The Island of Whispers

by Brendan Gisby

  ‘Time to go, comrade,’ the soft voice said suddenly.

  Twisted Foot blinked. Long Ears now crouched beside the nest, the image come to life. The watch, of course! Twisted Foot remembered. He sighed and left the nest reluctantly. The bitterness that he had felt after the last Selection had re-emerged, deeper and more virulent than before.

  The four Watchers travelled up the long tunnel in silence. It would be dark on the outside world – and cold again. The effort to vacate their warm nests had been difficult for all of them, particularly now, when mating was permitted. Some of the young warriors down in the lair had no mates of their own; they would waste little time before pressing their attentions on the mates of the absent Watchers. A few might succeed in snatching brief moments of pleasure from the struggling she-rats.

  Fat One cursed silently as he stumbled behind the others. He cursed the coldness into which he would soon emerge. He cursed his own stupidity for falling asleep during the Assembly, thus incurring this seemingly endless round of extra watches. He cursed the unattached young he-rats, who by now would be prowling hungrily round his nest. Most of all, though, he cursed Long Snout and the old tyrant’s obsession with the Two-Legs. Punishment and extra watches aside, Fat One grumbled, the Cold Cycle usually brought less work, not more. The Hunters were now idle; they could stay cosy in their lair. With fewer Assemblies to guard and fewer executions to perform, the Protectors likewise had less to do. But the work of the Watchers had increased substantially. Still anxious about the menace posed by the glowing giant, still deeply worried about the flapping creature left by the Two-Legs, Long Snout had decided that, night and day, four Watchers must maintain vigilance on the world above. Since the great excitement of a few days ago, however, the giant had not come to life again. Nor had the creature on the high ground caused any harm; abandoned by the Two-Legs, it had merely flapped forlornly in the wind. Even the white birds had returned to their roosts, no longer afraid of the strange intruder. The high state of nervousness in the underworld had also been replaced by calm, albeit an uneasy calm. To all but Long Snout, it seemed that the threat of discovery by the Two-Legs had passed. Clearly, these long watches were so unnecessary, so unfair.

  A blast of cold air from above signified that they had reached the end of the tunnel. Fat One shivered – and cursed again.

  The members of the daylight watch left happily for the underworld. The dialogue with the sombre newcomers had been clipped, perfunctory. Twisted Foot and Long Ears set off for the western point of Inchgarvie, where they would be close to the shadowy bridge. Still grumbling, Fat One agreed to watch the east of the island. In a rare show of agility, he leapt up the monastery wall and squeezed his body into the space afforded by one of the oblong window holes. This perch gave him a clear view of both the jetty and the contraption on the high ground. The fourth Watcher, Digger, stayed inside the monastery, near to the entrance tunnel. Digger (so called because of his propensity for scratching the ground in search of worms and other tiny delicacies) was one of the lair’s veterans, probably older than Sharp Claws, and certainly much frailer.

  It was even colder than they had feared. A chilling wind swept down the estuary from the west, blustering through the bridge’s giant arches and whipping into the faces of the two Watchers on the narrow point. Weak moonlight, intermittently obliterated by the passage of dark, fast-moving clouds, added a ghostly lustre to the battalions of jostling waves which besieged the rocks on either side of the ridge. The Watchers huddled together for warmth, their eyes closed to the merest of slits against the buffeting wind.

  ‘At times like these, comrade,’ Long Ears chattered, ‘I would gladly be gone from this place.’

  Twisted Foot was quick to recognise the jest in his companion’s remark. Banter like this would keep them occupied for a while; it would alleviate the boredom and the miserable coldness.

  ‘And where, apart from his nest, would a bold warrior go on a night such as this?’ he quipped, playing along.

  Long Ears didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he peered across the estuary to the strings of twinkling lights on the northern shoreline.

  ‘To the land over there,’ he said at length.

  Twisted Foot snorted, but something about the statement, the tone of Long Ears’ delivery, told him that the jesting was over.

  ‘There? But why?’ he asked weakly.

  His companion sighed and then regarded Twisted Foot for some moments. His outsize ears were quivering; his whole body seemed to tremble. Twisted Foot sensed that mounting anger, not the cutting wind, was the cause.

