Scar Island

by Dan Gemeinhart

  He ducked under the rope and started down the stairs, then cried out and slid to a stop.

  Three steps down, the stairs disappeared into black, bubbling water.

  The lantern nearly slipped from his fingers. He caught it and fell against the stone wall, panting.

  The Hatch had cracked open. And the ocean it had been holding back had broken out of the dungeon.

  He held the lantern out. He could just see, through the water, where the ceiling flattened out above the landing, now lost under murky seawater.

  “I can make it,” he told himself. His voice sounded tiny and hollow in the echoing gurgles of the flooded stairwell. “Just a quick swim down, then up.” There was an iron hook on the wall by his hand and he hung the lantern on it. He felt in his pockets and pulled out the book of matches that Sebastian had given him earlier, when he’d first sent him out to join Colin. It had been only a few hours before. It felt like forever.

  He spit and blew, drying out his mouth. Then he tucked the book of matches into his mouth and closed his lips tight, holding the matches on his tongue. Clutching the candle in his hand, he dove into the dark water before his fear could get strong enough to stop him.

  The water was freezing. His muscles tightened and shook and he almost turned around, but he shook his head and kept going. He kept his eyes open and the chilled, salty water burned. He swam with his arms and kicked with his legs and the light from his hanging lantern got dimmer and darker and more distant and then it was all the way gone. Jonathan swam through freezing blackness. He tried not to think of the skull that rolled and knocked somewhere in the dark water there with him.

  Down he swam, under the ceiling ledge. He stayed near the top, bumping and scraping on the rough ceiling stones. The water wasn’t still; it swelled and moved with currents and surges, no doubt coursing in and out through the Hatch with the rise and fall of the waves in the storm outside.

  He swam along the level landing ceiling, his lungs beginning to burn. His lips were pressed together as hard as he could to keep the matches dry. A strong surge of water from below crushed him against the ceiling and pushed him back. He fought against it, digging his elbow into the corner where the wall and ceiling met, then kicked on desperately.

  Finally, he felt the ceiling begin to slope upward. He was swimming up the far staircase. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no guarantee that the far side was above water. Maybe the other side of Slabhenge was all already underwater. Maybe he would swim up and up without ever finding air and then drown in some dark and flooded corridor, a book of matches in his mouth.

  But at last his head broke the surface and he gave a final kick and gasped a mouthful of cold, delicious air. His feet found the stairs beneath him and he stumbled up, out of the water. He staggered, dripping and shaking out of the stairwell and into the hallway.

  He was in utter blackness. Just like the first time he’d come here, when he’d dropped his lantern by the Hatch. He shook the water off his hand and pulled the matches out of his mouth.

  The hallway was filled with the wet sounds of storm and flood. His gasping lungs added their own noise. His hands shook as he struck the first match.

  It lit, a beautiful yellow flame in all that looming darkness. He smiled and held it to the candle’s wick.

  Nothing happened. He kept holding it, waiting for the flame to grow and the wick to take light. But the match burned down to his fingers and then out.

  “Damn it,” he cursed, his voice tight with shivering. “Of course, idiot. The wick’s wet.”

  He struck another one and held it to the wick. Eventually, he told himself, the flames would dry the wick. And then it would light. He had to believe that.

  He didn’t have time to wait. Colin could already be underwater. If he wasn’t yet, he would be soon. He stepped cautiously forward, his eyes darting from his feet to the flame and wick in his hands.

  The second match burned down. He held it until it singed his fingertips, then stopped to light another.

  On the fourth match, the wick lit. Weakly at first, a bare little blue ball of flame clinging to the candle’s tip. Then it grew and strengthened and stretched into a tall, bright finger of flame. He held his hand in front of it to keep it from blowing out and sped his steps to a jog.

  The path came back to him. A familiar corner passed, then a stairwell he was pretty sure he remembered climbing up, then a twisting little passageway he was almost certain they’d filed through. He was close.

  He dropped down a short staircase and stopped.

