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Authors: Chris Mould

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BOOK: The Wooden Mile
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The North-East Needle
At five-thirty sharp the next morning Stanley was locking the front door. He dropped the key, which hung on a length of string, inside his shirt. He had told Mrs. Carelli not to expect him before early evening.
He ran down to the harbor, eager to know if the pirate crew had joined his treasure mission. When he reached the boat he was
instantly reassured: snoring was coming from the three barrels, each one in turn making its sound, like a small orchestra of z's. Empty rum bottles littered the bottom of the boat. The pirates must have been there all night, he thought. So much for not acting suspicious—they could have awoken the whole neighborhood!
As Stanley was casting the boat off, he heard the sound of the cabin door being unlocked. “Morning, Stanley, is all going to plan?” came a whisper.
“Brilliantly,” answered Stanley.
There was Lionel Grouse, with a hammer and a burlap sack filled with nails.
“Your three friends were here at three o'clock. Straight from the inn, drinking and singing like something was worth celebrating. At one point they tried to break into the
cabin, but they were so drunk the three of them ended up on the floor tied in a knot.”
“What about the lookouts? Weren't they spotted?”
“Nah, the lookouts must have dropped off by then. They usually do. They're not much use after midnight—they take a drink to calm their nerves and eventually it gets the better of 'em.”
“Why is there a table leg in the boat?” asked Stanley.
“'Tain't from no table, lad. 'Tis Jones's wooden limb. Couldn't get into the barrel without losing something, so he took it off and I have to say he caused a great commotion in the process.”
Mr. Grouse put a row of nails in his mouth and, taking the hammer in his hand, he tapped the nails into the tops of the barrels. The snoring continued, becoming louder when Stanley removed the round wooden plugs from the sides. “Best let some air in,” he chuckled. “I don't expect it's too pleasant in there.”
They set off onto the open sea, and after a good while they found themselves approaching the North-East Needle. Mr. Grouse's expert mastery of the boat allowed them to navigate through the rocks and hook onto the edge of the island. Gulls cried out deafeningly above, crowding the cliff's lofty point.
Stanley and Mr. Grouse rolled the barrels up a small ramp and dumped them unceremoniously at the base of the cliff. Mr. Grouse secured them to each other with a length of rope and then wrapped that around a withered old tree to stop them rolling back into the water.
“We don't want no sea scum washing up on our beach, now do we, Stanley?”
Stanley took the fake map from his pocket. He threw it onto the water's surface and watched the color wash out of it as it disappeared into the greeny blue.
 
The two of them spent the rest of the day fishing and laughing out loud. When they returned, Mr. Grouse helped Stanley to the door with a healthy share of sea bream and mackerel. Mrs. Carelli was there waiting.
“Ah, thank you,” she began. “I guess we won't be short of fish for the week.”
“No problem,” replied Mr. Grouse. “I told you we'd make a fisherman of this lad.”
“Oh and thank you for the flowers, Mr. Grouse.”
“Er … no problem. You're very welcome.” Mr. Grouse eyed Stanley, who was concealing a grin.
That night it had turned unusually cold. The fishing trip had frozen Stanley to the bone, so Mrs. Carelli sat him in front of the fire. He curled up like a cat with a huge blanket around him, drinking from a steaming mug.
“You don't need to tell me you had good fortune today, Stanley, and I ain't talking about no fishing neither. Unless of course you counts fish that makes a nuisance of themselves and gets what they deserves.” Mrs. Carelli sat and stared into the fire. When she disapproved, she didn't look at him while she spoke to him. But deep down he knew she was happy.
Right or wrong, Stanley and Mr. Grouse had solved a few big problems for Crampton Rock.
“Don't forget, Stanley. Whilst you're here, I'm your guardian. And if you're up to no good
it looks bad on me. So keep your heroic wild adventures under your hat, will you?”
“Will do, Mrs. C. Er … how did you know we weren't just fishing?”
“I ain't known you long, lad, but I know this much. It takes more than a day's fishing to get you out of your bed at five o'clock of a morning.” For a moment, he thought she'd finished, but she carried on. “And you can forget about this Ibis business. ‘Tain't nowhere I can see it and I've cleaned every nook and cranny there is. This old place has got some dark secrets, Stanley, but you're best ignoring 'em unless you want to dig yourself into deeper trouble. You'll be going home to your parents soon so you'd best get it out of your head, lad.”
