Authors: Chris Mould
The Wooden Mile (3 page)
“How did he die?” asked Stanley. Mrs. Carelli sighed and said some other time she'd tell him, but that now he wasn't to worry himself with morbid details and should eat up his pie and settle in.
Bivalve Mollusc
Limpet
Shell
But worry about morbid details he did, and after supper Stanley decided it was time to explore the garden and possibly visit the churchyard and the Admiral's grave. He'd seen the churchyard in the back when he'd been exploring the upstairs rooms earlier.
“Make sure you're back before dark comes in now, Stanley,” Mrs. Carelli said. “Crampton Rock is no place for youngsters after the light goes. I'll be waiting for you.”
Stanley promised and then stepped out through the front door and headed toward the back under the arched buttress.
The garden was mostly grassy and without borders. There was a line of yew trees running from top to bottom, with their foliage tidily clipped into a circular shape. A high brick wall framed the lawn, and at the very far end was a gateway leading to the moor. He went
closer, stared at the overgrown hinges, and realized the gate had long been out of use. In the distance Stanley could see crooked, hand-painted signs dotted across the landscape.
closer, stared at the overgrown hinges, and realized the gate had long been out of use. In the distance Stanley could see crooked, hand-painted signs dotted across the landscape.
Stay off the Moor. You have no reason to pass this way.
He remembered the words of the old woman on his arrival.
“And on this rock I will build my church.” This was engraved on the large stone outside the gates to the church. It was surrounded by old and crumbling gravestones. The grass was long and untended, and the door looked to be bolted shut. A low stone wall ran around the outside. The gates were unhinged and leaned awkwardly at an angle. Stanley crept over the wall and began to read the inscriptions on the gravestones.
HERE LIES JASPER TINDELL,
GOOD CITIZEN OF CRAMPTON ROCK.
1812 â 1871
GOOD CITIZEN OF CRAMPTON ROCK.
1812 â 1871
And another:
AT YOUR FEET LIES MARY CRUMP,
REST IN PEACE.
1660 â 1703.
REST IN PEACE.
1660 â 1703.
And Stanley's favorite;
HERE RESTS ELIZABETH GREEB
1748 â 1800
PLEASE DO NOT STAND WERE IT HURTS.
1748 â 1800
PLEASE DO NOT STAND WERE IT HURTS.
The light was already fading. Stanley remembered Mrs. Carelli's words. He must get back or she'd be coming to find him. He had wanted to see if there was a stone for Admiral Swift. Maybe another time.
Mrs. Carelli was at the door with a worried look on her face. “Come on, young Buggles,” she said. “Time you were inside.”
Soon after he was upstairs in his room when a bell rang out in the village. He watched in wonder as the streets cleared in a matter of minutes. People filed indoors like marching lines of ants. A handful separated from the crowds and climbed up into the lookout posts. Something was going on in this strange new place.
Something that definitely and deliberately had not been explained to Stanley. Mrs. Carelli had locked the door on his first day at Crampton Rock and Stanley wondered what tomorrow would bring.
The Pike
Mrs. Carelli was nowhere to be seen the next morning when Stanley eventually woke up and dragged himself down to the kitchen. He'd found it difficult to get out of bed and had lain there till quite late, mesmerized by the view of the sea. When he did get downstairs it was nearer to lunchtime than to breakfast, and there was a note from Mrs.
Carelli on the table, saying that she had gone into town and would be back before it was dark. Of course she would, he thought. Darkness put a stop to everything on Crampton Rock, or so it seemed.
Carelli on the table, saying that she had gone into town and would be back before it was dark. Of course she would, he thought. Darkness put a stop to everything on Crampton Rock, or so it seemed.
The previous day he had noticed a corridor that ran under the back of the staircase. At the time he hadn't explored it. Now, he saw that it led to a part of the house he had not yet seen. The walls were paneled with wood and the way was dark and narrow. At the end, next to a doorway, was something mounted on the wall in a long glass case. He went closer.
