The Smugglers' Mine by Chris Mould Page A

friend of Stanley’s Great-Uncle Bart, the man who had died and left Stanley his every possession?
    Could they really turn him away?
    â€œStop!” cried Stanley.
    â€œStanley, no. Yer can’t. We don’t know him,” urged Mrs. Carelli in a whisper that was so loud it could have woken the dead admiral.
    MacDowell stopped and turned.
    â€œWait,” called Stanley. “You haven’t given us a chance to explain. Bring your things and come inside. If nothing else, you need an
explanation and a room for the night.”
    â€œâ€˜Are yer sure now? An old stranger like me? I could be anyone!”
    â€œCome on,” urged Stanley again.

    â€œDon’t make me regret this, Stanley,” continued Mrs. Carelli in his ear.
    â€œCome and sit by the fire,” Victor said. “We have much to tell you.”
    The stranger shuffled into the house and they sat, all four of them, around the burning logs. They explained the dreadful circumstances of Admiral Swift’s death at the curse of the werewolf, and how it had led to Stanley inheriting the old place, with Mr. and Mrs. Carelli continuing their work there.
    MacDowell held his face in his hands. “Me old mate Swifty. We drank a thousand bottles together. We dug and buried a hundred chests on as many islands and sailed the seven seas in search of many more. All for nothin’. Killed by a werewolf! I seen a lot o’ things in me time but I ain’t never ’eard o’ nothin’ so sinister as that. This place must be cursed.” A single tear
ran from the corner of one lonely eye.
    â€œIt’s cursed all right,” said Stanley, handing him a handkerchief.
    â€œWell, blisterin’ coconuts, if ever a piece o’ news knocked the wind out o’ me sails it’s this.”
    â€œWhat is your name?” asked Mrs. Carelli.
    â€œMacDowell, ma’am. I already told yer!”
    â€œNo, I mean your first name.”
    â€œMacDowell.”
    â€œSo what is your last name?”
    â€œMacDowell.”
    â€œSo your full name is MacDowell MacDowell?”
    â€œNo ma’am, just MacDowell, though some folks call me Dead-Eye MacDowell. Yer know, due to the patch. Lost me left goggle in a fight, I did. Very painful.”

    â€œThat must have been some mean old buccaneer you fought that took out an eye,” said Mrs. Carelli.
    â€œWeren’t no buccaneer, ma’am. T’was a bear!”
    â€œA bear?” they cried out all at once.
    â€œAye, lad,” said MacDowell, turning to Stanley and looking close with one eye. “Seven feet tall and hairy as a mammoth. Didn’t like me diggin’ a hole near his patch in the woods and clawed me badly. It was yer Great-Uncle Bart that saved me that time. Blasted it to the other side o’ the woods with his old musket.”
    Stanley sat with his mouth open and wide
eyes staring. And as they listened to all the old tales of MacDowell and Swift, it grew late into the night and the fire was on its last legs.
    Mr. and Mrs. Carelli sat snoozing in their chairs, but old MacDowell was still going strong, a bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand and a tall tale reeling away. Stanley listened in fascination and wonder, but he felt his eyelids dropping.
    â€œPerhaps I should show you to your room now, sir,” he murmured.
    â€œAye, lad. That’d be just fine. I’m in need of a good night’s sleep. Thank yer very much.”
    Stanley led him upstairs and MacDowell closed the door on his host, bidding him goodnight. When he had sat a moment on the bed and taken a good look at his room,
he looked into the mirror. He scratched at his whiskery chin and fell on to the bed in a fit of whiskey-fueled snoring.

2
    Retrieving the Map
    An ancient silver casket sat in damp darkness. No chink of daylight shone upon its delicately crafted surface or picked out the colors that came upon it in the sun.
    Until now.
    Stanley Buggles’s