The Island of Whispers

by Brendan Gisby

  From their precarious perch near the top of the northern slope, Twisted Foot and Long Ears had witnessed the flight of the slaves and had listened to the sounds of the retreating visitors. Some time later, they observed the dispersal of the gang of Two-Legs on the bridge. Cautiously, they crept back to their original position. A steady drizzle had broken free from the heavy skies, accentuating the greyness and bleakness of the scene below them. The rest of the day was uneventful. The slaves remained hidden in the gun emplacement. There were no more visitors to the island. When dusk fell, the Watchers picked their way carefully down the wet slope. They were tired, cold and very hungry – but they had much to tell Sharp Claws.

  – o –

  – Chapter Seven –

  Neck-Snapper winced. He curled more tightly in his nest, seeking some relief from the excruciating pain that stabbed into his head. He had come off badly in the incident with the fleeing slave-rat. The attack had left a deep score down the right side of his muzzle and a gaping, bloody hole where his right eye had been. A lost eye was normally an impressive battle scar, one which drew looks of admiration and envy from the younger warriors, but the whole of the Outer Circle knew that his injury had been caused by a lowly Scavenger. He had been humiliated in front of them. His failing had led to the slaves’ escape. He would never again be trusted to carry out executions; guard duty would be his lot from now on. Fuelled by the blinding pain, anger and resentment boiled within him, on the verge of exploding. The appearance in the Protectors’ lair of the Chief Watcher and his crippled comrade triggered the waiting explosion.

  With a great roar, Neck-Snapper leapt from his nest and charged at the Watchers. Twisted Foot cowered back in alarm, but old Sharp Claws stood his ground, arching his back and facing square on to the crazed and drooling attacker. Others in the lair had also leapt from their slumber and were now assembling behind Neck-Snapper. The crowd quickly parted, however, as the burly form of Broken Tail pushed through from the back.

  ‘Enough!’ cried the Chief Protector. ‘Get back to your nests!’ he ordered.

  The onlookers slunk away; none dared defiance. Even Neck-Snapper, in spite of his demented state, could not ignore the command. Before retreating, he directed a final menacing glance at Sharp Claws. Twisted Foot shivered, recognising the meaning of that look. There will be another time and another place, comrade, it said, when we will meet alone.

  Broken Tail now turned his attention to the intruders. ‘Why have you come here?’ he rasped. ‘You know that this is the time of rest.’

  ‘We have news from the outside for the Chamberlain,’ Sharp Claws responded quickly. ‘Grave news,’ he emphasised.

  Broken Tail pondered for some moments. He had little regard for the Watchers, but he did have some respect for Sharp Claws’ wisdom and experience. The news must surely be important, he judged; important enough to rouse the Chamberlain.

  ‘Come,’ he commanded. Then he wheeled round and led the Watchers to a tunnel in the centre of the lair’s left wall.

  Still shaken by Neck-Snapper’s sudden onslaught, Twisted Foot stayed close to the Chief Watcher as they headed towards the tunnel. The surroundings were new to him. Peeking round nervously, he could see that the lair was much bigger than his own one. Although many bodies occupied the nests, he guessed that the place was not as full as it would be normally at this time. Security in the underworld had been increased substantially since the escape of the slave-rats, with extra guards having been posted along the entrance to the Common lair and outside the tunnel leading to the Scavengers’ lair. Here in the Protectors’ lair, guards also squatted round the tunnel now directly ahead of the Watchers. A last, timid glance backwards gave Twisted Foot a blurred glimpse of another group of Protectors at the far end of the lair, but he had little time to think about or question their purpose.

  They moved quickly through the long, low tunnel, emerging into another spacious lair, home of the Inner Circle. Rows of comfortable, feather-lined nests took up the greater part of the floor area. Some of their occupants looked up sleepily, blinked several times, yawned and then settled down again. Rainwater glistened on the wall to the left, collecting in a shallow pool in a corner of the lair.

