Scar Island

by Dan Gemeinhart

  “My god,” he whispered to the boy next to him. “How long do we have to do this?”

  The boy looked around to make sure no adults were within earshot. The dark brown skin of his head was shaved almost bald, and it glistened with sweat from working in the hot, crowded kitchen.

  “Until they tell us to stop, man,” he murmured, handing Jonathan another onion.

  Jonathan had opened his eyes that morning to the same nightmare he’d fallen asleep in. Freezing cold. Ravenously hungry. Lost in hopeless darkness. They’d been roused from their sleep by Mr. Mongley’s hoarse whisper-shout and the clang of his cane against cell bars, then lined up and marched to a huge, cluttered kitchen. With no welcome or instruction, he’d been handed a knife and a basket of onions and shoved over to a long counter. He was three onions in now, and his belly was howling for food.

  He looked around as he worked. All around him, other boys were bustling and cooking and chopping, each wearing the same dingy gray one-piece uniform that he was. There seemed to be about fifteen of them. Some looked a little older than him, some a little younger. None of them looked happy.

  “Don’t they have, like … a cook, or something?”

  The kid snorted and rolled his brown eyes.

  “Yeah, right. Why pay a cook when they can make our sorry butts do it? The more we do, the more money goes in the Admiral’s pockets.” He wiped at his eyes, then nudged Jonathan and pointed with his chin at Mr. Warwick, glaring at them from the corner. “Quieter,” he whispered.

  Jonathan smiled. “You’re Walter?”

  The kid nodded. “You almost got me drenched, man. Jonathan, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, welcome to Slabhenge. How long you here for?”

  “Ten weeks,” Jonathan answered. It hadn’t sounded that terrible in the courtroom. He’d almost wanted to come, to get away from … everything. But standing there now, ten hours seemed like more than he could stand.

  Walter whistled and his wide eyes shot up to Jonathan.

  “Ten? Geez, man, what did you do?”

  Jonathan looked into Walter’s eyes for just a moment, then looked away again quickly.

  “Why? How long are you here for?” he asked.

  Walter snorted.

  “Well, I was sent here for four weeks. But that was almost two months ago.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  Walter rolled his eyes again.

  “Everyone stays longer, man. Just when you’re about done with your time, the Admiral sends a little letter. To your folks, to whatever judge or state sent you here. Tells how you’re coming along fine, but there’s still more work to do, that he’s sure you’d come right around if he had just a little more time to educate you.” Walter’s voice dripped with scorn. “And he offers to extend your education. At a reduced rate.” He finished chopping an onion and started on the next. “You’re supposed to be here for ten weeks? Sorry, man, but I bet you don’t get outta here in less than fifteen.”

  Jonathan chopped numbly, trying to digest what he’d been told.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Benny,” Walter answered. He almost spat the name out. He motioned with his chin across the kitchen to a kid standing at a sink, lazily splashing a scrub brush around a soapy bowl. Jonathan recognized him—he could still feel the painful pinch the kid had given him on his arm.

  “I saw him last night,” Jonathan said. “He works in the Admiral’s office.”

  “Yeah. Little punk. He tells us all about those letters he stuffs into envelopes and addresses. Just loves to tease us, you know?”

  Walter looked around the kitchen, pointing out kids with his knife.

  “That big black kid there is Tony. He’s cool. The guy grating cheese is Jason. He’s super quiet, but seems all right. Stole a car, I heard. Next to him is David. Doesn’t say much, but he’s tough. Do not call him Chinese, okay? He’s Japanese. Couple of kids made that mistake early on and had black eyes to show for it.”

  Jonathan’s eyes darted around the room, trying to keep up with Walter’s fast talk and chop onions at the same time without cutting off a finger.

  “See those two meatheads working together to stir the oatmeal? That’s Roger and Gregory. Dumb as catfish and just about as friendly. Miguel’s the one making coffee. He’s funny. Or thinks he is, anyway. That tall dude manning the toaster is Francis. Total jerk. But the real jerk is Sebastian. Him you gotta watch out for, man. He’s out setting the table, I think.”

