Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 9

  Chapter 17

  RORROH

  CYRUS AWOKE TO THE SOUND of a tolling bell. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked about. It was still night. The air was thick with a green fog that smelled of some sort of burning weed. Maybe seaweed, he thought. Cyrus’ throat tightened. He began to cough.

  “Edward, you awake?”

  “I don’t feel good,” the spider said, coughing.

  Cyrus searched his clothing and found his best friend balled up in his shirt pocket.

  “Hold on; I’ll try to get us out of here?” Cyrus said, gently petting Edward’s back.

  The ringing of the bell grew nearer. Cyrus worried they might collide with its source. Clumsily, he lit the lantern and held it to the sky. At first, he saw nothing. Then out of the haze loomed a sailing ship. The boat was fifty times larger than their craft, and instead of two sails, it had over ten. The sheets hung ragged and stained from three towering masts.

  The craft was on a collision course. Cyrus grabbed an oar to paddle clear. Dizzy from the smoke, he let the pole slip through his fingers. The ship coasted into their boat and skirted it aside like driftwood. Alongside the oily vessel, a mesh of rope hung from the top deck.

  “Ssseize it,” a distant voice whispered.

  Possessed by an overpowering urge, Cyrus reached out and grabbed the thick net. What just happened, he wondered, staring at his gripping hand. The deck boards groaned from above. A hooded silhouette peered over the edge. Cyrus held the lantern high. The light reflected off two dark eyes beneath the soiled hood.

  “Ssssss…”

  The stranger seemed to taste the air.

  “A child, how sssweet,” said a high-pitched voice.

  Cyrus heard phlegm rattle in the creature’s windpipe, but not whether it was man or woman. He felt he should flee, but his thoughts swam within the cozy, green mist.

  “You must be deathly cold, my dear. Come aboard and join me for ssssome hot tea.”

  With a crooked, bony hand, the creature waved Cyrus up into the boat.

  “Don’t,” Edward gasped, from within his shirt.

  Cyrus fought the urge to climb the mesh ladder.

  “No, um, thank you for your kind offer, but we must be on our way.”

  He shook his head and tried to clear the fog. A waterfall of green smoke drifted down from within the stranger’s cloak.

  “Breathe…” it whispered.

  Suddenly desperate for air, Cyrus drew the fumes into his lungs and began to cough. Edward sneezed violently inside Cyrus’ pocket. Cyrus’ vision grew murky and his senses blurred.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You are lost, young Master LongBones,” the stranger said.

  Cyrus’ attention peaked out from within the gaseous gloom.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Oh, I know many things. I know your village has crumbled into the sea. I know you search for a new home. And I know the land for which you ssseek.”

  Cyrus rubbed his irritated eyes.

  “You know what happened to my island?”

  His voice sounded distant as if spoken by another.

  “How do you know these things? Who are you?”

  “Oh, I have many namesss… but you may call me Rorroh…”

  The stranger whispered the name from the bottom of its belly, and a slash of yellow teeth flashed in the lantern’s glow.

  “Come aboard, young Master. Let me guide you on your journey.”

  Another plume of smoke washed down over Cyrus’ head. Once the coughing cleared, he fell into a hypnotic daze and began to climb the ladder.

  “Cyrus, no…” Edward whispered, weakly.

  Cyrus paused, momentarily pulled from his trance.

  “Quickly, young Master,” Rorroh called down, “or the tea will get cold.”

  “My friend, he’s sick. He needs help,” Cyrus slurred.

  “I have all the aid you require aboard my ship. Come,” the stranger beckoned.

  “Cyrus…” Edward moaned.

  “They’re going to help us,” Cyrus said.

  He climbed the remaining length of the ladder and pulled himself aboard. Rorroh drew away from the lamp’s flame.

  “Please child, extinguish your torch. It is too much for my old eyesss.”

  Cyrus blew out the lantern and set it on the deck. The creature shivered with delight.

  “Come, don’t be afraid,” it said, as it limped towards the stern of the ship.

  “I’m not,” Cyrus said, as he followed Rorroh through the haze.

  “Yesss,” Rorroh smirked, “the traum weed can have that sort of effect on the mind.”

  “Effect?”

  “Oh, never mind, just, breathe.”

