by Chris Mould
Stanley didn’t like the thoughts he was having, but nonetheless he couldn’t help having them.
But the night brought further mystery and intrigue.
It must have been one or two in the morning when Stanley was awoken from his slumber. It wasn’t the howling out on the moor, or thoughts of what might come that stirred him, it was something closer. Someone was stirring in pain.
“Mac,” said Stanley, and he leaped to his feet to slip into the nearby room.
But instead of being in bed, Mac was on his feet. He stood in moonlit darkness with a poisonous look on his face, breathing heavily.
“Stanley, god ‘elp me, lad. Somethin’s ‘appenin’!”
He dropped to the floor, and the cracking of his bones awoke the house.
“I think the seafood’s disagreed wi’ me!” he squealed, as more cracking came. It was even louder now, and Stanley watched in terrified disbelief as old MacDowell began to transform in front of his very eyes.
His long spindly arms and legs began to shift, sprouting wiry hair. His spine splintered upwards into an ugly arc as he dropped to his knees. His features converted slowly into lupine looks. When it was over, all that was left of MacDowell was the patch over his missing eye.
Stanley reeled in horror. It was all becoming clear. The bite on Mac’s leg. The howl out on the moor.
MacDowell’s night-clothes lay in tatters around his clawed feet, and he dribbled and growled a rumbling growl.
But surely he wouldn’t take a chunk out of Stanley. Not after all he had done for him.
Just then an alarmed Mrs. Carelli burst through the door with Victor teetering after her. She screamed a terrible scream, so loud the wolf cowered into its haunches. Victor grabbed Stanley and they ran back out of the room, pulling the door tight and turning the key. Click. It was done.
“What on earth is that, and where on earth did it come from?” squeaked Mrs. Carelli, her back against the door.
“It’s … Mac,” said Stanley with a shake in his voice and a tremble in his knees. “It’s MacDowell. He must have been bitten. That’s why he was ill. That’s why his hangover turned into fever. He’s been bitten, he’s … a werewolf.”
They all looked at one another. “MISTER DARKLING!” they all cried at once.
By now the beast was raging around the room in torment. It howled and thrashed around the walls, hurling itself against the door and taking great chunks out of the frame. The floor pounded beneath them and the lamps shook on the walls.
Victor and Stanley held tight to the door, just in case, and Mrs. Carelli stood motionless with her face in her hands. Furniture collapsing in splinters around the room resounded down the corridor.
With a move that came from pure exhaustion, the wolf collapsed on the floor in the early hours, panting and dribbling, with its long slab of a tongue sticking to the floorboards.
In the morning, after a fitful sleep, they ventured in and found MacDowell, back in his original form, curled up on the floor looking helpless. The whole room was destroyed, every piece of furniture reduced to splinters. The bedding was torn into tiny rags, and only the iron bed frame still stood.
“Well, he was never much of a houseguest, Stanley, but this is about as much as I can take. He’s got to go,” insisted Mrs. Carelli.
“But where?” asked Victor.
“We can’t let him out on the streets in this condition. He’ll kill someone!” added Stanley.
“He needs to be locked up. I can’t have that … thing in here,” she said.
Victor and Mrs. Carelli were still reeling from the shock of what they’d seen. They knew only too well the history of the Rock, but still, it was hard to take.
“All right,” said Stanley, “I agree. He does need locking up. But here, at the far end of the house, in the rounded tower. That way, he’s away from us but we can keep an eye on him. We can bolt the door and leave him something to feed on, to stop him tearing the place up, but we can’t let go of him.”
What dreadful circumstances. No one had thought that it would ever come to this, but it had, and now they had to deal with it.
“I see now!” said Stanley. He was talking to the pike. “The four-legged one. You meant MacDowell.”
“Forgive me, Stanley. Often I assume that you know what I know. It is a fault of mine. I don’t have many, but I do admit to that one. Perhaps in future you should try to think ahead a little. You could have worked it out, I’m sure.” And the pike drifted back into a dreamy sleep where he hid among the reeds and preyed upon the young perch.