  Walter looked over and saw Jonathan fumbling with his onion. “It’s easier if you pull your sleeves up, man.” He reached over toward Jonathan’s arms. “Here, let me show—”

  “No,” Jonathan snapped, pulling his arms away. “I mean, no, thanks. I’m still cold. It was a wet night.”

  Walter looked at him, then shrugged. “Yeah. Mongley got you good. I swear that guy can see in the dark.”

  “You guyth need help with the onionth?”

  Jonathan looked up at a new kid who’d joined them at the cutting board. Or rather, down at him. He was a good foot shorter than Jonathan. He had blond hair trimmed in a bowl cut, green eyes, and skin as pale white as paper. His chin and his nose were kind of pointy.

  “Hey, Colin. This here’s Jonathan. First day.”

  “Of courth. I heard the thplath latht night.”

  “The what?” Jonathan asked.

  “The thplath. From the bucket. Almotht everyone geth the bucket on their firtht night.”

  Walter looked up at Jonathan. “Colin and I got here on the same day. He talkth funny.” Walter exaggerated the lisp, but he gave Colin a friendly dig with his elbow when he said it.

  Colin nodded. He smiled, a fleeting little smile at the corners of his mouth that flashed like a bird and then vanished, but his eyes stayed down on the onion he was cutting. “Yeth,” he said quietly. “I’m thure he notithed.”

  “It’s all right,” Jonathan said quickly, his voice as soft as Colin’s. “My—I have—I used to know someone who talked different, too.” Colin looked up, for just a second, at Jonathan and smiled. Then his eyes dropped back down.

  “Well, welcome to Thlabhenge,” he said softly.

  All around them, savory smells grew stronger. Sizzling onion, greasy bacon, frying eggs, boiling potatoes. Across the kitchen the chubby kid who Walter had said was named Tony was flipping golden, round pancakes on a griddle. Jonathan almost had to lean on the cutting board to not collapse.

  “At least the food here is good,” he said. “I’m gonna eat ’til I puke.”

  Colin and Walter exchanged a glance.

  “Thith food ithn’t for uth,” Colin whispered.

  “What? Who’s it for?”

  “Them,” Walter answered with a meaningful look over Jonathan’s shoulder. Jonathan risked a backward glance. Behind him was a long, glassless window that looked out into a big room with two long tables. Sitting at the closest table were five or six adults, including two he recognized: Mr. Vander, the tall zombie who’d met his boat, and the hunched-over form of Mr. Mongley. As he watched, the Admiral came marching in the door, still wearing his blue navy jacket. A sword hung in a scabbard on his hip. He was wearing baggy blue pants that met his shiny black boots at his knees. A huge, old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat was held under one arm, the triangular kind you see in history books, being worn by ship captains or Napoleon Bonaparte. The Admiral flopped down in a heavy wooden high-backed chair at the empty table.

  “They get all this?” Jonathan asked.

  Colin and Walter nodded.

  “What do we get?”

  “Oatmeal, usually,” Walter replied.

  “Thometimth toatht.”

  Jonathan bit his lip and nodded.

  “Great.”

  Eventually, all the food was ready on platters and in bowls lined up on the counter by the kitchen door. Jonathan licked his lips and watched the steam rising off the hash browns, pancakes, scrambled eggs. He saw the gooey che
ese oozing out of the omelets, the salty grease pooling on the platter under the bacon, the butter melting on the flaky biscuits.

  “When do we eat?”

  “When we tell ye to!” a voice barked in his ear. Jonathan jumped and turned to see Mr. Warwick’s one eye glistening at him. “If we tell ye to. Now grab a bowl, boy.”

  One by one the boys filed by and picked up a serving dish and carried it out through the door. Jonathan grabbed a butter dish and a little pitcher of syrup and followed. The table was already full when he got there, but he found a tight spot for his items. The men were all slurping and reaching and smacking their lips, piling their plates high with food and shoveling it by the forkload into their mouths.

  The boys, once the food was delivered, stood back against the stone wall with their hands behind their backs.

  “More coffee,” the Admiral said through a mouthful of sausage, and a boy darted back to the kitchen.

  “And salt!” a bearded man with gold earrings shouted after him.

