Scar Island

by Dan Gemeinhart

  Colin was right about Sebastian being angry at Jonathan. He showed his anger after dinner, in the flickering light of a dozen candles scattered throughout the dining room.

  Sebastian swallowed a final bite of a shortbread and wiped the corners of his mouth, then stood up. He banged his metal plate on the table to get everyone’s attention.

  “All right. In the morning, we’ll have to meet the mail boat again. You ready for that, Gerald?”

  Gerald burped and nodded.

  “Good. You all can drag your mattresses wherever. Even in here, if you want.” The boys looked around. It was a big room, with plenty of floor space. But it was also a little close to the freezer.

  “Now,” Sebastian continued, “it’s time to refill the coal furnace. We need two people. How about …”—his voice trailed off as he scanned the room—“Colin. And … let’s see.” His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight and flashed to Jonathan. He smiled. “Johnny. Oh, wait … you don’t like fire, right?” Jonathan’s eyes dropped to the floor. He rubbed his hands on his sleeves. “Well, sorry. Everyone has to take a turn. Be sure to fill it real full.”

  Sebastian grabbed a candle and stalked away with Benny and some others at his heels. They disappeared out the door that led up to the grown-ups’ bedrooms.

  Colin sighed and looked at Jonathan.

  “Well,” he said, “I geth we thould jutht go and get it over with. It’th not that bad.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it.”

  The furnace was in a room beneath the kitchen, down a steep, short staircase. The room was hot and muggy and smelled like a wet ashtray. The ceiling was so low, Jonathan could have jumped and touched it. It, too, was made of stone blocks, held together with crumbling mortar and forming a steep arch, so that it curved down to meet the floor at both side walls. The furnace was a black iron monster the size of a car, squatting in the far darkness. It hissed and hummed and rumbled. The rest of the room was filled with waist-high heaps of lumpy black coal. A little trail wound between the coal piles to the furnace.

  “That’s a lot of coal,” Jonathan said.

  “Yeah,” Colin answered, hanging his lantern from a hook on the ceiling. “Coal delivery day ith the wortht. Three hourth of wheelbarrow work. And for every little lump you drop, you get a minute on the Thinner’th Thorrow. I dropped ten latht time.”

  “Ouch.”

  They walked to where a couple of shovels were leaning against a wheelbarrow. They each grabbed one and started scooping coal into the wheelbarrow. The scraping of their shovels echoed on the low stone ceiling. Black dust from the coal sifted up and soon they were both coughing and clearing their throats as they shoveled.

  “What wath really there?” Colin asked between breaths. “At the Hatch?”

  “Just a door,” Jonathan panted back. “I told you.”

  Colin shook his head. “You’re keeping thomething. A thecret.”

  Jonathan stopped and leaned on his shovel. “How do you know that?”

  Colin shrugged and kept on shoveling. “I watch. Clothely. And lithen. Almotht no one elth doth that. And I can tell you didn’t tell everything.”

  Jonathan sighed and scraped another shovelful of coal into the wheelbarrow.

  “You’re good,” he admitted, then told Colin about the sounds and the skull and the strange, ancient-looking door with the spinning handle. He didn’t mention, though, the other staircase, or the librarian.

  “A thkull. That’th tho weird. It’th like a … warning. Or a threat.” He dropped his shovel and grabbed the handles of the full wheelbarrow. Maneuvering through the coal piles, he rolled it up to the growling furnace. Jonathan followed cautiously behind him.

  At the furnace, Colin stepped forward and turned a few rusty bolts, then swung open a thick metal door. A blast of heat rippled out into the room. Jonathan took a step back and covered his face with one arm. He squinted out from under his elbow.

  Inside the furnace was a burning hell of flames and fire, glowing in shifting hues of red and orange and blazing white. He couldn’t look at it without narrowing his eyes to slits. The heat made the air waver and ripple.

  Colin turned and saw Jonathan backing away. He blinked and then swung the furnace door mostly closed.

  “You’re thcared,” he said, and Jonathan looked away. “Why?”

  Jonathan just shook his head. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped down his face.