  Swampy moss coated the top deck like a gangrenous skin, while a six-pronged tiller moaned with the ocean’s current. Rorroh shuffled towards a cabin at the rear of the vessel, careful not to step on any of the deck’s fractured floorboards. The shack’s horn-shaped chimney billowed with green smoke, and from within, the room’s round windows flickered with a dim, emerald hue. Rorroh grasped the door handle and let Cyrus into the ill-lit chamber.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, drifting through the creaking doorway.

  He had to focus his eyes to take in his surroundings. The cabin smelled of sweet perfume and dried flowers, but under that odor something sour lurked. A stove at the back of the cabin burned with green embers, warming the damp quarters, and on top of the stove, a blackened kettle began to whistle.

  Cyrus noticed a second person pick the pot up and carry it towards a round table nook. Like Rorroh, the creature too wore a hooded robe.

  “The tea is ready, Mistress,” the short fellow said, his voice gravelly and high-pitched.

  Mistress, Cyrus thought, So Rorroh is a woman.

  “Aghamore, set the tea down there,” Rorroh replied, limping towards a cupboard.

  As Aghamore placed the tea on the table, Cyrus caught a glimpse of his face. The creature looked grey and starved, with a shabby, white beard. His left eye had swelled twice as large as his right. He retreated towards the stove and sniffed at Cyrus through slit-like nostrils.

  Cyrus realized he was staring. He looked towards the table. There he saw a large map pinned to the wall. The chart was sketched in a red so dark; it was almost black. Several islands dotted the map with names like VANN GARDE, GRUNN GARDE, and, HIMMEL GARDE. At its center were sketched Virkelot and Myrkur Island. Both were marked HUNE.

  “Why do you have a map of my home?” Cyrus asked, rubbing the fog from his eyes, “and what are the rest of those islands?

  “That’s where klappen lurk and mermaidsss shriek,” Rorroh said, “But those demons are of no concern to you, now…”

  Aghamore snickered. A chill brushed Cyrus’ flesh. He tried to make a mental note of the details. His thoughts swam and twisted.

  “Please, have a ssseat,” Rorroh said, setting a pair of tin cups out on the table.

  “My friend,” Cyrus said, drawing Edward from his pocket, “He’s not well.”

  He slid into the nook’s bench seat farthest from his host and held Edward cupped in his hands. The spider was breathing, but barely conscious.

  “What have we here?” Rorroh asked, moving closer.

  In the emerald glow of the fire, Cyrus could see his host’s facial features. Rorroh had powdered her face in white makeup, but under that mask, her skin was a map of wrinkles, clinging to her skull like dried leather. She wore a long, wooden costume nose, tied to her head by thin rope, and her cheekbones jutted out like cliffs, smeared with red blush.

  Cyrus opened his hands. The old woman’s pale flesh grew more pallid somehow.

  “Blodbad spider…” she gasped, staggering back.

  “He’s my friend,” Cyrus said, drunkenly, “He needs our help.”

  He laid Edward on the stained, yellow tablecloth and stroked his furry back. Hesitantly, Rorroh took a glass beaker from a shelf. Then she sprang forward,
trapping the spider under the glass.

  “What are you doing?” Cyrus asked, jerking his hand away.

  “We don’t allow wild animals to run free on our ship,” Rorroh said, forcing a smile.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Cyrus said, his head lulling, “He’s not like other spiders. He talks.”

  “Oh, he does more than that,” Rorroh said, peering closely at the arachnid through the glass, “And do not worry about his health. The traum weed affected him more than most. He will be as good as new in a few hours.”

  “Thank the Angels,” Cyrus sighed, enjoying the sedated hum running through his body, “If you give him back, I’ll make sure he’s kept safe.”

  Rorroh moved around the table and shifted into the nook, her hand still on the glass.

  “Now, now, child, don’t be rude. Take a sssip of tea before it gets cold.”

  With her opposite hand, she poured Cyrus a cup and nudged it closer. He took the mug and paused. Rorroh grasped the other, nodded to Cyrus, and swallowed a scalding hot slurp. Several drops of tea dribbled down her narrow chin.

  “Now it’s your turn,” she said, “Go on, drink.”

