The Silver Casket by Chris Mould Page B

place on the wall. I had grown to love my glass case, but I did not realize it until I was outside it. I fear I am growing old, and though at one time the cold did not bother me, now it bites at my bones and I long for the warmth of the house.”
    Suddenly Stanley felt the urge to reach the surface. He soared quickly upward, desperate
to grab a breath of air. As he burst through, he woke with a start.
    He sat up wide-eyed in his bed, peering into the gloom.
    â€œJust a dream,” he said, lying down again.
    But the dream would not leave him alone. It repeated itself all night and woke him endlessly, until the morning light pierced through the tiny hole in the heavy curtains.

    A rotted flag waved through the mist. Grim voices bellowed through the darkness.
    A crash of waves broke across the quarterdeck and drenched the ghastly crew.
    Down in the cabin, three poisoned-looking faces sat together at a large wooden table, spilling grog across the maps.
    A rogue, tattooed from head to toe, raised his tankard.

    â€œI swear that as long as my rotten spirit wanders this earth, I, Scribbles Flanaghan, will seek out the Ibis and bring it ’ome to its rightful place,’ere on board the Rusty Blade. And if we’appen to spy the silver casket on our travels, well, that is ours also. Do you swear by the same, Mister Smiff?” he asked his nearest partner.
    â€œThat I do, Mister Scribbles, sir. That I do,” said Seafood Smith. He popped another crab claw open and swallowed it down with a swig of ale.
    â€œAnd what about yerself there, Mister Doyle? Will yer be saying the same?”
    â€œYou can count on Doyle, me hearties. I will fight to the end to take back what once was mine.” He pulled a pair of nasty-looking pliers from his top pocket. “I always’as a little trick up me sleeve to get what I want. They don’t call me Doyle the Dentist for nothin’,” he sneered as he opened and closed his pincers. They all laughed out loud.
    Someone rattled down the staircase from up on
deck, spluttering and gasping and soaked in sea wash. “Mister Scribbles, sir, permission to speak, sir.”
    â€œOut with it, Mister Phipps. What is troubling you?”
    â€œThere’s another ship, sir. A pirate ship, sir, up ahead. She looks like getting there afore us.”
    â€œWell get a move on then, Phipps, and stop blubberin’.” Scribbles raised his voice and sent a grog bottle hurtling at the back of Phipps’s head. “The Rusty Blade will not be beaten by any other ship.”

    Stanley had drifted off again. He was rudely awakened by the sound of someone rapping at the front door. He listened for Mrs. Carelli and, sure enough, her footsteps clomped across the polished floor of the hallway.
    â€œHello, poppet,” he heard her say. He knew it was Daisy—Mrs. Carelli used that name for her and for nobody else.
    In the short time that Stanley had known Daisy, they had become firm friends, and already they had been through thick and thin together. It was a short walk from Daisy’s uncle’s lighthouse to the Hall, and she spent much of her time at Stanley’s side.
    Stanley gathered himself together and thundered down the staircase, desperate to tell Daisy about his dream. But only when Mrs. Carelli was out of the way.

    He waited for his moment and then he pounced. It was strange to retell the story in daylight.
    â€œBut it’s only a dream, Stanley,” Daisy reassured him. “It doesn’t really mean anything.”
    â€œDaisy, listen. We can’t leave the Ibis where it is. It is vulnerable, and if we have it, we can protect it. If we leave it in the water, they will come and take it easily, without any challenge. The dream is a warning. We must act.”
    â€œAll right, then. When?”
    â€œSoon. But when we return with the pike we’ll have to hide him. Mrs. Carelli won’t be happy if she knows that he is back here,