Stanley was feeling annoyed at the pike’s mumblings. What was the point of listening to his predictions if he would only ever speak in riddles? It only made things more complicated.
“Perhaps in future I will just work it all out for myself,” moaned Stanley, stomping off toward Mac’s room.
“Well, tickle me timbers, I’m feeling much better,” chirped MacDowell. “I don’t need to be locked away. I ain’t felt this good in a long while.”
But they wouldn’t hear any of it. When Victor had fixed a solid array of bars at the rounded windows of the tower, Mac was hurled into his prison, grappling unsuccessfully with the powerful arms of Mrs. Carelli.
He pleaded with her at the door. His yellow eye with its narrowed pupil made her scream, and she pushed the door shut in his face, securing shut the bolts.
“Yer not short o’ meat yerself there, Mrs. Carelli,” MacDowell taunted through the keyhole. “Maybe I’ll make a snack out o’ yer yet.”
She tore down the corridor screaming, her arms in the air. “Victor, Victor, wait for me!”
The Secret-Keepers Alliance met in the Hall. All five of them took turns staring in disbelief at MacDowell through the keyhole and listening to Stanley’s tale.
“This means that Father is alive and well,” said Annabelle.
“Er … yes … I guess you’re right,” said Stanley.
“You’ll need to feed him,” said Olive.
“Raw meat,” added Berkeley. “It’s all he will care for. Just like Steadman.”
“Er … yes,” said Stanley. “I know.”
He was thinking of other things. The children needed to see MacDowell and be aware of what had happened, but Stanley wanted them to see something else, too. He gathered them all in his room.
“Listen,” he said, “this is important. You see that clipper ship out there? I’m sure it brings trouble.”
“They’re only merchants, Stanley,” insisted Annabelle. “They have always come here. Plying their trade, exchanging their goods!’
“I’m not so sure,” said Stanley. “When they first came here I watched them roll into the bay, and there were four of them on board. I’ve only ever seen three of them in the village. After they arrived, MacDowell appeared. He won’t admit it, but I swear he came here on that ship. I’m sure he was the fourth man!”
“What does that mean?” asked Berkeley.
“If MacDowell came here with those traders, Berkeley, you can bet that he has struck a deal with them. He has brought them here for one thing only. Gold!”
The others had no choice but to agree that Stanley was right, and so a neat little plan was put into place, with the help of milk and home-made biscuits.
First things first. The fact that Mr. Darkling, the resident werewolf, was father to most of the Alliance meant that the children were immune to his harm and could move freely at night. This would come in handy.
When the daylight had disappeared and MacDowell had been fed, the children gathered sneakily in the shadowed corners of the harbor, avoiding the keen eye of the lookouts from the towers. They crammed into a tiny boat and drifted silently to where the clipper ship swayed and bobbed. By this time the crew was back on board for the night, and their voices could be heard laughing and talking. The Alliance paddled slowly and gently, biding their time.
The next bit was trickier. They secured the boat to the ship, then all five of them climbed the slippe
ry anchor chain to get on board. Stanley first, then the twins, with Daisy behind them and Annabelle at the back.
They pulled on the ratlines and hoisted themselves clear, and when they had climbed onto the forecastle deck, they hid among the barrels. Berkeley was moaning: someone had stood on his foot. Annabelle’s hand slipped over his mouth and squeezed hard. Olive insisted on bringing her headless doll. It had gone everywhere with her, and this would be no exception.
“I can’t help thinking that this would have been easier if it had been just me and you,” whispered Daisy to Stanley. True,” he agreed, “but don’t forget the importance of the Alliance. We need to stick together. They won’t have faith in our plans if they don’t see what I think we’re all about to see. It will make them realize that this is for real. Hang in there, Daisy, it’s worth it. Trust me!”
Right now, the crew was down in the living quarters. The children spilled across the timbers and assembled around the hatch. Stanley pulled it back ever so slowly until a chink of candlelight and the sound of raised voices announced that the crew was right there beneath them.