  The water was here. Up to his knees. And he was pretty sure that Colin’s room was another staircase lower. Up ahead, he heard a waterfall. No, he thought, not a waterfall. The sound of freezing water pouring down a stone staircase. He ran toward the sound, the deepening water pushing back at him.

  “Colin!” he screamed. “Colin! Can you hear me?”

  “Jonathan?”

  Jonathan almost collapsed in relief when he heard the familiar voice answer him.

  “Hurry! I’m almotht under!”

  Jonathan ran to the staircase. Water was gushing over the edge, bubbling and frothing. He leapt down the stairs, pushed along by the river of water, and came to a splashing stop at the bottom, his head going under but his arm stretched high to keep the candle out of the water.

  He quickly got his footing. The water came up to his waist.

  Colin’s head and neck were all that stuck up above the water. His eyes were wide and terrified. The water was rising fast enough to see it; even as Jonathan stood there, frozen with fear, it rose and lapped at Colin’s chin.

  “Untie me!” he begged, his voice high and panicked. “Hurry! Pleath!”

  Jonathan hurried over, the water sloshing around his belly button. The ropes were underwater. He looked at his candle, then into Colin’s eyes.

  “We’re gonna have to get out of here in the dark,” he said.

  Colin was stretching his neck up, the water now splashing against his mouth.

  “Fine!” he gurgled. “Hurry!”

  Jonathan dropped the candle and matches. The room was plunged into darkness.

  His fingers fumbled under the water. They were cold and stiff. He found the ropes and pulled at them, jerking and tugging. They were tight and wet, swollen even tighter by the water. He worked his fingers into one of the loops and managed to pull it loose. He began tugging at another loop.

  “Hurry u—” Colin started to beg, before his words were cut off by a wet gurgle.

  “Colin?”

  There was no answer, except a frantic moaning. Jonathan lifted one hand and felt in the darkness for Colin’s face. The water was above his mouth now. His head was tilted back so that his nose just barely rose above the waterline.

  Jonathan yanked and wrestled frantically with the knots. There was a surge of water. He felt the water level rise suddenly, up to his stooped shoulder. Colin’s moans grew more desperate, but quieter. Jonathan felt with his hand again.

  The water had risen over Colin’s face.

  He let go of the ropes and wrapped his arms around Colin’s bound body. With all his strength he lifted him, chair and all, above the water. He heard Colin gasp and cough. The water was still rising. It was to Jonathan’s ribs now.

  “I’m gonna have to put you back down now,” he said. “Take a deep breath.” Colin sucked in a great gasping breath. Jonathan dropped him and reached for the ropes. Colin’s whole head was underwater, and the ropes were too deep for Jonathan to reach without going under himself. He gulped a huge lungful of air and ducked beneath the surface.

  He loosened another loop. Then another. He pulled a long stretch of rope through. The rope was mostly slack now, with one stubborn knot left tight against Colin’s wrists. He pulled and tugged and got one loop loose before he ran out of air. He could feel Colin kicking and fighting in the water. Jonathan wrapped his arms around Colin and picked him up again.

  They both panted and gasped and choked. The wa
ter was to Jonathan’s shoulders.

  “This is it,” he said. “I’ll get it this time.”

  “You have to,” Colin sputtered.

  “I will.” Jonathan readied himself for another drop into the water.

  “Jonathan!” Colin said quickly, stopping him. “If you can’t get it, jutht go. You can make it out yourthelf.”

  Jonathan took a couple more heaving breaths.

  “Shut up, Colin. And take a deep breath.”

  They dropped together beneath the surface.

  The ropes were stubborn. The water was cold, and dark, and determined. Colin fought and thrashed against his ties. His closed-mouth screaming rang dull and frantic under the black water.

  Jonathan’s fingers and arms burned with exhaustion. His lungs screamed for air.

  He felt the burning in his arms and gritted his teeth. His lungs begged him to swim to the surface, to air, but he held tight to the ropes and worked at the knots.