  Cyrus lifted the mug and sipped a tiny mouthful. The liquid burnt his tongue.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Rorroh smirked.

  The tea was bittersweet, like dandelion juice mixed with too much sugar. Trying not to gag, Cyrus smiled and nodded. The hot tea began to trickle down his throat and become ice in his belly.

  “My only family drowned,” he slurred, “My people want me dead, and I have nowhere else to turn. I need help. Anybody’s help…”

  Cyrus’ skin began to sweat.

  “Now,” Rorroh said, “I can understand how you were able to flee my island, but how you were able to elude my froskman is another matter entirely.”

  “Froskman?”

  Rorroh’s words sounded muffled, Cyrus had to focus his hearing.

  “Tell me, boy, have others tried to essscape, or are you the only one?”

  “Others? No, I’m the only one. They tried to kill me.”

  “Good, that’s good,” Rorroh cooed.

  Cyrus’ guts twisted and the room started to spin. He tried to stand. His limbs had grown numb.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered.

  “It's a funny thing about veneno tea,” Rorroh said, in mock conspiracy, “I’ve been drinking it for decadesss, and it’s always been good to me, but for an alveling such as yourself, there’s no telling what sort of effectsss it might hold.”

  Cyrus began to lose all control of his body. He slumped sideways in his chair.

  “I don’t feel well.”

  Rorroh set down her mug and oozed overtop of his paralyzed frame, coming face to face with the boy. Her eyes were black and gleamed with oil, and her narrow teeth stabbed inward, like barbed hooks.

  “What are you?” Cyrus gasped.

  “The Sssea Zombie.”

  Then all went dark.

  Chapter 18

  THE PHANTOM

  CYRUS AWOKE achy and nauseous. His nose filled with the stink of wood rot and mildew. Had it all been a bad dream? His head felt swollen and his vision blurred. He heard the toll of a bell.

  “No…”

  Ice slid down his spine, and he began to sweat. Cyrus tried to move. He discovered his wrists bound by rope as he dangled from a meat hook overhead.

  “The Sea Zombie!”

  He struggled to recall how he had gotten there. His memories were hazy and green. He felt cold and realized he was clothed in nothing but his underwear. Where was Edward?

  “Edward, you here?” he half whispered, half cried.

  “Edward?”

  He recalled his friend trapped under a glass jar. He peered around the room. His surroundings were ill-lit and full of shadows. The only light in the chamber came from a potbellied stove rusting in the corner.

  The furnace glowed with orange embers, and on its top sat a cauldron large enough to boil a pig. Within the iron pot bubbled something that stunk of lard and seaweed. Cyrus’ vision focused. His eyes adjusted to the shadows. He saw steel shackles and what looked like the skulls of children hanging from greasy walls.

  “What in Kingdom?”

  His heart began to pump fire into his limbs. He was an insect trapped in a web. He prayed Edward was somewhere safe.

  He searched for a way to escape. At the back of the room, several shelves stood stocked with objects such as crystal orbs, steel swords and strange jars of liquid. Cyrus peered down a narrow hallway leading to the stern or aft of the ship. Two dim blue lights appeared from within the darkened socket. Cyrus froze. His breath grew rapid. The orbs drifted out of the passageway. The stove’s fire lit the contours of a dark, slender figure.

  “No, get away,” Cyrus hissed.

  It was the creature from the lake. The one Jim OddFoot had described in his journal. It was male, clothed in a flesh-tight suit. The suit was made of black whale skin. It covered all but his head, shins, and forearms.

  The newcomer neared. He drew a knife from his belt and raised it overhead. Cyrus tried to scream.

  “Sshh,” the creature said, fixing a grey, webbed hand to Cyrus’ mouth.

  The stranger began to cut his bonds.

  “Oh, thank you,” Cyrus whispered, as the newcomer helped him to the floor.

  Cyrus’ body felt stiff and numb, and the welt on his side stung, so with one arm over his shoulder, the stranger helped him towards a door in the corner of the room.

  From the deck above hinges creaked and footsteps crept downstairs. The stranger’s eyes dimmed. He signaled silence, then dragged Cyrus into a corner, behind a row of shelves.

  “Silly child,” a muffled voice whispered.