Olive and Berkeley were arguing.
“Shhh,” said Stanley.
“I can’t see,” said Olive. “I want to see.”
Annabelle’s hand sprung into action again and muffled the noise.
“Shut it,” she whispered abruptly. “You don’t need to see, you need to be quiet.”
“But Stanley wants to show us something,” Olive mumbled.
Annabelle gave her a look that meant she would say no more.
“What was that?” came a voice from below.
Stanley lowered the hatch back into place, but he could hear that someone was coming up to take a look. Footsteps resounded on the timber staircase.
“Quick,” said Stanley, “into the barrels.”
The children leaped into action, each of them looking for a spare barrel. Stanley lifted the lid of the last one and hoisted Annabelle in, but as she dropped she found it was full of water.
SPLASH!
The hatch lifted. Stanley watched Annabelle pull the lid over her barrel, then threw himself over the side of the ship and hung on to the ratlines. He was dangling by his hands, and the ropes were rough around his fingers. He wouldn’t last long.
“There’s nothing here,” came a voice. “You’re panicking again. I told you about that. You make me nervous when you panic.”
Then there was the noise of someone slipping. “It’s wet here. Why is it wet? What’s going on with this water barrel?”
Stanley was struggling. A numbness came over his hands, and he couldn’t even tell whether he was holding on.
The man peered into the barrel and saw the thick black hair on top of Annabelle’s head. Through the darkness it looked like rope. He mumbled to himself. “Rope in the water barrels. Why ‘ave we got rope in the water barrels?”
Then someone called him. “Come on, we ain’t got all night.”
Finally, the man returned to his comrades.
Stanley barely had the strength to haul himself back up. His hands were now red-raw from hanging on.
“Can we be quiet this time?” he whispered. He looked at Annabelle and saw that she was dripping wet and shivering uncontrollably.
“What did you say, Stanley? Er … “It’s worth it. “Trust me!” said Daisy.
“Please,” he returned. “Not now.”
But they’d had a stroke of luck. Stanley looked over the forecastle deck to see that the man had returned inside by going down the steps to the main deck and through the door. He had left it only slightly open, but it was enough.
They filed down the stairs and slipped inside, where they hid behind a series of wooden crates, listening to every word.
Stanley studied the men’s faces and remembered their names. There was Mr. Beale, seemingly the head of the operation. Thin and bandy-legged, almost like MacDowell, but dandily dressed and with a narrow, menacing look. Then there was Mr. Nook, tall and powerful with jet-black hair and deep-set eyes. And the third one was Mr. Grimble, short and squat in shape with a piglike nose and a balding head that held on to three wispy uncontrollable strands of hair.
“Now where were we?” asked Mr. Grimble. He kept feeling for his hair and stroking it back into place.
“The missing sailor!” said Mr. Nook, looking displeased.
“Ahh yes,” continued Mr. Beale, taking over and confirming that he was the one in charge. “Our advisor. He seems to have gone missing and I can’t understand why. He knows we will be paying him a sum of money for his help and information, yet he slipped away into the night and hasn’t returned.”
“Perhaps the werewolf has taken him?” suggested Mr. Grimble, and he and Mr. Nook laughed out loud.
“Quite clever though, don’t you think,” interrupted Mr. Beale. “The werewolf tale, I mean. It keeps treasure seekers from the island, that’s for sure.”
“Well yes, apart from us though,” agreed Mr. Grimble. “But we know better than to believe all that baloney. Anyway, I’m sure we will soon catch up with Mister MacDowell, and then we can get things moving.”
“I ain’t taking no risks,” replied Mr. Beale. “I got a tasty-looking rifle at the ready, and I got this as well.” He took a small wallet out of his pocket. Inside was a shining silver bullet. “Only one way to be rid of a werewolf,” he grinned.
The children stared at each other. Stanley was right, MacDowell was part of the crew. What’s more, they looked like they were here for the treasure, and even Mr. Darkling wouldn’t get in their way.