  I can do it, he told himself. Even his mind’s voice was breathless and terrified. I can save her! He shook his head and slid his fingers between the taut ropes. I can save him, he corrected himself. I can.

  His fingers slid through. He hooked them around the last loop and pulled. It hung for a moment, stuck, then slid loose and the rope went slack and Colin shook his arms free and they both kicked up to the surface.

  They tread water for a few ravenous breaths. He’d done it. He’d saved him. Tears were hot in Jonathan’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why. Relief, maybe.

  His head bumped something hard and he jerked when he realized it was the ceiling.

  “We’ve gotta get out of here!” he shouted. “Follow me.”

  They swam through the complete blackness toward the doorway. The water was still flowing down the staircase, pushing them back into the room, trapping them in the rising water.

  “Grab the wall with your fingers!” he hollered over his shoulder. “You can hold on to the cracks between the blocks!”

  He pulled himself block by block up the staircase, against the current, kicking with his legs. His fingers and arms ached but he made it, finally hooking his hands around the edge of the upper doorway. The water was only shoulder deep there and he was able to brace his feet against the doorway and help pull Colin into the corridor.

  They stood for just a moment to catch their breath.

  “Do you know how to get back?” Colin asked. “Without any light?”

  “I think so.” Jonathan started off, wading through the water, feeling the walls with his fingers.

  “Hey,” Colin said, reaching out to stop him. “Thankth for coming back for me. For thaving me.”

  “No problem.” Jonathan thought about the swim still ahead, past the Hatch. The water was even higher now. “But I’d save your thanks. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  They made their way through the twisting blackness. Jonathan ran through the mental map in his mind, retracing the path he’d taken three times now, negotiating turns and stairwells and pitch-black hallways. As they rose, the water got more shallow. Eventually, they could move quickly, with the water only splashing around their ankles.

  Jonathan led them confidently down a corridor and started to turn, then stopped. Colin bumped into his back.

  “Wait,” he said. “I need to warn him.”

  “Warn who?”

  Jonathan chewed on his lip. The water was still rising. Time was running out. They needed to get back. But he knew he had to.

  “Follow me,” he said, and then turned and walked the other way. He knew exactly where he was now and he moved quickly, anticipating stairs before he got to them and turning corners confidently. Colin struggled to keep up.

  “Where are we going?”

  Jonathan stopped, gasping for breath. He could hear, all around him, rats splashing and flailing in the briny floodwaters.

  “There,” he answered, pointing up ahead at the thin line of light gleaming just below the water, shining from under a closed door.

  They jogged forward and Jonathan knocked urgently on the door.

  It swung open.

  “Ah,” the librarian said. “You’ve come back.” His hair was wet, stuck down to his head and over his face in a stringy mess. Wind whistled in the room behind him, tossing a blizzard of pages and papers around in the air. Ninety-Nine shivered on his shoulder, his pink tail dangling down the old man’s chest. Even soaking wet, the rat looked huge. Colin gasped and took a step back.

  “Please. Come in. We can find you. Another book.”

  The library, always so neat and dry and dustless, was in shambles.

  The storm had shattered the windows here, too. Rain and wind howled and blustered inside, soaking the books and ripping out pages and leaving puddles on the floor and bookshelves.

  “We’ve gotta go,” Jonathan blurted out, taking a step inside. “And you’ve got to come with us.”

  “Oh,” the librarian answered calmly, turning and walking slowly into his wrecked library. “I don’t. Think so. What kind of book. Would you like?”

  “No, really, we’ve all gotta go. This is a hurricane. The whole place is flooded. The island’s going under.”

  The librarian stopped. He turned and looked at Jonathan in his hunched, twisted way. A small smile rose, just barely, to his lips.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I know. It’s the sea. Come at last. To claim her own.”

  “Then come on! We’ve got to get out! To higher ground!”

  The librarian chuckled.

  “Yes,” he said. “You do. The sea. Is coming.” He reached up and stroked Ninety-Nine’s dripping fur. “But I. Am staying.”

