The Island of Whispers

by Brendan Gisby

  He looked again at the raging battle. Hordes of slaves had begun their assault on the Hunters. The Watchers would be next. There was no time for further thought. He sprang away from his warriors and then raced for the Protectors’ lair. A small, lithe, muscular figure slipped down from the platform and moved silently behind him.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty-Six –

  He awoke with a start. The pain was blinding him, burning into his head. He felt suffocatingly hot. He was panting hoarsely, shaking with fever, weaker than ever. It had been like this for many days: sleeping in snatches, jolting awake; each time the pain returning with renewed ferocity. His dreams were becoming more delirious, more frightening. This last one had been particularly bad. He imagined that huge, hideous monsters were in the lair. He could hear them snarling. He could see their large yellow eyes. He could feel their hot, fetid breath as they closed in on him. Then he had returned to consciousness; back to the stifling fever; back to the burning pain.

  He held his breath for a moment and listened. The screams from the Common lair were muffled and distant. He remembered the special Assembly. He had been too weak to attend. In truth, though, he would not have wished to watch others perform his duties. Torture and execution: those practices had been his special province once – before this accursed affliction!

  He listened again. There were other noises. Scratching noises. Here in the empty lair! He peered into the blackness. The pain stabbed at him. There was a blurred shape near the entrance. Then another. And another. Yellow eyes flashing. His heart thudded. Were these the monsters from his dream? He stumbled from the nest, his head swimming with the effort. The shapes became more blurred and then melted away.

  There were voices now. Urgent voices. He couldn’t see. He was confused. Were the voices in his own mind? He shook his head violently. Excruciating pain jolted through him, almost stopping his heart. Nausea swept over him. Then suddenly his vision cleared. The shapes re-appeared. There were many of them. They were coming closer, coming into focus; hazy images transforming into fur and flesh. He recognised the faces. The fat, lazy one from the Watchers’ lair. The little cripple at the back. The floppy-eared one. These were no monsters! Fear and blinding pain were quickly forgotten, replaced by blind rage. A great roar erupted from him. Then he charged at the intruders.

  The demented Protector came at them from out of the darkness. The apparition was hideous. The whole of the right side of his head was horribly bloated and oozing pus. His long fangs were bared, gleaming white, dripping foam. There were shrieks of alarm from the Watchers. Small Face scuttled back with the mates and youngsters, but Fat One stood his ground. Arching his back and spitting, he forced Neck-Snapper to draw up. Twisted Foot and Long Ears raced from behind to join their companion. Growling loudly, Neck-Snapper regarded the three Watchers for some moments. The growling stopped suddenly. Then he reared up, ready to pounce.

  The sea heaved up again and tossed the little boat against the wooden supports of the jetty. The sharp crack of the impact woke Digger. The old Watcher opened his eyes. Wind and rain whipped into them. He felt colder and more miserable than before. There was another crack. He peered down through tiny slits and saw the boat and the two brightly dressed men who were clambering out of it. One of the men slipped on the sea-lashed jetty. His companion helped him to his feet. Then they set off, struggling against the wind, heading for the high ground. The hoods of their anoraks were pulled down over their heads, almost completely concealing their frozen white faces.

  Digger cursed. He should have stayed more alert. There was still time to redeem himself, though. He must return to the underworld at once. Special Assembly or not, he must find Sharp Claws and report the presence of the Two-Legs.

  He squeezed out of his makeshift shelter and then moved stealthily across the slippery rocks. At least when he got to the underworld, he thought selfishly, there would be some respite from the foul elements.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty-Seven –

  The voice was deep and gruff. It came from near the entrance tunnel.

  ‘Over here, Neck-Snapper!’ it shouted.

  For the second time in only a few moments, Neck-Snapper cut short his attack. He looked in the direction of the voice. Sharp Claws moved further into the lair, closer to Neck-Snapper, placing the Protector between him and the young Watchers.

  Neck-Snapper shifted round slightly, using his one eye to follow Sharp Claws’ progress.

  ‘You!’ he hissed slowly.

  ‘Yes, me.’

  Neck-Snapper snarled. He turned round fully now and faced Sharp Claws. The young Watchers were forgotten for the moment. It was the old warrior whom he wanted. He had old scores to settle with him. Their bodies were only inches apart. Their meeting was long overdue.

  Sharp Claws glanced at Twisted Foot.

  ‘Make your escape now,’ he said. ‘Quickly!’ Then he returned his stare to Neck-Snapper.

  Twisted Foot hesitated. He was confused.

  ‘But –’

  Sharp Claws kept his eyes fixed on the Protector, watching for the slightest movement, ready for the lunge that would come.

  ‘Go now!’ he roared.

  Twisted Foot nodded. He was still unsure, but he spun round and raced for the escape tunnel. The others scurried behind him.

  Fat One watched them go. He wanted to stay, to help the old Watcher, but he knew that there was little time to lose. With a wrench, he moved off after his companions. He stopped at the tunnel mouth and glanced back. They hadn’t moved. Each waited for the other to act, Neck-Snapper snarling and drooling, Sharp Claws calm and alert; sworn enemies savouring that taut, scary stillness before mortal combat.

  Fat One slipped into the tunnel.