“Well I’ll be darned! They’re no better than pirates!” whispered Daisy.
Olive took her doll in one hand and raised the other, clenching her fist and shaking it. “How could he bring those villains here like that, Daisy?”
“Shhhh.”
Annabelle’s hand was back again, followed by the look, followed by silence.
Stanley looked around. The boxes they hid behind had something written on them.
DANGER—HIGHLY EXPLOSIVE!
“First, of course, we must make sure that the gold mine exists. We would not wish to look foolish or go to great lengths for no reason,” said Beale.
“How do we go about this?” asked Nook.
“By surveying the tunnels. We will access them through a basement that MacDowell will lead us to. He has done this several times already, he claims, and as long as we go at the right time it will be no problem.”
Stanley had heard enough for now. He knew what they were up to and who was involved.
The next thing was to get back home in one piece. Annabelle and Berkeley were shaking so much with cold and fear that the whole boat was almost rocking.
Like a line of bilge rats they trickled back outside and scuttled over the deck, climbing back onto the huge anchor chain and dropping into the boat. Stanley had to admit that, despite the hiccups, the Darkling children were extremely brave. And their sight in the dark was incredible. But Olive dropped her doll in the water on the way down, and the next five minutes were spent using the boat oars as fishing rods to retrieve the headless toy dressed in lace and velvet.
They returned home through the black of night and snuck into their beds. Stanley fell asleep as he listened to the thumping and howling at the far end of the house, wondering what on earth they were going to do next.
The Secret-Keepers Alliance was holding another meeting.
It was scheduled to be “held in secure premises and with adequate provisions and security.”
This actually meant that it would be in Stanley’s bedroom, with large amounts of cookies and milk, and Steadman would be there as a security guard. Stanley had provided the dog with a bone, but the Darkling children had a terrible habit of picking at the raw meat.
“We don’t like cookies!” insisted Olive.
“Or sweet things,” added Berkeley. Although he had been known to eat sugar cubes when they were low on uncooked flesh, so actually he was lying.
Everybody threw in their ideas. Some were good, some were bad, and some were just plain stupid.
“We could just give them the gold and let them pay us for it,” suggested Berkeley, who still wasn’t grasping that the prospectors were about to blow the island to smithereens to gain access to the mines.
Stanley explained it all over again.
“Oh yes,” Berkeley said. “I remember now!”
Annabelle raised her eyebrows, shook her head, and decided not to say anything. Berkeley was still young. He only understood things when you drilled them into him. And, of course, Olive was the same age, but questioned things a little less. Her mind was often elsewhere.
That was part of the problem with the Alliance: some of its younger members had a habit of taking things in the wrong direction. Whether or not Daisy liked Olive’s headless doll was not really part of the agenda, but by now they had spent twenty minutes discussing it.
They pushed on.
“Here’s my best idea,” said Stanley. “I can’t see any reason why it wouldn’t work.”
Everyone leaned their heads in closer, ears pricked up.
“We let MacDowell show the mines to the prospectors.”
“Ooooh no,” said Olive and Berkeley at once.
“Please … just listen. Listen carefully and wait until I’ve finished,” said Stanley.
He continued. “We let MacDowell show the mines to the prospectors because it’s the only way to prove to them that there’s actually nothing there. Nothing except a maze of old tunnels dug away by the force of the sea, with barnacles and old stones and rock and nothing else.”
The others looked confused but nobody spoke. Stanley hadn’t finished. He had them hanging by a thread as he stopped to dunk one of Mrs. Carelli’s prize ginger nut cookies into his milk before swallowing it whole.
“But here’s what we do before we let MacDowell out of his prison to lead them to the mines. There must be a thousand tins of paint down in the scullery. We’ll take a tin each and a brush and we’ll start painting. We’ll put a coat of paint over each and every twinkling nugget of gold until it looks like I just described it. Like nothing. Like rock and stones and sand.”