

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Authors: Chris Mould

BOOK: The Icy Hand
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For Sam and Abigail Mould
Return to the Rock
S
tanley Buggles stood on the station platform of the gloomy industrial town where he lived. He was fully prepared for his winter visit to Crampton Rock, swamped by two suitcases and a large bag, all filled with itchy woolen garments knitted by his grandmother.
His first visit to the island had been filled with all manner of adventures and he
wondered if his return would be as eventful. He was hoping for a more peaceful time, even if it was to be considerably colder.
His mother was there, with his stepfather at her side. She wore the most ridiculous fur coat. He hated it because when she hugged him, its hairs tickled his face. Within minutes Stanley was on the train, and waving goodbye to his weeping mother. He made a gesture with his hand that indicated he would write.
The train creaked and groaned and then
finally hurtled forward into the darkness of an early winter's evening.
Stanley made himself comfortable and drifted into thoughts of the previous summer. It was six months since he'd inherited Candlestick Hall from his Great-uncle, Admiral Bartholomew Swift. Stanley had never met him, but he knew every detail of his unfortunate death. A dark encounter with a fearsome werewolf had left him headless.
Now the winter was about to come, thick and fast. Stanley had not slept peacefully since leaving Crampton Rock. Each night he dreamed of the Ibis, the great and ancient artifact that he had discovered hidden in the house.
It had rested quietly in the belly of the preserved pike that was mounted on the wall. And to protect its safety, Stanley had been
forced to outwit the three deadly pirates that had darkened his door.
As the winter winds beat at the train window Stanley dreamed of the huge fire at Candlestick Hall and already, he felt cozily warm.
Meanwhile, the pike lay in his glass case, mumbling away to himself. He felt a warm hum from the precious gift that lay inside him, but he was not comfortable. Stanley had taken the Ibis out and held it in the warmth of his hands, and that could only lead to one thing. The chain of events that would put everything at risk had begun and nothing could put a stop to it. Of course the pike would try, but there was only so much he could do. He was confined to his see-through box on the wall.
The pike knew that, slowly but surely, the Stormbringers would begin their awakening. He had a daunting feeling that they were already on the move.
A Gathering Storm
At the very moment that Stanley had held the precious Ibis in his hand, a crack had appeared in an icy plane, three thousand miles away. A month later, the first wisp of foggy breath had filtered out into the freezing cold air.
Something, somewhere, had been stirred and was very slowly coming back to life. Soon it would begin its long journey south, where it sensed the whereabouts of a lost prize.
An icy, skeletal hand wriggled back to life and forced another crack in the cold glassy tomb that held it fast. Small movements rippled, then suddenly its icy container shattered into a million pieces.
The bony prisoner was freed. His body twitched. Life and limb poured over him in a grim display, covering his frame. A beastly beard grew rapidly from his chin, cascading down his chest, and a gallery of tattoos began to appear all over his yellowed skin.
The torn and ragged clothes he had died in stitched themselves together. A bullet belt looped over each shoulder and a shotgun was strapped to his back.
And when he stood up, someone was there waiting, someone lean and lank and dreadful to the eye. The man's attire of grand velvet and lace was damp and musty, and spores of moss grew from his surface.
His hardened, bony face never acknowledged his bearded partner. Oh, but they were very much together. And, without speaking they set off into the night, armed to the teeth, through the gathering blizzard.
Stanley sat back in the train and closed his eyes. He thought of Mrs. Carelli, the housekeeper of Candlestick Hall. She would be waiting for him, and he knew she would be baking fresh bread right now. He could almost smell it. He had missed her cooking through the autumn. Perhaps there would be
a bubbling stew to warm him when he arrived.
Within a short while the gentle rocking of the carriage had sent him drifting off into sleep and he slumped peacefully against the window.
A great squeak and squeal grated through the air. The train was grinding to a halt. Stanley wiped a circle of condensation away from the window and peered through the glass. By now the night was bleak and black. He could just make out the crooked wooden sign that bore the name of Crampton Rock. A voice came through the carriage:
“This train terminates at Crampton Rock. Please take all your belongings with you.”
Stanley stared around him in a dazed state. He was alone on the train. Nobody else
would be getting off here, he thought.
Just as he'd hoped, Mrs. Carelli was waiting for him. She was so wrapped up against the bitter cold that he could see only her eyes and nose.
“You didn't have to come,” he said. “I know the way now.”
‘I wouldn't have missed it for the world,' she laughed, and threw a warm hug around him.
Stanley had prepared himself for the treacherous route to the island: the harsh drop of the steps from the cliff top and the rickety footway fashioned from old boat timbers that they called the wooden mile.
They made the dangerous, slippery trek talking like old friends through their muffled mouths. The planks of the wooden mile were frosted and slick and Stanley steadied himself nervously at every step. When the tide was in, there was no way to the island—the water
would wash right over the bridge's top. But for now the way was clear.
The wooden mile passed through a cave on its way to the island and, as Stanley rounded the corner, he could finally see the village. Candlestick Hall looked fantastic in the silvery light from the frost.
Silhouettes of boat masts fronted the waterfront, and the harbor lights lit the way. Lionel Grouse, the lighthouse keeper, was there to meet them. He called to them through the dark.
“Stanley, it is good to have you back. I would have come to the station but we have had trouble with a missing boat. All is fine now. Here, give me your things.”
Stanley's long journey was over. As he finally entered Candlestick Hall, he
could smell cooking. His prayers had been answered! Something simmered on the stove top, inviting him to lift the lid.
In the front room a fire roared up the chimney, wood glowed, and sparks crackled and spit, holding Stanley in a hypnotic stare.
He grabbed his favorite chair and threw himself into it.
“I'll sleep here tonight,” he announced. “It's so cozy.”
“Whatever you wish, lad. It's fine by me. You're the master of the house and it's good to have you back, I must say. The old place has been quiet without you through the autumn,” said Mrs. Carelli, her voice softening.
“Best batten down the hatches, though. Mr. Grouse says there's a severe snowstorm coming this way from the north. A real beast of a blizzard blowing in with the wind, they reckon, like nothing we've ever seen before.”
The icy warriors marched on, never stopping or speaking, simply heading south. Nothing could stand in their way. They advanced over great mountains and
moved swiftly through caves and forests, all with one aim: to reach their destination and take what they believed to be theirs.

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