  When the boy returned with the salt and coffee, the Admiral swallowed his mouthful and glowered up at the boys against the wall.

  “All right,” he said, wiping some grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “Go clean and eat. That kitchen better be spotless or it’ll be no lunch for the lot of you!”

  The boys turned and filed toward the kitchen. Jonathan followed with them but was stopped in his tracks by the Admiral’s foul voice.

  “Jonathan Grisby! A word with ye.”

  Jonathan gulped and stepped out of line and walked over to where the Admiral sat.

  The Admiral stabbed a piece of roasted potato. He slid the silver blade of the knife into his mouth and leaned back to look Jonathan in the face. Jonathan waited with downcast eyes as the Admiral chewed and swallowed.

  “How was yer first night, Jonathan Grisby?”

  Jonathan didn’t want to do or say anything that would risk his breakfast getting taken away like his dinner had the night before.

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Can be a long night with no pillow, I imagine. Neck a bit sore, eh?”

  “No, sir. I’m fine, sir.”

  “Mmm. Good. I read your file last night. ’Twas fine bedtime reading. The sad history of Jonathan Grisby, boy delinquent. It is a dark little tale, isn’t it?”

  Jonathan blinked and breathed through his nose.

  “Yes, sir. I guess so.”

  A rotten smile spread across the Admiral’s face.

  “Oh, it don’t take any guessin’. ’Tis a dark tale, to be sure.” The Admiral leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Between you and I, a lot of these boys don’t really deserve to be here. A belt and a bellow would suffice for most of them, I’d say. But you, Jonathan Grisby. You do deserve to be here, don’t you?”

  Jonathan swallowed and sniffed. He shifted from foot to foot. Then he looked up into the Admiral’s obsidian eyes. And nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I do.”

  The Admiral slurped half a sausage into his mouth and nodded. His eyes narrowed to dark reptilian slits and his smile widened. He chewed slowly, his black eyes burrowing like beetles into Jonathan’s.

  “I’m going to take a personal interest in your education here, Jonathan Grisby. A boy like you will require more focused attention, I believe. So troubled. So … evil. We’ll begin your education right after Morning Muster today.” The Admiral swallowed and then gulped a mouthful of coffee. He waved his hand dismissively at Jonathan. “That’ll be all. Don’t just stand there like a dead chicken.”

  Jonathan retreated numbly to the kitchen, where all the other boys were busy sweeping and scrubbing and cleaning up. A great cauldron bubbled on one of the stoves, and his nose sniffed hungrily at the smell of oatmeal.

  Jonathan’s growling belly was interrupted by a sharp shove from behind. A tall kid with scalp-short black hair glared down at him. His nose was broad and flat, like a tiger’s. It was bumpy, like it had been broken before. More than once.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the kid demanded. “You don’t help, you don’t eat.”

  “Oh … I … what …” Jonathan stammered, panicked at the thought of missing breakfast. “What do you want me to do?”

  The kid scowled and looked around. He pointed at a pile of logs by the wall.

  “Add more wood to the stove. It’s about burned down.” He bent over and opened the iron door at the bottom of the stove. A wave of heat blasted out. Jonathan looked at the glowing red coals, the licking red flames, the flickering, hungry fingers of fire.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “No, I—I can’t. I don’t like fire.”

  “You don’t like fire?” the kid snorted.

  “God, Sebastian, leave him alone. It’s his first day.” The voice came from Tony, the kid who’d been flipping pancakes. He lifted his chin in greeting at Jonathan and then grabbed a couple of logs from the pile and tossed them into the stove. He kicked the door shut with his foot and brushed past the broken-nosed kid and back to the pot he’d been scrubbing.

  “Name’s Tony,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Welcome to Slabhenge, kid.”

  Sebastian scrunched his broken nose at Jonathan before turning away.

  As the cleanup got done, the boys lined up behind the cauldron of oatmeal. Walter pulled Jonathan and Colin into line with him.

  “This place stinks, man,” Walter said. “No joke. But you’ll get used to it.” He smirked and cocked his eyebrows at Colin. “If short stuff here can make it, I’m sure you’ll be all right.”