  “You can trutht me,” Colin said. His voice was soft, but insistent. Jonathan nodded and swallowed a ball of fear.

  “Something … happened,” he said, his voice shaky. “To me.”

  “What?”

  Jonathan took two steps forward and undid the buttons on the sleeves of his shirt. One after the other, he pulled his sleeves up to his elbows and held out his arms to Colin.

  Colin’s coal-smeared face leaned closer to see. The lantern swung from its hook above them, making shadows writhe and twist around them. His eyebrows rose into the beads of sweat on his forehead. His mouth rounded in surprise.

  He reached out and ran his fingers softly over the twisted grooves etched into Jonathan’s skin. He brushed his fingernails gingerly over the toughened swirls of hard scar tissue that covered Jonathan’s arms all the way from his wrists until they disappeared into his bunched-up sleeves. Jonathan’s hands were shaking. With a gasp he pulled back suddenly and tugged his sleeves back down to cover his tortured arms.

  “I … I don’t like to show people,” he stammered, desperately fumbling with his sleeve buttons. “I don’t like to see them myself,” he added more quietly. Colin grabbed Jonathan’s trembling hands and held them still. Then he gently buttoned up the first of Jonathan’s sleeves.

  “They’re burnth,” he whispered. “Were you caught in a fire?”

  “No.” Jonathan shook his head. Tears sprang to his eyes and he looked away. “I was not in the fire.”

  Colin finished buttoning the second sleeve and looked up at Jonathan with eyes that were quiet and wide. He was watching. Closely. And listening.

  “When? When did thith happen?”

  Jonathan took a ragged breath. “A while back,” he answered.

  “What happened?”

  Jonathan ground his teeth together. He blinked and shook his head.

  “We should—finish the coal.”

  “Okay. Thure.”

  Colin turned and reopened the furnace door. The small, suffocating room once again filled with heat and angry light. Colin pushed the wheelbarrow right up to the furnace’s open, red mouth.

  “It’th okay,” he called back over his shoulder. “I think I can do it mythelf.” He grabbed both handles of the wheelbarrow and struggled to tilt it up into the furnace. He grunted and his feet slid and slipped on the coal-dusted floor.

  Jonathan shook his head and winced. He watched Colin wrestling with the heavy wheelbarrow. His arms were crossed, the fingers of each hand rubbing through his sleeves at the burns on his arms. Colin looked so small, so helpless by the burning fire. So in need of help. Jonathan stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with Colin, and took hold of one of the handles. Together they lifted it and dumped the load of coal into the waiting flames. There was a shower of sparks and a fresh wave of heat. Jonathan’s arms burned. They let the wheelbarrow drop and Colin slammed the furnace door.

  The boys stood panting, leaning on the wheelbarrow. Their hands were black, and sweat dripped muddy trails through the coal on their faces.

  “Well,” Jonathan said, pulling at his shirt where it stuck to the sweat on his body. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “Yeah,” Colin responded between coughs. “That wath one. It taketh five to fill it.”

  Walter and Colin and Jonathan pulled their mattresses into a corner of the dining room by the kitchen, away from the windows to the courtyard, which let in moonlight and cold drafts and memories of lightning.

  Other groups of boys had their mattresses together in clumps, too, here and there
around the room. No one wanted to sleep alone.

  They laid their mattresses like spokes on a wheel so their heads could be together. They’d each carried a candle when they’d gone together to the old sleeping quarters to claim their beds, and when they lay down, they put the three candles together on the floor in the space between them. Their faces were smooth in the candlelight, their hair dark, with cold blackness all around.

  Walter lay on his stomach, watching the candle flames. Colin was on his elbows, quietly folding more paper animals. Jonathan opened the book the librarian had given him. The pages were yellow and fragile and they whispered in the quiet of the room when he turned them.

  “What book is that?” Walter asked. Jonathan turned back to the cover.

  “Robinson Crusoe,” Jonathan read. “By Daniel Defoe.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” Colin said.

  “Is it any good?” Walter asked.

  Jonathan shrugged.

  “I haven’t started it yet.”

  “Could you?”

