Cyrus LongBones Box Set
Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie
By Jeremy Mathiesen
Text copyright © 2017 Jeremy Mathiesen All Rights Reserved
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
To Sally and Oscar Mathiesen
for without their brave journey, this adventure would never have been possible
TABLE OF CONTENT
BOOK 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
BOOK 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
BOOK 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 1
THE END
“RUN…”
Cyrus turned in the direction of the voice. The chamber was cold, dank and ill-lit by dying candles weeping over craggy ledges. He smelled something sweet, yet foul in the air. Then it struck him. It was the reek of fear.
He searched the darkness. Several rusted manacles draped against the damp walls, and the odd meat hook jangled overhead.
“Fibian,” Edward cried.
Cyrus looked to the small spider. Edward clung to Cyrus’ shoulder, pointing forward. Cyrus peered ahead.
At the room’s center, Fibian lay strapped to a thick, wooden chair.
“Angels,” Cyrus gasped, “What happened?”
Candlelight illuminated Fibian’s sharp features. He was haggard, a ghost of himself. His face was bloody and battered, his nose broken and his eyes swollen. Deep lacerations outlined his brow and cheekbones. The way he sat, Cyrus suspected his ribs were broken too.
“Run,” Fibian repeated, wheezing, “Before she returns.”
He moved his head, gesturing to the rear of the room.
Cyrus rushed to Fibian’s side. He began to unbuckle the leather straps around his wrists. Long dried blood stained the chair’s deep grain.
“No, go - now,” Fibian coughed, blood spattering his lips.
Cyrus unstrapped his friend’s ankles, contemplating their escape. The only way out was the stairway. But that was suicide. Yet if they stayed…
Cyrus hefted Fibian out of the chair and hauled him to the double doors.
“Get ready to run,” Cyrus whispered.
“No,” Fibian begged.
“Cyrus,” Edward pleaded, digging his legs into Cyrus’ flesh.
Cyrus unbolted the steel lock. Something heavy clicked behind them. He turned. Beyond the shadows, a hidden door in the back wall began to edge open. A long, spidery hand reached through the crack. Cyrus’ legs grew weak. A bald, crooked, old woman emerged through the passage.
“The Sea Zombie,” Edward gasped.
The creature’s white powdered face and wooden, costume nose were spattered with dried blood. She grinned like a snarling wolf. The rip in her membrane-thin cheeks exposed dark, decaying gums.
She began to move forward with a cripple’s gait, but Cyrus was not fooled. He knew crushing strength hid beneath the grey, tattered robes.
She looked at Cyrus through black, oily eyes, their deep sockets drilled into jutting cheekbones.
“Murderer…” she said in a breathless whisper, “Thiefff!” she spat, as she raised her blackened, right arm.
The right arm that, because of Cyrus, was now handless…
Chapter 2
THE BEGINNING
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD CYRUS LONGBONES rushed along the sandy shore, mindful of the Dead Fence lurking in the nearby forest. The sky was heavy and grey; the wind crisp and salty. Raindrops lashed the beach.
“We need to finish the boat tonight,” Cyrus said, “If I’m not back before dinner…”
He did not need to say more. His blackened right eye told Edward enough.
“I’m afraid,” said Edward.
The velvety spider, crouched on Cyrus’ shoulder, “I’ve seen strange things over there. Weird blue lights in the night.”
“It’s an island, like Virkelot,” Cyrus huffed, running with a sheet of silk in one hand and a steel pin in the other, “You’re letting those ghost stories get the better of you.”
But the truth was, Cyrus was afraid as well. It was just that his stepmother terrified him more.
Edward was an odd little spider. He had a yellow mark on his back that looked similar to a skull-and-crossbones. Four years earlier, a twelve-year-old Cyrus had found the seven-legged orphan clinging to a web. The boy had said hello to the creature, and the strangest thing had happened; the spider had said hello back. As Cyrus spoke, Edward began to mimic everything he would say. Over the years, Cyrus taught him how to speak and shared with him all he knew. Cyrus had also asked about his missing eighth leg, but like most of his young childhood, Edward could not recall that memo
ry.
Cyrus cut through a withered field of bluish-grey grass and tramped over several half-buried stone tiles. The ancient stones were weather-beaten, and each looked as large as the town churchyard. He had always wished to ask someone where they had come from, and why they ran along the entire coast, but knew he never could. He was not supposed to be on that side of the fence…
“Angels,” Cyrus cursed, as he slipped in the mud.