It was a very large fish. Its body was long and slender and it had sharp needlelike teeth. It was not like any other fish he had seen. There was a brass plate on the wooden surround. Stanley read the inscription.
“A preserved 22½-lb. pike caught by Admiral Bartholomew Swift in Crampton Springs, 1827.” Was it real? It didn't look it. Its surface was shiny and new, its glassy eye lifeless in its socket. The case was decorated with pebbles and shale and bits of reed.
And then, as Stanley stood and stared, a voice came from the glass case and the fish spoke to him.
“Tread carefully, Stanley. Stay away from William Cake and beware of the lady who lives in the water.”
That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Did he really see it move? Did he really hear it? Who on earth was William Cake? And who or what was “the lady who lives in the water”?
Â
Stanley spent the whole afternoon going back and forth towards that fish. He would
tap on the glass, and then he would stand and wait. He would even try to talk to it ⦠but not a word would the fish say.
tap on the glass, and then he would stand and wait. He would even try to talk to it ⦠but not a word would the fish say.
But Stanley remembered the words. He even wrote them down. What were they about? When he realized the fish wasn't going to speak again, he decided he had most likely been daydreaming. After all, he had been through a lot lately and the chances of a fish (and a dead one at that!) speaking to him were fairly remote.
He was distracted by the noise of the clock sounding out the hour. He had heard it the day before, but had not taken the time to look at it. It was so big that Stanley was sure he could climb inside it, and just when he had managed it, Mrs. Carelli walked through the door! She stood right there next to the tall case, removing her hat and coat. Stanley froze on the spot, but Mrs. Carelli didn't notice him. She even looked up at the time.
“Are you there, lad?” she called out, then headed off into the kitchen.
Stanley sneaked out and followed on behind her. “Good morning, Mrs. Carelli.”
“Aahh, good AFTERNOON, young master Buggles. I take it you slept well?” she inquired.
“I always sleep well,” announced Stanley. “It is the thing I do best.”
She smiled and without looking up she informed him that he was the master of the house and if he should choose to sleep during the day then she was not entitled to argue. Then they both laughed and Stanley had a good feeling inside. Mrs. Carelli was OK, he had decided.
And then he spoilt it.
“I was thinking I might pop out again after dinner,” he said. “It's time I found my great-uncle's grave and paid my respects.”
Mrs. Carelli turned and looked him straight in the eye, pointing at him with her wooden spoon. “Stanley Buggles, I'm here as your legal guardian. That means I has to look after you, not throw you out in the night like a farmyard cat. Graveyard visiting should take place in daylight hours and not the hours of darkness.”
“Sorry!” he returned, taken aback by her abruptness. She really didn't like the dark at all, did she?
“Come on,” she continued, a bowl of soup in each hand. “You can bring that bread, up there on the counter.”
And soon they were talking away again like old friends. But Stanley felt the urge to ask the morbid question once again. “Er, how did Great-uncle Bart die?”
“Oh, here we go again,” she laughed, “Well I suppose you're entitled to know. Mind you, it ain't nothing pleasant so I hope you've got a strong stomach, young Buggles.”
His ears pricked up expectantly.
“Your Great-uncle Bart was attacked, Stanley. Something out in the night took him. A crazed animal of some kind. He was in a terrible state, he was. We didn't even know if
it was him at first. I knew he had a tattoo of a scorpion on his forearm so they looked and there it was.”
it was him at first. I knew he had a tattoo of a scorpion on his forearm so they looked and there it was.”
“Why didn't they just look at his face to see who it was?” inquired Stanley innocently.
“I'm afraid, Stanley, that ⦠well, his face wasn't there. What I mean is, well ⦠his
head
wasn't there ⦠Now come on and eat up,” she insisted. “That's enough questions for one mealtime.” Stanley stared at his soup. He wasn't hungry anymore.
head
wasn't there ⦠Now come on and eat up,” she insisted. “That's enough questions for one mealtime.” Stanley stared at his soup. He wasn't hungry anymore.
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