  ‘For many reasons, comrade,’ Long Ears hissed, his narrow eyes now filled with venom. ‘Because I detest the oppression of our society. Because I am treated no better than a Scavenger. Because I don’t want my youngsters devoured by the fat brown ones. Because I hate their smugness and their easy life.’

  The tirade stopped abruptly. The tenseness in Long Ears’ body disappeared, his rage expelled with it.

  ‘These feelings,’ he continued more softly. ‘I sense – I know – that you share them; that you, too, are unhappy with the underworld.’

  Twisted Foot was taken aback by the ferocity of the onslaught – not even Fat One’s worst complaints had ever carried such hatred, such bitterness – but the stark truth contained in Long Ears’ words also unsettled him. It was true: he did have similar thoughts.

  ‘All right,’ he said cautiously. ‘Even if I do ... share your feelings ... what of it? It’s just nonsense to speak about leaving here. The land across the water is nothing but ... a dream.’

  ‘No, comrade, it can be done!’ Long Ears was excited now. ‘Look down there!’ His snout twitched furiously as he motioned to the extreme point of the island. ‘From there to the giant’s foot is but a short distance. We could swim –’

  ‘Swim?’

  ‘Yes, swim! Aren’t we told constantly that the founders of our society swam to this place from a Two-Legs vessel? Surely we can do the same to leave the place?’

  ‘All right,’ Twisted Foot nodded again, although he was still not convinced. ‘What then?’

  ‘Then we climb up into the giant’s belly. I have seen the Two-Legs do this often. I know it can be done. We climb up during the darkness when the Two-Legs are gone from the giant. Then we crawl along the straight belly until we reach its end.’

  The two Watchers now gazed up at the bridge. The sheer size of the structure was intimidation enough for Twisted Foot.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What about the creatures – the Two-Legs creatures which rush through the giant? Won’t they be a danger?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But if we do the same as the Two-Legs and keep well to the edge, I’m sure that we’ll be safe.

  ‘I know that it can be done, comrade,’ Long Ears added quickly.

  Twisted Foot stayed silent for some time. The plan was terrifying – but it could succeed. A jumble of thoughts and questions filled his mind. He tried to think clearly through the tangle. There had to be some tangible benefit, some hard justification, for such a perilous journey.

  ‘This land across the water,’ he said at last. ‘What do you know about it? What does it offer? Won’t there be many dangers over there?’

  Long Ears grew excited again.

  ‘You remember the stories told by the Chamberlain? The stories about the land from which the forefathers came? Their land had trees and grass; waters running down the sides of hills; lairs built deep under soft earth; birds of all kinds and small Four-Legs on which to feast. I think – I’m sure – that the land across the water has all these things.’

  ‘But the Two-Legs? Won’t there be many of them?’

  ‘Perhaps, comrade. But the land is so vast. It can’t be too difficult to find a place far from them.

  ‘Think, Twisted Foot!’ Long Ears was insistent now. ‘No Rulers or Protectors! No Selections! Mating when we desire it! Bird flesh for the taking!’ The words were cajoling, persuasive.

&nb
sp; Twisted Foot had caught the excitement; many more questions were on the point of tumbling from him – Who should undertake this journey? How would they begin their new society? Who would lead them? – but Long Ears was already giving the answers.

  ‘There must be others in the lair – young Watchers like us – who would be happily gone from here. I’m sure there would be little effort to persuade them. We should go with our mates and our young ones: we couldn’t form a strong society without them. But –’ Long Ears stopped now. He needed to choose his next words with care. He looked away from Twisted Foot and back to the far, twinkling lights.

  ‘Our flight from this place must be well planned,’ he said eventually. ‘The venture is a dangerous one. We are doomed if the Rulers suspect us; Long Snout will feed us to the Scavengers. Yes, we need a careful plan. And we need someone – a brave and intelligent warrior – to lead us. A leader who will decide our steps and keep us from discovery.’

  Long Ears turned to stare directly at his companion.

  ‘Twisted Foot, comrade,’ he spoke softly. ‘Will you lead us?’

