21 Doomsday Eve On Tomorrow

21. DOOMSDAY EVE ON TOMORROW During the night, the Winter Wind of Woden wailed like a banshee across Wrecker's Bay and all the way down towards the blasted, cursed island of Tomorrow. Early the following morning, Doomsday Eve, the witch and Alvin and all of their Alvinsmen were gathered on the Singing Sands of the Ferryman's Gift, at the bottom of the Murderous Islands. A light snow was falling. The witch had also brought along Gobber and those Dragonmarkers re-captured at the end of the Battle Under the Waterfall the previous night.* It was twenty-six Dragonmarkers versus thousands of Alvinsmen, so the outcome of the battle was not a surprise. Only Camicazi and Fishlegs had got away, on the back of the invisible Deadly Shadow The witch wanted them to witness Alvin's triumph before they were executed, so they were standing– sad, chained prisoners-of-war at the back of the crowd. The Alvinsmen were excited but extremely nervous. Many men and women over the past hundred years had come to the Singing Sands of the Ferryman's Gift carrying false Things, hoping, like poor foolish UG the Uglithug, that they might trick the Guardian Protectors into crowning them King of the Wilderwest.*

All those would-be Kings, along with all of their foolish followers, had died here on this spot, on this very beach. A place where so many unhappy things have happened in the past seems to retain a memory of that misery. The Singing Sands may have sung once, long before the days of Grimbeard the Ghastly. But now they sang no more. Instead a Curse seemed to slouch about those shores, as if it were a live thing looking for prey. An overpowering sense of evil hung there like some dense and heavy mist, and even the witch, an evil thing herself, found the shivering terrors ripple through the sparse hairs on her half-bald head as they waited where so many would-be Kings had risked their lives and lost. 'I can see the Ferryman! Check the Things…' hissed Alvin, his eyes flicking nervously. 'We have got all ten of them, haven't we?' The witch checked the Things once again with a shaking chicken-bone finger.

Yes, there were still ten of them, just as there had been when she had looked two minutes earlier. 'Stop fidgeting, Alvin,' scolded the witch. 'And let's get your Crown straight.' She adjusted the Crown so that it sat more handsomely on Alvin's head. They had settled the Throne in the middle of the empty beach and Alvin was sitting on it, adorned with all of the other Lost Things, so he looked splendid– or slightly ridiculous, depending on your point of view. The witch bit her lip until it bled, for she knew how crucial it was that they had got this right. One single mistake meant death for them all.

She counted the Things one more time, ve-e-e-ery slowly, just to make absolutely sure. 'Hmmmff,' said the sad little voice of Toothless from his cage, which was covered with a black cloth to drown out the noise of his singing. 'You have t-t-trouble counting to ten. T-t-toothless can count to one hundred m-m-million.

One hundred m-m-million bottles h-h-hanging on a wall…' Poor Toothless was just trying to cheer himself up by being cheeky, for he was frightened, and tired. 'Shurrup, you horrible little dragon!' hissed the witch, balling her clawed hands into fists. She was absolutely dying to do something dreadful to him, but of course she needed to keep the little toothless dragon safe until Alvin was the King. The Ferryman was approaching. The waiting Alvinsmen could see a little speck of a boat setting out from the distant shore of Tomorrow, moving through the mist, climbing up and dropping down each white-topped wave towards them, nearer… nearer… NEARER… But the Ferryman's boat was not the only boat in Hero's Gap that day. As the first rays of morning sun began to rise, they dispersed the mists to reveal the ships of Stoick and the other Dragonmarkers, sailing out from their underground hideout in Coral Beach like enchanted ghosts, and they too were heading towards the Singing Sands. The witch looked out to sea, and licked her wicked gums in glee.

'You're too late!' she gloated. 'Too late, Stoick, you galumphing idiot. My Alvin will be the King now…' Slowly the Ferryman's boat approached. 'Faster!' screamed the witch, casting a nervous eye towards the approaching Dragonmarker ships. A superstitious part of her still feared that the Dragonmarkers might, in some last-minute battle, take the Things. The witch gave a shriek of joy as the blindfolded Ferryman carefully placed his oars inside the boat, drifted into shore and came to a stop on the sand. His sixth sense told this Druid Guardian that he had company on the beach. He climbed out of the boat and strode towards the Alvinsmen waiting on the