He fell to his bottom on a soggy patch of grass. He managed to keep Edward and the sheet out of the filth.
At the south end of the island flowed the island’s lone waterfall. The excess water from the village’s steam-powered contraptions drained into the man-made river; then into the sea. Over the years, the fall had carved its way through one of the stone tiles, clearing a lagoon where it met the ocean.
With time running out, Cyrus found his feet, waded through the pool and skirted in behind the sheet of water. There lay the entrance to a cavern. The result of an old cave-in, Cyrus reckoned. The hairs on his neck prickled.
He hurried through the darkened entrance. The air smelled moist, yet stale, the damp, sandy floor squishing through his toes. The small cave opening gave way to yawning darkness. Cyrus looked up. A massive ceiling rose dome-like above his head; then vanished into shadows.
Cyrus moved to a ledge, collected a box of matches from beside a square tin and struck a match. The stick broke in his hand.
“Come on,” he said, trying to light a second.
The matchstick’s head sloughed off. The matches were damp.
“Hurry,” Edward said, “this place gives me the creeps.”
Cyrus tried a third. On the fourth strike, it ignited. The acrid smell of sulfur filled the air. As he lit the lantern, the sulfuric scent was replaced by the oily odor of kerosene. The flame attempted to illuminate a chamber larger than the largest whale.
“Let’s go,” Cyrus said, moving deeper into the cavern, “My stepmom’s already suspicious.”
The cave’s interior smelled damp and stony. Torchlight danced on the bone yellow walls.
“We’re just going to scout it out first right, make sure it’s safe?” Edward asked.
“I promise,” Cyrus said, trying to appear unafraid, “Tomorrow I’ll skip school, and we’ll sail to Myrkur Island. If all goes well, we can leave this place for good.”
Edward nodded, but his round face showed concern.
At the edge of the blackness, resting on the sandy floor, lay a small, three-hulled boat. The main hull was leaf-shaped and made of dark, dunkel wood panels. Two smaller hulls hung from the sides by four horizontal struts, and a dunkel wood mast rose a foot above Cyrus’ head.
He rushed to the boat. The lantern light exposed a sandy shore beyond, verging on the edge of a vast, underground lake. The reservoir looked deep and still as it drifted off into a black, watery abyss. Cyrus had always been too afraid to explore the dark pool, but he suspected that the lake ran underneath the entire village of Virkelot. A familiar gulping sound echoed in the murk.
Over the generations, the villagers had drilled and dug a network of wells and pipelines, and like huge straws, thick, leathery hoses plunged from the cavern’s ceiling, sucking gallon upon gallon of water up to the hard-working people above.
Cyrus set the lantern on the ground. The flame flickered, and for a brief moment, all went black.
“Be careful,” said Edward.
Cyrus pulled the spider silk sheet from beneath his arm and flapped it out like a tablecloth.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
Unlike most spiders, Edward only had two eyes, and they watched in seeming anticipation as Cyrus tugged on the sail. It flexed and made a subtle humming noise. How could spider silk be so strong, Cyrus wondered?
“Will it fit?” he asked.
“I think so,” Edward said, smiling nervously.
The spider’s square teeth glinted in the dark.
Cyrus began to rig the mainsail to the mast and boom. The rigging was difficult at first, and he feared he would run out of rope, but as usual, Edward’s craftsmanship was perfect.
Cyrus moved back to the ledge and picked up the small tin box. Inside, he kept an old, yellowed piece of paper with a drawing of a boat. The parchment smelled musty and decayed.
“Think it’ll float?” he asked, comparing the finished vessel to the sketch.
“I don’t know,” Edward said, crawling up Cyrus’ shoulder; towards the illustration.
Cyrus had discovered the drawing years ago in one of the preacher’s ancient texts. Seeing his chance to escape, he had stolen the page. The picture was crude and faded, and at first, words like ‘starboard,’ and ‘stern,’ were foreign to him, but through much study, he had learned what most of the terms meant.
“Now for the dam,” he said, collecting the pin and scrambling out of the tunnel.
He followed the South River over the giant, stone tile and up into the forest. A square piece of wood, tied to a leather ball, hung from the boughs of a tree. Cyrus used a rope with a rock tied to one end to lower the two objects over the river. The board slid down a slot, and using the steel pin, locked into a square-shaped spillway, sealing a wooden river dam.
“Angels! The pin’s too big!” Cyrus swore.
“Just use a stick,” Edward said.
“No, it’s got to be smooth, or we’ll never be able to unlock it. We have to do this right.”