  “I was going to.”

  “No, man. I mean, like, out loud?”

  “Oh. Um, yeah, I guess. If you want.” He licked his lips and cleared his throat and paged back to the first line. “I was born in the Year 1632, in the City of York, of a good Family, tho’ not of that Country, my Father being a Foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull,” Jonathan began. Reading was hard in the dim, flickering light; he followed the words he read with a fingertip.

  “York? Like New York?” Walter asked.

  “No. I think it meanth York in England,” Colin explained.

  “Oh.”

  Jonathan continued. “He got a good Estate by Merchandise, and leaving off his Trade, lived afterward at York, from whence he had married my Mother, whose Relations were named Robinson, a very good Family in that Country, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer.”

  “I don’t get it,” Walter complained.

  “It’s an old book,” Jonathan said. “It’s written all kind of old-fashioned. Nothing important has happened yet, though, I don’t think.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “And stop interrupting.”

  “Okay.”

  “But by the usual Corruption of Words in England, we are now called, nay we call our selves, and write our Name, Crusoe, and so my Companions always call’d me.”

  “What is that?” a voice asked over Jonathan’s shoulder. He craned his neck to see Miguel standing in the shadows, the candlelight playing on his curious face.

  “Just a book. Robinson Crusoe.”

  “You gonna read that whole thing?”

  “I don’t know. I’m gonna start, at least.”

  “Huh.” Miguel stood in the darkness and hugged his shivering body.

  “Do you—uh—wanna listen?” Jonathan asked.

  “No,” Miguel answered quickly. “But, whatever. I’ll go grab my mattress.”

  A moment later, Miguel reappeared with another boy, both dragging their mattresses behind them. Walter and Jonathan and Colin spread theirs apart to make room.

  “I’ll start over,” Jonathan said when everyone was settled in. “He got a good Estate by Merchandise, and leaving off his Trade, lived afterward at York, from whence he had married my Mother—”

  “Can I listen, too?” Tony stood just outside the circle of light, a pillow under his arm.

  “And me?” another voice asked. Jonathan looked up and saw David standing there.

  “Sure.”

  The boys already there made room in the circle for two more. Soon, there were seven heads facing one another through the flames.

  “I’ll start over,” Jonathan said again with a sigh.

  And he did, with six pairs of ears listening to his whispered words. They all listened together to the story of a man trapped on an island, far from his family. The story held them together like the light from their candles, warm and close against the dark stone and shadows.

  But out in the darkness that surrounded them, there was the scurrying of rats. And above them, he knew, Sebastian slept with a sharp sword in the Admiral’s bed. And below them, a hungry menace knocked at an ancient door. And even then, surrounded by friendly faces, his dark fears whispered at him, and the flickering warmth of their candles’ light seemed terribly small and fragile.

  The mail drop went off without a hitch the next day.

  Crusty old Cyrus was there instead of Patrick, and he didn’t even bother talking to “Mr. Vander.” The bags were traded without a word and the boat motored off into the waves and fog and was gone. The rest of the boys, who had been hiding safely around the corner, came out to peer through the arch at the disappearing boat. It looked so small, and the distance so great. A gust of wind blew a mist of salty spray into their faces.

  “One more day,” Sebastian said with satisfaction. “At least one more day.” He held the Admiral’s sword casually in one hand, its blade resting against one of his cheeks. “Hand out the mail, Benny,” he said, before spinning and heading back across the courtyard.

  Benny pulled the rumpled envelopes out of the mailbag one by one and called out the names written on them. Jonathan jumped when his own name was called.

  “Grisby. Got one for you here, Johnny.” Jonathan bit his lip and stepped forward to claim his letter. Benny held it out and Jonathan grabbed it, but Benny didn’t let it go right away. Jonathan looked up at him and tugged a little harder, and Benny narrowed his eyes and smirked. “I wonder what Mommy and Daddy have to say to you, Johnny,” he said in a quiet voice. “Nothing too nice, I bet, huh? After what you did?” Jonathan’s heart clenched like a kicked puppy and he felt the red creep of shame rising on his face. Benny showed his wet teeth and then let go. He blinked a bored, slow blink and called the next name.