And then, as if to show him that she secretly admired his heroics, she went to the
kitchen and returned with a fantastic-looking pie. He hadn't felt this hungry in ages, and set about demolishing it with a skill that was to be respected.
“That's the boy I know,” she laughed.
She sat back in the chair and fell asleep, as outside the crazy world of Crampton Rock turned dark—and the doors stayed unbolted.
The Pike Again
Home! Stanley hadn't thought of home for some time. It was a world away.
But his time at Crampton Rock had come to an end, and he had to return to the mundane way of life he had forgotten about.
“Stanley, I shall leave you in peace to say goodbye to the house.” Off to do her shopping, Mrs. Carelli left him with a hug.
“I'll be waiting at the harbor to wave you farewell. Mr. Grouse will walk you back along the Wooden Mile.”
Stanley sat and stared at his favorite view. The sea rolled back and forth, and he knew that whenever he returned it would always be there. He thought of all he had been through in such a short time. The tiniest tear welled up in his eye and he let it roll down his cheek until it disappeared.
He spotted a bird on the corner of the roof, and suddenly his thoughts turned to the Ibis. Stanley's preoccupation with pirates had kept his curiosity at bay, but now that Crampton Rock was free again he had begun to wonder.
Stanley had explored the house already and though he had found much, he had certainly not found anything that could be it. Perhaps
it was buried in the grave of his pirate great-uncle. Maybe it lay somewhere at the bottom of the vast ocean, among the rocks and corals. Could it be in the cellar or the attic? Maybe. Another time, perhaps; too many adventures all at once would be bad for him.
His suitcase was packed and waiting on the bed. It was time to head home. Mrs. Carelli would be looking after the old place through the autumn, and he would return over his winter break
His train was due in an hour.
He made his way to the front door, plunking down his suitcase under the hat stand. Remembering the bracing walk along slimy planks, he wrapped up well. Stanley traced his hands around the insides of his pockets, he discovered the letter he had never posted to his mother.
As he opened the door, Stanley decided he had to do one last thing. He couldn't forget the dream he'd had, or the words of his old friend the pike.
He ran to the kitchen, grabbed a butter knife, then raced down the corridor to where the case was fixed upon the wall. Taking the round-ended blade, he used it to unscrew the glass and reveal the pike. For the first time he was right up close to it. Somehow it seemed almost alive, more real than it had behind the glass that protected it.
Stanley brought a chair and stood on it so he could get even closer. He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the pike's scaly body, and touched the pinlike points of its teeth, as the words came back to him.
“Fear not, Stanley. When you are gone, I shall hold your secret safely.”
With his head pressed up against the case, Stanley looked down, deep into the pike's open mouth. And he saw something. In the hollowed-out body of the fish, something winked back at him with a glint of light. His heart leaped.
“Don't touch her, Stanley, let her be.”
It was the first time Stanley had heard the pike in a long while. But it was too late to heed the warning. He was too eager and had already reached inside, cutting his wrist on the needled points of the teeth.
The shining prize was in his hand.
“Worry not, Mr. Pike,” said Stanley. “I shall be careful.”
He moved toward the window to examine it more closely. It held the perfect shape of a wading bird with a long curved beak, positioned in a stooping pose, as if searching for something through the water. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and though he thought he might be imagining it, he felt a strange force, a kind of power, pumping like a beating heart.
“The Ibis,” he whispered.
“Come on, Stanley Buggles. Train is awaiting.” Mrs. Carelli was back, and her sharp shrill voice made him jump.
Quickly, he replaced the Ibis just as it was. He fastened the glass and returned the knife.
“Thank you, pike,” he said. “I shall see you in the winter.”
He picked up his case, locked the door and made his way down to the harbor. A smile broke across his face as he turned and said goodbye to the place he had come to love.
Back indoors, the pike made a delicate twitch and its body moved ever so slightly in the glass case. For a short moment it felt sure that its heart was beginning to beat. A brief wisp of life rippled through it. And then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
And just for now, that was all that happened.
BOOK: The Wooden Mile
7.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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