  Twisted Foot watched the slumbering forms of the Rulers with much envy in his heart. Compared with the luxury of this place, life in the Watchers’ lair was cramped and austere. He had faced considerable danger that day. He was still cold and bedraggled from his time on the outside world. He had had no rest, and hunger gnawed at his belly. These experiences, he realised, were alien to the Rulers. Here there was comfort and absolute security, and the certainty of food and rest. For the first time in his short life, Twisted Foot was conscious that he was becoming resentful of the favoured lifestyle of the Inner Circle. The resentment that had crept into his thoughts was abruptly ousted by fear, however, when the Chamberlain rose from his sleep.

  Long Snout was wide awake and on his feet. His eyes glowed fiercely. There was anger in his voice.

  ‘What is the meaning of this disturbance?’ he hissed, towering over the visitors.

  Broken Tail replied for the group. ‘News, Chamberlain,’ he bowed, ‘from the outside world.’

  ‘Well?’ Long Snout asked sharply, directing his stare at the Chief Watcher.

  Just as they had been reported to him only a short time ago, Sharp Claws recounted the events witnessed by Twisted Foot and Long Ears. The Chamberlain listened carefully. Occasionally, he turned his cold gaze to Twisted Foot, causing the young Watcher’s heart to kick each time. When Sharp Claws had finished, Long Snout remained silent for a few moments longer and then turned again to look at Twisted Foot.

  ‘You are certain that you were not seen by the Two-Legs?’ he asked.

  ‘Y-yes, certain, Chamberlain.’ Twisted Foot stumbled over the words, fighting to control the tremble in his voice and body.

  ‘Good,’ pronounced the Chamberlain.

  After some further deliberation, he spoke in urgent tones to Broken Tail: ‘Go quickly! Take word to One Eye. Tell him that the Hunters must remain in the underworld. Let the fugitives enjoy their freedom – for the short while that they will have it!’ The last words were spoken with venom.

  As Broken Tail scurried off, Long Snout now directed his commands to Sharp Claws: ‘Send up your Watchers when the next light comes. The Two-Legs will return for the Scavengers. Let me know what takes place.

  ‘This young warrior,’ he indicated towards Twisted Foot, ‘should lead the watch. He shows some promise.’

  Twisted Foot was too tired to react to the Chamberlain’s praise or to consider the consequences of another daylight watch. Completely drained, he followed Sharp Claws out of the lair. As he passed the line of nests, he caught sight of a sleepy-eyed White Muzzle, curled up snugly between the dozing figures of two red-furred she-rats. The King-rat’s hefty girth and shining coat exuded health and wellbeing. Dark resentment returned to Twisted Foot’s thoughts.

  – o –

  – Chapter Eight –

  The small dog sprang effortlessly up to the jetty. It remained there, surveying the island, sniffing in the scents of this strange, new territory. Its owner stepped up from the boat to join the dog in its scrutiny. The man was tall and lean and slightly stooped. The wind coming from the east tugged at his mane of grey hair and sent billows running through his loose overalls and shabby green jacket. An unlit pipe protruded from his close-cropped silvery beard.

  Skilfully, the man struck a match and placed it in the bowl of the pipe, alternately sucking hard on the newly glowing embers and exhaling great puffs of thick smoke, which were immediately snatched up and dispersed by the wind. The man kept his gaze on the island, exploring the contours, seeking out movement. His eyes were also grey, and hooded like a bird’s. His face bore a calmness, an expression that said: I’ve seen it all before; there are no surprises left. Unhurriedly, he set off for the footpath on his right. His height dwarfed the dog, which now trotted lightly behind him,
its nose pointing close to the ground.

  As he walked, the canvas bag which hung from the man’s angular shoulders swayed and rattled in the breeze. Although it was shaped like a plumber’s satchel, Tam Proudfoot’s bag contained only the paraphernalia of his particular trade: a large torch; an array of traps with strong steel springs and deadly shutters; poisons of all kinds, in bottles, tins and small cardboard boxes; and foul-smelling offal, wrapped in Clingfilm and kept in an old biscuit tin. The tools of the rat-catcher’s trade were crude and simple, but always effective.

