The Silver Casket Read Online Free

golden-white hair and nut-brown skin, he was a sight, to be sure.
    It was maybe two hundred years ago that the Ibis sat buried in a church in Cuzco. It
rested under a stone slab of a tomb adorned with the statue of an angel.

    They say the power of the Ibis was so strong that the body returned to life in the form of the angel and stole away with the sacred bird. In a bid to keep it, the angel donned the robes of the pirate trade and fled to the east. He fought so hard to keep it that he became the most feared buccaneer of the seven seas.
    He lost the Ibis when he was overcome by a ship carrying monstrous buccaneers.
    It is said that his evil ways reduced his wings to stumps upon his back, and that in the end he died defending a gang of Peruvian brothers that he had befriended.
    If I were you, I would gather my belongings and escape while there is still a chance that I shall see you again.
    Make haste.
    Your affectionate brother,
    And the rest was torn away.

    â€œIs that a true story, Stanley?” asked Daisy, who, even though sitting by the roaring fire, was shaking like a leaf.
    â€œWell, maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. But I’m sure that sooner or later, we will find out.” With nervous hands Stanley folded it back into its age-old creases and returned it to the drawer.

6
    The Timber Trail
    That night, Stanley and Daisy looked out at the darkness of the ocean from the staircase window. A huge boat had arrived in the harbor.
    â€œThey’re here,” panicked Stanley. The pair of them peered more intently through the glass, squinting their eyes.
    â€œThat’s no pirate ship, Stanley. It’s a ferry!” claimed Daisy.

    The two of them stood watching.
    Then there was movement. Something began to move down the gangplanks at one end of the boat. The fire baskets were burning, and they illuminated a long winding shape that snaked upward into the harbor, moving toward the moor. It was creaking and grinding like the train that had brought Stanley to the island. What was it?
    Stanley and Daisy looked more closely still, and soon they realized that a trail of wooden wagons, one behind another, was approaching them. Flickering lamps hung from them, dancing in the dark.

    They ran from room to room, chasing the trail from window to window.
    â€œWait, I know these people! Don’t worry, Stanley,” said Daisy. They are travelers, and they have been here before. They are good people, with many friends on Crampton Rock. They will be welcomed. They stay up on the moor when they are here, but recently the curse of the werewolf had driven them away, because many were lost in its grip. They must know the beast is gone—they say that word spreads fast in the world of the traveling man.”

    On they went to the moor, and when the travelers were far enough out, they rested in a large circle. The light from a campfire laid an orange cast across the hill, and the howl of dogs sailed eerily through the night air. A tent was pitched and sat comfortably protected by the wagons. Silhouettes of people moved around in the warm glow.
    The fire danced all night, and Stanley fell asleep to the distant sounds of laughing and singing.

    In the morning Stanley was sitting by the fire with a warm drink when a knock at the door
disturbed the moment. A tall gypsy man stood in the early light. He had long hair and wore clogs. A heavy coat hung from his shoulders, tied around the waist with rope.
    â€œI come to thank the good lady for the fresh water when we arrived,” he chirped. He had an accent that was strange to Stanley, and his manner was pleasant. He pulled his coat open to show a brace of rabbits, and handed them to Stanley.
    â€œOh … er, thank you!” said Stanley.

    â€œYou must be the lad,” the man added. “I wanted to see you.”
    â€œOh! About what?” Stanley quizzed.
    â€œYou misunderstand me, son,” he said. “I mean, I wanted to see what you look