  Colin smiled back, for just a flash. He pursed his lips and pulled on one ear, his eyebrows screwed up thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he said. “There’th no bookth, though. That’th the wortht part. I mith bookth.”

  Colin looked so small and sad and quiet, standing there pinching his own ear. He looked nothing like a hardened delinquent in need of reform.

  “What did you do?” The question blurted out of Jonathan’s mouth. “Why are you here?”

  Colin ducked his head further. His eyes flitted up to Jonathan’s and then back down.

  “I’m a klepto,” he whispered. Then he kind of giggled.

  “A what?”

  “A kleptomaniac. I thteal thtuff. Loth of thtuff. I can’t help it.”

  Walter shook his head.

  “Man, why don’t you just say ‘thief’? It’s what your mouth wants to say.”

  Colin smiled, just a little bit.

  “I’m a thief. A thneaky, thneaky thief.” Jonathan smiled back at him. “Why are you here?”

  Jonathan opened his mouth and shut it. He swallowed. Then the line started moving.

  They filed past the great pot of oatmeal, where Benny stood, dolloping a ladle of the steaming gray glop into each of their bowls.

  Jonathan grabbed a bowl from a pile on the counter and held it out when he got to the front of the line. Benny scooped his ladle into the pot and held it out toward Jonathan’s bowl.

  “No, Benny,” Sebastian’s voice said from behind him. “No breakfast for the new kid. He didn’t do a thing to help clean up.”

  Jonathan spun around. “I’m starving, please—”

  “Keep talking.” Sebastian cut him off, leaning in close. “And it’ll be no lunch, either.”

  Tears sprang to Jonathan’s eyes. If there’d been anything in his stomach, he would have thrown it up.

  He felt a gentle hand grab his elbow.

  “Come on,” Colin’s voice whispered. “It’th all right.”

  Jonathan turned and let Colin lead him out to the tables, his heart and stomach as empty as his bowl. He sat down on the hard wooden bench between Walter and Colin. The other boys were all gulping and swallowing their oatmeal, not bothering to let it cool down. Jonathan closed his eyes and tried not to pass out.

  Colin’s elbow nudged him in the side. He opened his eyes. Colin had slid his bowl full of oatm
eal in front of Jonathan and put Jonathan’s empty bowl in front of himself. He grinned a secret little grin at Jonathan and darted his eyes around.

  “Hurry and eat it,” he whispered. “Morning Muthter ith in a few minuth.”

  “But … you need to eat, too!” Jonathan hissed.

  Colin shook his head and his smile stretched. He almost showed his teeth.

  “It’th okay. I dethpithe oatmeal.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  Colin nodded, his eyes shining. He pointed with his eyes down to his lap, and Jonathan looked down to where Colin was hiding his hands under the table. In one hand he held a biscuit slathered with jam. In the other, a glistening sausage link.

  “How did you—” Jonathan started to ask.

  Colin winked and took a quick bite of the biscuit.

  “I’m a thneaky thief, remember?”

  It was Morning Muster time. The boys were marched outside into the drizzly gray courtyard. A light rain was falling, and bunched-up piles of clouds blackened the sky. Thunder rumbled in the not too far distance.

  The boys trudged over to a line of small stone blocks on the ground, each about the size of a brick and spaced a few steps apart from one another. Without a word, each boy stepped up and squeezed his feet onto one, found his balance, and then stood at shaky attention. Jonathan took a breath and did the same.

  The block was just wide enough for both his feet to fit on it, pressed tight together. The tips of his toes and the backs of his heels hung over the front and back. He wobbled and steadied himself and then looked up.

  The courtyard was the size of a basketball court. He’d walked through it briefly his first day, following Mr. Vander in his handcuffs, but he’d been too tired and scared then to look close or notice much. He could see, to his right, the steep arched doorway, closed and locked, that led to the watery stairs he’d come in on. There were doorways on each wall that he could see, all closed.

  The floor and walls of the courtyard were made of the same big gray blocks of stone that the rest of the building was made of. Green moss grew between the cracks in places. The walls stretched high above them, thirty or forty feet, blocking out most of the sky and a good deal of the light. The part of the sky that was visible was getting darker and more ominous by the second. There was a flash of lightning.