  The cabin door opened and in hobbled Rorroh, gripping a palmed-sized, crystal sphere. Aghamore followed, carrying a small cork-topped vial.

  “Call off the hunt. I’ve found him,” Rorroh said, speaking into the glowing, green orb.

  “As you wish, Mistress,” the orb replied.

  Its emerald glare cast shadows across Rorroh’s face. Her red painted mouth drooled with need.

  She paused as she noticed the empty hook.

  “Aghamore, what have you done?”

  “Nothing, Mistress,” the small, hooded figure answered.

  Like an owl, she twisted her head to the right. The tendons and vertebrae in her neck snapped and crackled like crushed shellfish. She craned her head towards the ceiling and sniffed the air.

  “A trespasser aboard my ship?” she asked, her tone eerily playful.

  She peered down the shadowy hallway. Something drew her attention back to the hook. Then slowly her head turned in the direction of the darkened corner. Cyrus’ breath grew shaky. What were they going to do? They were trapped in the belly of a rotting ship with a creature claiming to be the Sea Zombie.

  The blue-eyed stranger leaped from behind the shelves and grabbed Aghamore by the neck, holding a knife to his gilled throat. Aghamore dropped the glass vial. It did not break. Cyrus slumped against the wall, his limbs still numb.

  “Make one move towards us, and I will cut your puppet gill to gill,” the stranger said.

  His voice was odd. It hummed as if there was a bee in his throat.

  “What have we here?” Rorroh asked, “A traitor in our midst?”

  “The door, young Master, go!” the stranger demanded.

  Cyrus’ hands and feet were full of pins and needles. He stumbled in the direction of the door. Then he noticed a small, black shape trapped within Aghamore’s glass. Edward! He moved toward the standoff. The spider appeared to be unconscious.

  “I would not touch him if I were you,” Rorroh said.

  Cyrus looked up. His eyes focused on the grinning witch. She moved ever so slightly forward. The stranger’s body tightened. Aghamore let out a squeal of pain. Cyrus reached out and grasped the vial. Then he scrambled to the door and tried the knob. It was locked.

  “Looking for this?
” Rorroh asked, producing a greasy, black key from within her cloak.

  “Hand it over,” the stranger demanded, pressing his blade to Aghamore’s throat.

  Aghamore’s gilled neck flared and his misshapen eyes peered about crazed.

  “You misunderstand, traitor,” Rorroh said, her eyes twinkling with the glow of the furnace, “I do not serve Aghamore. He serves me. Attack!”

  Cyrus watched dumbstruck as Aghamore threw his head back and struck the stranger in the face, breaking his nose. The stranger lost his hold. Aghamore spun around and again head-butted his opponent. The stranger wiped blood from his mouth. Then he clutched Aghamore by the collar. He flipped him over his back, slamming him to the deck. Then he grasped an arm and a leg and, spinning on his heels, cast the villain headfirst into a nearby wall. The boards splintered and Aghamore dropped like a broken marionette to the floor.

  “Break the door open,” the stranger shouted.

  Breathing heavily, he pointed to a row of battleaxes resting at the bottom of a shelf. Cyrus set the snoozing Edward down near the door and grabbed an ax. The weapon was heavy, causing his injured side to ache. He struggled to raise it shoulder height.

  Rorroh began to creep closer.

  “Tell me, child, how were you able to tame the blodbad spider? Even I would not dare handle such a hostile and poisonous creature. Besides, I thought them all dead.”

  Cyrus’ breath quickened as he chopped at the door. Blodbad spider? Poisonous and hostile? Did she mean Edward?

  The door was old and hard like stone. With each awkward blow, the wood chipped away in small, jagged shards.

  “Stay back, witch,” the blue-eyed creature demanded, raising his knife.

  Rorroh ignored his words and shambled closer.

  “Even if you were able to flee my ship, there is nowhere to run. You saw the map. Wherever your boat lands, my minions await.”

  Terror lent Cyrus strength. The ax became light in his hands.

  “I said back,” the stranger repeated.

  He reversed the grip on his weapon and flew at Rorroh. He brought the blade down hard at her skull. Cyrus watched in horror as Rorroh caught the blow mid-air and turned the knife. The stranger slammed into the witch, impaling himself on his own blade. Steel pierced his back.