  Jonathan walked across the courtyard and inside. He lay down on his mattress, still with the others in the corner of the dining room, and ripped open the envelope. One folded piece of paper was inside. Jonathan swallowed, then pulled it open and read the words written in his mother’s familiar, neat cursive writing.

  Dear Jonathan,

  Your father and I hope this letter finds you well. You were taken away just moments ago, and we’ve sat right down to write it. We will mail it tomorrow and hope that you will receive it soon.

  The house feels so terribly empty now.We don’t know what to say to you. So much needs to be said, we know, but we don’t know what it is yet. We miss you. We’ve missed you for a long time now. We will write you every day, Jonathan, and hope that maybe we can find what it is that needs to be said. We go every day, with the flowers, like you asked. Maybe having you gone, for a while, will help all of us.

  With love,

  Your mother and father

  p.s. If they let you write, please do

  Jonathan chewed his tongue thoughtfully and read the letter again. He whispered a line aloud. “The house feels so terribly empty now.” He licked his lips, then reread the last line. “Maybe having you gone, for a while, will help all of us.” He blinked his eyes hard and sniffed.

  A door slamming open behind him made him jump. He rubbed at his eyes quickly and stuffed the letter under his pillow.

  Sebastian stormed into the dining room, dragging another boy by his collar. It was the little kid named James, whom Jonathan didn’t know well, but he knew he was one of the boys to whom Sebastian had given one of the grown-ups’ rooms.

  “Everybody gather around!” Sebastian hollered. Benny and Gerald were just walking in from the courtyard. Sebastian pointed at them with the sword. “Get everyone in here,” he commanded.

  Jonathan jumped up and joined the nervous crowd assembling around Sebastian and a terrified-looking James. They kept a few safe paces back.

  “I wanted you all to see this,” Sebastian said, glowering around at the group. “I just caught James here, sneaking into my room.”

  “It’th not really your room,” Colin murmured.

  “Shut up, Colin.�
�� Sebastian’s eyes flashed cold fire at Colin, standing beside Jonathan. “I caught him in my room, going through my stuff.”

  “I’m sorry, Sebastian, I didn’t think—” James whined, but Sebastian cut him off.

  “Shut up, James. I caught him red-handed, eating my chocolate.”

  “It’th not really your chocolate.”

  “Damn it, Colin, you better shut your mouth.”

  Jonathan nudged Colin sharply with his elbow.

  “Drop it, Colin,” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. Colin sighed angrily.

  Sebastian scanned the crowd, looking for defiance. All the eyes dropped to the floor when Sebastian’s met them, except Jonathan’s.

  “What are you going to do?” Jonathan asked.

  Sebastian’s dark eyes flickered with uncertainty. He chewed his lower lip and looked doubtfully at James, still trembling in his grip.

  Benny slipped forward in the hanging silence and hissed something into Sebastian’s ear. Sebastian’s brow furrowed and he whispered something back. Benny leaned even closer and put a hand on Sebastian’s arm, whispering fiercely into his ear again.

  Sebastian nodded after a moment and then raised his chin to the group. He pointed the sword at Gregory and Roger.

  “Bring in the Sinner’s Sorrow,” he commanded. A murmur ran through the crowd. The two boys exchanged a glance, then ducked out into the courtyard, where the Sinner’s Sorrow had sat since that final, fateful Morning Muster.

  “No, Thebathtian,” Colin said.

  “Yeth, Colin,” Sebastian spat. “Even with us in charge, crimes must be punished.”

  “You don’t have the right.”

  Sebastian’s face contorted in fury. “I have the sword, Colin! What are you going to do?”

  Colin looked desperately to Jonathan.

  “Do thomething!” he pleaded.

  Sebastian looked expectantly at Jonathan, but Jonathan was looking at Benny. Benny’s mouth was set in a small, grim smile and he shook his head at Jonathan just one time.

  “Jonathan!” Colin begged.

  Jonathan eyed Benny for one more moment, then dropped his eyes to the floor and shook his head.