“Then what now?” Edward asked.
“I’m going to have to break into my stepmom’s shed,” Cyrus said.
“No, if you’re caught -” Edward gasped.
Ding, ding. Ding, ding. Ding, ding.
“The dinner bell!” Cyrus whispered, his flesh goose-prickling.
“Go,” Edward demanded, “Don’t worry about me. Just go!”
Cyrus scrambled to his feet, turning to leave.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Be ready.”
“You’re sure you still want to do this?” Edward called after him.
Cyrus did not bother to reply. A familiar feeling of cowardice and shame twisted in his belly. His skin flushed hot. He began to dash back over the massive, stone slabs; through the windy footpath, the trail driving him hard towards the dark and mysterious Hekswood Forest.
Chapter 3
VIRKELOT VILLAGE
AND
THE DEAD FENCE
HEKSWOOD FOREST SURROUNDED each side of the Dead Fence, and both the woods and the wall encircled the entire perimeter of Virkelot Island. The odor of stagnant mud and skunk cabbage filled Cyrus’ nostrils as he sped along the trail. He was careful not to snag his denim sleeves on the coils of prickle bushes that crawled like barbed serpents through the thickets. The thorns looked of polished, black steel and their points dripped with yellow poison.
Shining eyes began to emerge out of the shadows as Cyrus delved deeper into Hekswood. Overhead, crooked dunkel trees wove their limbs together like so many lies, with only the finest of sunbeams able to penetrate their depths. At his feet, a thin layer of fog blanketed a skin of dead leaves.
The forest came to an abrupt stop several feet from a ten-foot-high wall. The ground began to wilt and crack as it neared its thick pickets. Over the generations, the Dead Fence had become less wood and more like stone, its red paint blistered and faded.
With a running jump, Cyrus began to clamber over the top. He kicked and pulled against gravity. The fence felt rigid and frozen to the touch. He attempted to swing his right leg up over the wall. His foot caught; then slipped from the edge. He tried a second time. His shoe snagged on the pickets and fell to the other side. On his third attempt, he drew a deep inhale and kicked with all his might. The muscles in his side cramped. Straining, he pulled himself atop the fence. Then, catching his breath, he slid down the wall’s interior and dropped to the ground. The earth cracked around his feet, exposing a network of decayed roots just beneath the soil. Cyrus collected his shoe and fit it to his foot.
Within the walled
perimeter, Hekswood continued its advance. There, Cyrus penetrated the forest’s inner circle and carried on towards the Virkelot Ring Road.
Like the Dead Fence, the Ring Road rimmed the entire circumference of Virkelot, acting as a boundary line between the forest and Cyrus’ village. All streets and alleyways ended on that round road.
Cyrus peeked out from the underwood. There was no one in sight. Good, he thought. He would make it home in time for dinner. But he still needed that key…
He scrambled out onto the street. Potholes dented the gravel lane and several homes slouched along its inner edge. The cottages’ blue and grey exteriors had faded. Their grass roofs sagged overhead.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
A wiry hand clutched Cyrus by the neck. He could feel sharp nails stab into his flesh.
“Mom?”
Cyrus tried to look back. The grip was tight, the nails drawing blood.
“Just like your father, aren’t you, always sneaking about like a little rat.”
She twisted him around to face her.
Cyrus’ stepmother, Llysa, was slender compared to most villagers, a little taller than Cyrus, with skin as pale as teeth. White strands of coarse hair slashed her death black mane.
“I wasn’t sneaking,” Cyrus said, his body flushing hot.
He heard his voice and hated how weak and pathetic he sounded.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from that demon’s shrub, you little, ungrateful bastard?” Llysa said, her thin lips tightening in anger, “If you want to ignore village law and get yourself killed, that’s one thing, but you will not endanger or embarrass your half-brother and me as well.”
Cyrus had always thought she might have been beautiful at one time, but years of fear and hatred had sharpened her features into a soulless, lined mask.
“There’s no law that says you can’t go into Hekswood,” Cyrus said, regretting the words the second they left his lips.
WHACK!
Llysa slapped him hard across the jaw. His vision flashed white, and his blackened eye felt bruised to the bone. He began to taste blood.
“Don’t talk back,” she snarled, “You live under my roof, eat my food, you will do what I say. I didn’t ask to be burdened with an orphan, but I’ve done my duty. I’ve done what your tramp of a mother couldn’t, and what your cheating father wouldn’t. You’d best remember that.”