  Transfixed, Twisted Foot returned the stare. The excitement left him, ousted suddenly by cold fear.

  ‘Me?’ he squealed. ‘But – but I’m just a cripple. Not strong. I couldn’t lead ...’ The words trailed off. The coldness seemed to clutch at his insides, constricting his breathing.

  ‘It’s not strength that we need, comrade.’ Vehemence and insistence were back in Long Ears’ words. ‘It’s cunning and courage and intelligence. You have all these qualities. More so than any of us. You are our natural leader!’

  Twisted Foot’s heart thudded. Iciness was crawling through his bowels.

  ‘I – I don’t know.’ The voice was weak, whispering. ‘I must have time to think ...’

  It was his turn now to stare at the distant shoreline.

  – o –

  – Chapter Fourteen –

  She moved swiftly and lightly through the Common lair. The place was quiet, deserted except for the guards outside the Scavengers’ dungeon. Her passage seemed to have gone unobserved. When she reached the pool, the Protectors at the foot of the entrance tunnel regarded her silently, indifferently. She drank greedily from the pool, stopping every few seconds to glance about. Only her lapping disturbed the eerie stillness. She sensed danger. She knew that it was unsafe to be here alone at this time. Her companions were all sleeping soundly, exhausted after another night of furious copulation with their mates. Her own mate was keeping the night watch above. She had been thirsty and had crept out of the lair, not wishing to wake any of the other she-rats. She would be away only a short time.

  Shaking her dripping muzzle, she glanced once more at the immobile Protectors and then left the pool. The tunnel going back seemed longer, more threatening. She quickened her pace. In the darkness of the Common lair, she could see a darker shape moving towards her. Another dark form came close behind the first. She stopped, crouching very low, ready to spring away. Grave danger lurked in those forms. The trip to the pool had been a terrible mistake, she realised. She should have stayed safe in her nest, waited for the others to rise.

  The first Protector crept closer, sniffing her scent, until she could feel the hotness of his breath.

  ‘And where do you belong, pretty one?’ he asked. The tone was light, but she recognised the menace in it.

  She decided on a bold approach. If she showed no fear, they might let her pass unharmed.

  ‘The lair of the Watchers,’ she replied defiantly.

  ‘A Watcher, eh?’ The tone was mocking now. He had moved even closer, his snout rubbing against her own as he spoke. ‘What about some pleasure for a lonely warrior? After all, it is the time of the mating.’

  ‘But I have a mate already,’ she answered quickly. ‘Twisted Foot,’ she added, the tremble in her voice belying the show of boldness.

  The sudden, harsh guffaw made her start in terror. She spun round. A third Protector had slid behind her.

  ‘The cripple?’ he boomed and guffawed again.

  The first Protector spoke again. His body was pressed hard against her.

  ‘What you need, pretty one, is a real warrior on your back.’

  She knew now what they intended to do. At first, she attempted to leap away, but the Protectors had her hemmed in. In desperation, she began to hiss and snarl, lashing out with her bared teeth. The effort was futile. Two of them gripped her head and neck in their powerful jaws. The third pinned her down from the back. She squealed as his sharp claws dug into her flesh. She felt his rough entry, his heaving body and then the rush of his seed inside of her. He slid off with a grunt, but the ordeal was not over. She struggled a second time and a third time when the others leapt on her back in turn.

  The Protectors darted away from the still hissing she-rat. ‘We’ll be over here if you want any more,’ one of them shouted from across the lair: the final insult.

  Whimpering, hurting, the she-rat stumbled towards her own lair. One of her ears was badly torn, and blood seeped from the deep scores along her back. Her thoughts were bitter, vengeful. The pain would go, the injuries would heal in time, but the memory of this shame, this defilement, might never fade.

  Small Face slunk back to his nest. He was anxious that she should not see him. He had watched her leave, had been concerned about her safety. He had gone to the edge of the Common lair, waited for her to return. Frightened, powerless to help, he had witnessed the rape. She had fought back bravely. They had hurt her, just like the Scavengers had hurt him. If he had gone to her assistance, the guards would have brushed him aside, hurt him again. I’m not a coward, he insisted, but he was ashamed of his weakness.