  Tam reached the gun emplacement, climbed the rocks at its rear and then stepped down on to its roof. The little Jack Russell terrier sped past him, anxious to inspect the bird remains scattered over the roof. Another gull had fallen victim to the rats during the night. Tam’s examination of the carcasses was much less thorough than the dog’s close-up sniff. He sucked on the pipe again, looking out to the swelling sea, a hint of humour in his eyes. The visitors to Inchgarvie the day before had returned to spread alarm in the community about the hundreds of fierce rats which infested the island. He had lived here all his life; rats were his business. The story, he knew, was exaggerated. Not deliberately, of course, but magnified as usual by peoples’ natural horror of the creatures. There were rats on the island, that was true; but he was confident that they, too, were visitors, not inhabitants. Tam took a final pull at the pipe and then slid the heavy bag to his feet.

  ‘Right, Nipper!’ he shouted to the dog. ‘Let’s dae our job!’

  Tam went to the edge of the roof and crouched down. He was now directly above the building’s entrance. The stale, damp smell which rose up on the breeze confirmed the dankness within. Tam placed his hand on the flat of Nipper’s head.

  ‘Down there, boy,’ he said, using his other hand to point at the ground outside the entrance.

  The dog understood. It leapt from the roof, landing lightly and twisting round to face the entrance.

  ‘In there, boy!’ Tam shouted. ‘In there, Nipper!’

  Ears pricked, tensed, the dog stepped cautiously into the gloomy interior. Tam stood back from the edge. After a short period of silence, the place erupted suddenly in a cacophony of loud yelps, squeals and fierce growling. Rats began to spring from the slit holes, scrambling up to the roof and then bounding away to the safety of the rocks. Tam counted four fleeing bodies. The yapping from below had subsided, but the growls persisted. He looked down to see Nipper emerging backwards from the building, a fifth rat caught by the neck between the dog’s small, powerful jaws. Nipper shook the rat violently, hammering its struggling body repeatedly against the ground. The squirming ceased abruptly as life went out of the creature.

  ‘Here, boy!’ called Tam. ‘Up here, wee boy!’

  Nipper carried the prize up to the roof, dropped it at Tam’s feet, and then danced and yelped with delight.

  ‘Good boy, Nipper,’ said Tam as he stooped down and picked up the limp rat by its tail.

  He peered at the body. Black, he remarked to himself. Not like the local ones. Better fed, too. Probably from some ship that’s been to foreign parts. West Africa, maybe, or the Mediterranean. A visitor, right enough. With a sudden heave, he tossed the rat far out into the sea.

  Tam chuckled as he set about his next task. ‘Hundreds o’ rats!’ he laughed.

  He knelt down and selected four traps from the bag, together with the biscuit tin. Warning the dog to stay back, he placed the traps at intervals along the roof. He returned to each trap, priming it with a chunk of pungent offal and carefully setting its stiff shutter. Carrying the bag in one hand and the tin of bait in the other, he left the roof and entered the gun emplacement. Nipper followed him, but kept at a discrete distance.

  Tam crouched down again, placing both bag and tin on the ground. He pulled the heavy torch from the bag and snapped it on. The solid beam cut through the darkness, revealing rubble, cobwebs, dried bird droppings, some feathers, but little else. Tam nodded. The absence of a nest confirmed his theory about the rats’ origins. He tossed the last piece of offal into the centre of the building and then covered it with the contents of a box of poison pellets.

  With the torch and bait tin stowed away, and with the bag slung back on his shoulder, Tam stepped out of the gloom.

  ‘That’ll do it for the now,’ he said to the waiting dog.

  The rat-catcher re-lit his pipe, stood puffing for some moments and then returned slowly to the jetty. The tiny dog pranced playfully at his heels.

  As the noise of the rat-catcher’s boat became a distant drone, the Watchers at the top of the island relaxed only slightly. Danger still lurked in the rocks below. The Scavengers were well concealed down there, but they could re-emerge at any moment.

  Twisted Foot and Long Ears had left the underworld at dawn. Shortly afterwards, they had watched the events unfold at the gun emplacement, this time without the noisy accompaniment of the Two-Legs on the bridge. With its resounding cry and strange, mottled coat, the Four-Legs held them mesmerised. Neither had seen a creature like it before. The ferocity of its attack on the slave-rat was something that they would not forget easily.