  “You’ll die,” Jonathan insisted.

  The librarian shrugged.

  “I have lived. Long enough. I have never left. This island. Where else. Would I go?”

  Jonathan shook his head and stammered.

  “No … but … but …”

  The librarian turned and looked out at the storm through his narrow, shattered windows.

  “You must take the other boys. Higher. To the only part of Slabhenge. That will last.”

  “What? Where is that?”

  “The old lighthouse. Up, up. Up. Above the Admiral’s room. The lighthouse was here. First. Before the asylum. Before the school. It is built on the original stone. The true stone. Of the old island. The rest”—the librarian spread his arms to include the windswept stone structure around him—“the rest is all built on sand. But the lighthouse. Will stand.”

  “Come on, Jonathan,” Colin whispered behind him. “We have to go.”

  Jonathan cocked his head. There was something the librarian had said that stuck in his mind. You must take the other boys.

  “You know,” he said, looking the librarian in the eyes. “You know about the Admiral. About the grown-ups.”

  The man’s small smile grew just a bit.

  “I am a lunatic. Not an idiot. I go at night. To the kitchen. It’s been terribly messy.” The librarian paused, working his fingers into Ninety-Nine’s fur. Ninety-Nine closed his eyes and leaned back into the scratching finger. “And ice cream is my favorite food. It’s kept. In the freezer. Of course.”

  “We didn’t kill them. It was lightning. They were all outside, standing in a puddle. The Admiral had his sword in the air.”

  “Hmm,” the librarian said thoughtfully. “The Admiral was a madman. Standing around in a puddle. Holding a metal sword in the air. During a lightning storm.” He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Sounds about right. For him.”

  The librarian nodded, then looked to the nearest shelf. “Now. You must go. Quickly. So we need to choose. A book.”

  “No, I—can’t really take one. We have to swim to get back. It’ll get wet.”

  The librarian clucked his tongue, his eyes still on the books’ spines.

  “All of these books. Will be at the bottom of the sea. Very soon. And you cannot leave a library. Without a book. Ah. Here. This one.”

>   The old man pulled a book off the shelf. It was thick and bound in soft black leather.

  “Moby-Dick. The story of a madman. Lost at sea. He dies in a storm. The hero is the only one who lives.” The librarian handed the book to Jonathan and squinted up sideways at him. “I don’t think. That is what will happen here. No. You will save them, Jonathan. Now go. To the lighthouse.”

  Jonathan breathed quickly through his nose.

  “Are you sure—”

  “Oh. Yes. Go.”

  Jonathan looked into the librarian’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Mmm.”

  Jonathan turned to go.

  “Wait. There is one thing. You could do. For me.”

  “What?”

  The librarian reached up and plucked the monstrous rat from his shoulder. He pressed his lips for a long moment into the rodent’s neck, then held him out with two hands toward Jonathan.

  “Take Ninety-Nine. With you. You could save him. Like the others.”

  Jonathan gulped. The rat looked at him with curious, shiny eyes. He didn’t hiss or snarl.

  Jonathan handed Moby-Dick to Colin and reached out reluctantly to take the offered animal. Ninety-Nine was surprisingly soft. And predictably heavy.

  The rat sniffed for a second at Jonathan’s hands, then scrambled gently up to perch on his shoulder.

  The librarian watched. His eyes were wet and glowing.

  “Yes,” he said. “You can save him. And maybe. When you’re home. Find him a wife.”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Sure. A nice big wife.”

  “Yes. That’s right. Now. Off you go. Take a candle. I won’t. Be needing them.”

  Colin grabbed a candle from atop the closest bookshelf and the two boys ran out into the corridor. Jonathan looked back once to see the librarian standing in the doorway with the door wide open. He was lit from behind by a few flickering candles, his hair whipped about by the wind. Rats were swarming through the open door by his feet, seeking the light and relative dryness of the library. Several of them had no tails. The old man made no move to stop them. He wouldn’t die alone.