  The she-rat crept into her nest and then curled up in a tight ball close to her youngster. Poor Grey Eyes, he thought. So young, so pretty. She will keep silent about her ordeal, lest Twisted Foot tries to take revenge. The Protectors would surely kill him – and take pleasure in it. Small Face shuddered. He, too, would say nothing. Twisted Foot was a valued companion, a kind friend; his loss would be cruel and tragic.

  Grey Eyes was sleeping now. Soft whimpers escaped from her trembling body. Small Face felt sadness. He looked round the other nests. All was quiet, serene. What a strange and brutal world we live in, he mused. Here in the Watchers’ lair there is peace, order. Sharp Claws is a respected and compassionate leader. There is a strong bond of comradeship between all of the Watchers. Out there, though, it is different: no compassion, no friendship. The Protectors roam the underworld, killing, raping, maiming. The Hunters are no better; they, too, are cold and cruel. The Rulers – the protected ones – are even worse. They condone and encourage the brutality so long as they are kept fed and warm. It is as if ... as if the Watchers are not included in their society: a society apart, an inferior race to be spurned and ridiculed like the Scavengers. Yes, a society apart, he repeated the notion. But, alas, that is the sum of it. We can’t change things; we can’t fight them. There is no escape. He felt tired, helpless. No escape, he sighed and drifted into sleep.

  – o –

  – Chapter Fifteen –

  The dreams kept waking Twisted Foot. At first, there were bright, sharp images of a clearing among the trees. He didn’t know where the clearing was, only that it was far away, deep in the woodlands. The sun was shining. They were basking in its warmth. Grey Eyes was there; and young Soft-Mover, his jet-black coat glistening as he moved through the tall grass. Fat One was dozing under a tree. His other companions were in the clearing with their mates and young ones. There was an aura about the place, a deep glow of happiness. It seemed that if he reached out from his dream he could touch the glow, let the warmth course through him. Then the shadows always fell. Cold, dark images came to oust the brightness. The scenes were blurred, frightening: Long Snout towering over the clearing, the blood of newly born young congealed on his enormous fangs; Neck-Snapper hissing and spitting death, green pus festering in his ragged eyehole; Grey Eyes surrounded by
snarling Protectors, her small body lacerated and bleeding. The images of light and darkness vied with each other, struggling for dominance, like a battle between good and evil. The confusion of the tumult threatened to overwhelm him. He had to break free from the dream, to awake, shivering and miserable, in the empty nest. Anger and bitterness greeted each awakening, building quickly to a helpless rage which sent convulsions through his body, until it, too, was almost unbearable. He had to close his eyes, to shut out the dark, violent thoughts. Then the cycle of dreaming and waking began again.

  It had been like this since he returned from the watch to discover Grey Eyes’ plight. He had known instinctively what had occurred; he hadn’t needed to ask. She was away now, being consoled by her companions. His fellow Watchers had tried to commiserate with him, but he had wanted to be alone, to nurse his wrath. Sleep eased the anguish; his dreams subsumed it, but only to clear the way for another kind of turmoil, the one created by his need to decide whether to set off on the perilous journey to a new life or to stay here, suffering the hardships and indignities of the present society. As the dream conflict wore on, the shining images of the sun-warmed clearing in the trees grew stronger, more appealing, more attainable.

  In his nest close by, Long Ears also slept fitfully; dozing when Twisted Foot closed his eyes, suddenly alert when Twisted Foot awoke, watching, waiting for some sign. He recognised the torment in his companion’s movements; he knew that the decision would come soon. He had bared his thoughts to Twisted Foot, his plans for a new society. Twisted Foot was the most able of the young Watchers; of that, Long Ears was certain. He was clever, with an inner strength that transcended his deformed body; the one who could lead them away from this hostile place, their saviour. The others won’t take me seriously, Long Ears told himself. I am too weak, too afraid. But they would listen to Twisted Foot. They would follow him. Long Ears concentrated his thoughts, willing Twisted Foot to wake, willing him to decide.