  The Watchers now tried to concentrate on the lower part of the slope leading to the gun emplacement, but the tantalising smell of offal, carried up to them on the wind, kept drawing their attention back to the building’s roof. The food left by the Two-Legs puzzled them. Whatever its purpose, though, however enticing it seemed, they regarded its presence with significant mistrust.

  The Scavengers were not so sceptical. One by one, lured by the pungent scent, their small dark heads appeared above the rocks. All four moved forward stealthily until they crouched together on the edge of the roof. After some moments of hesitation, the bravest (or greediest) of them darted to the first of the traps and snatched at the bait. The bait would not give. The Scavenger tugged again. This time the trap’s shutter hammered down with a loud, sharp crack, crushing the Scavenger’s neck and driving a steel spike through the back of its brain. The others fled from the roof. It was not long, though, before they were back again, first devouring the offal that had eluded their dead companion and then moving on to examine the next trap. In seconds, another victim had been claimed, and the process began again. On this occasion, despite the more cautious, joint approach of the two survivors, a swift double-kill was scored by the snapping shutter.

  The young Watchers had flinched each time a trap shut. For a long time afterwards, they gazed down on the corpses of the fugitives, still marvelling at the cunning and treachery of the Two-Legs, equally astounded by the utter foolishness of the Scavengers. The excitement was now over; the immediate danger gone. Another long day on the outside world loomed ahead of them.

  – o –

  – Chapter Nine –

  It was a Sunday, the last day of September. The estuary was quiet. Passing trains still rushed through the calm, but the intervals between their intrusions were longer. On the bridge, the intense activity of the past week had dwindled to a handful of strolling maintenance men, their orange helmets bobbing just above the fretwork of the central parapet. Around midday, the wind dropped to a gentle whisper, pale blue sky peeked from gaps between the clouds, and the sun appeared overhead, tentatively at first, and then strong and dominating, as if making a last, defiant stand against the encroaching chill of autumn.

  As its brightness grew, the sun seemed to invigorate the landscape, transforming the immobile grey sea into sheets of dancing, glistening ripples; bringing a new sheen to the dull paintwork of the rail bridge; re-discovering and enriching the yellows and greens of the fields and woods on either side of the river. Sunshine also spread over the little island in the lee of the imposing bridge, penetrating the gloomy interior of the monastery, where Fat One slumbered among the debris, and glancing off the backs of Twisted Foot and Long Ears, who crouched on the high ground like twin, ridged boulders.

  Twisted Foot welcomed the warmth on his back; it made the waiting easier. For the first ti
me since the killing, he looked away from the corpse-strewn roof. The stillness of the scene below had been disturbed only once, when a lone gull had alighted briefly to gloat over the contorted bodies of its foes. As it flew off, the cries uttered by the bird had been mocking and contemptuous.

  Twisted Foot’s gaze swept over the shimmering sea and took in the newly brightened shoreline to the north. Somehow, the shore seemed closer than before. Behind it, trees, fields, hills: all had become more distinct. Were there societies like his one over there? he asked himself. Societies which lived underground and hunted above? Societies constantly under threat from the Two-Legs? Societies with Watchers and Hunters and Protectors, and fearsome Rulers like Long Snout? He remembered how the Chamberlain had looked the night before: awesome, angry, spitting out orders. He remembered his own feelings of smallness and insignificance. But Long Snout’s harsh ways had brought success, he admitted. Thanks to Long Snout, the Two-Legs had left, satisfied; the Dark World remained undiscovered. Discipline and vigilance had been observed. Discipline and vigilance ruled their lives.

  The Watcher’s thoughts returned to the adjacent shore. He wondered if the societies there were ruled with the same harshness. Perhaps not. Perhaps the menace of the Two-Legs was less. He sensed space, openness, distance from the Two-Legs, food in plenty. Perhaps ...

  ‘Perhaps there is a better life over there,’ said the soft voice close to him.

  Startled, Twisted Foot looked quickly at his companion. It was as if Long Ears had crept into his mind and listened to his inner thoughts. He felt uneasy, insecure.