  Neck-Snapper made the lunge. Sharp Claws dodged its impact, came up on the Protector’s right side and gouged into his injured head. Neck-Snapper bellowed in agony. He jerked his head back, managing to dislodge Sharp Claws. Blood was pouring out of the re-opened eyehole.

  The two flew at each other again, jaws agape, growling incessantly, each thrusting for the soft flesh of the throat. They toppled over in a deadly clinch, rolled across the hard ground and then crashed into the rows of empty nests.

  The Scavenger’s cold, hard eyes flickered in the darkness. The struggle no longer interested him. He licked his fangs and moved lightly past the noisy, writhing bodies.

  Charlie lit another cigarette and continued to peer out at the island, a broad grin on his face. His two passengers had managed to get to the display platform. They were checking the structure now, making sure that it hadn’t been loosened by the wind and that the layers of polythene which swathed it were keeping out the rain. One of the men was kneeling down, examining the base of the platform. Caught by a sudden gust, the corner of a sheet of polythene flapped up and wrapped itself round the man’s head. He struggled to free himself and fell on his backside.

  Charlie sniggered. It was pure comedy out there. He had watched them waddle up the slope, sliding and stumbling every few feet, like a pair of penguins. Earlier on, just before they left the cabin, he had ribbed them about the rats.

  ‘Mind now, boys,’ he had said with a straight face. ‘Watch out for an ambush.’

  The men had looked perplexed.

  ‘Aye,’ he continued, ‘they rat bites can be awfie painful.’

  It was just his wee joke, but they hadn’t been very amused. Well, it served them right. They were the ones who had started the scare about the rats.

  His gaze wandered away from the men and down to the monastery. He would be surprised if rats or anything else wanted to stay on the island. It was such a godforsaken place. He came past it in the boat almost every working day, but he hardly ever gave it more than a second glance. He knew very little about Inchgarvie’s history, and he had been on the island only once, way back, when he was a youngster.

  Something moved among the rocks. It was just a flicker, but it caught his attention.
He got closer to the windscreen and peered out through the haze of grey rain. The thing moved again. It seemed to slide – no, to squirm – over the rocks. His face was pressed against the Perspex now. He wiped away the fog caused by his breath, screwed his eyes up, peered again. His first thought was a dog. But, no, not moving like that; not squirming. A cat, maybe. A big black cat.

  The boat began to rock wildly. He lost sight of the creature for a moment. Then it re-appeared, creeping slowly, heading up towards the monastery. He wiped the Perspex again. He saw the long tail slithering over a boulder. A rat! The size of a cat!

  ‘Naw,’ he murmured. ‘It couldnae be.’

  The tail curled round another boulder. The creature’s black body seemed to undulate as it slid through a gap in the monastery wall.

  Charlie stubbed out his cigarette and zipped up his jerkin.

  ‘Right!’ he said.

  He left the boat quickly and scrambled up to the jetty. The wind tore at his hair and clothes. Icy needles of rain stung his face. He struggled along the jetty, trying not to slip, wishing that he had stayed where he was. His smirk had gone. The joke was on him now.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty-Eight –

  They were out in the open now, huddled together, shivering uncontrollably. The sea rose up on either side of them, wild and threatening, flinging its angry spray across the rocks. The he-rats were veterans of the outside world, past witnesses to its ugly, violent moods, but they were dismayed by the unexpected fury of the storm. It seemed as if the full wrath and vengeance of the Cold Cycle had been unleashed upon them in an effort to impede their escape.

  For the she-rats and youngsters, this was their first terrifying glimpse of the world above their own. The sights, the sounds, the smells of this awful place were mind-numbing, beyond their comprehension. They had lived in permanent darkness, but here there was a lightness, a vast lightness which made them blink and want to hide; a great force which magnified all around them. Invisible creatures flew out of the lightness to strike at their bodies and sting them with armies of sharp, icy water. There were other creatures in the enormous expanse of water surrounding them: huge, angry white monsters which leapt up and battered the rocks. Theirs was a world of quiet, furtive movements; of warm nests and familiar scents. This world that they had fled to was harsh and squalling and hostile, with a jarring coldness which found its way into their bones.

  Twisted Foot recognised their discomfort and bewilderment. He wanted to console them, to reassure them.

  ‘It’s not always like ...’ he tried to say, but the wind snatched away the rest of his words.

  Long Ears pushed his snout into Twisted Foot.

  ‘We must go, comrade!’ he was shouting. His look was anxious, impatient.

  Twisted Foot nodded. The time for explanations was past. They had to go now. He had to lead them into the sea. He looked round the others, silently rallying them. Then they moved off together down to the point of the island. As if understanding their intent, the hungry waves rushed up to meet them.

  He appeared suddenly at Twisted Foot’s side, bringing the startled Watcher to a halt. The little Scavenger seemed to have materialised from the greyness of the storm. Fat One was first to act. He rushed from the back of the group to challenge the Scavenger.

  ‘No!’ cried Twisted Foot as he sprang between the Scavenger and the charging Watcher. ‘This is Slayer! The slave-King! He – he’s coming with us!’

  Fat One stayed still, growling, eyeing the intruder suspiciously. Slayer seemed more perturbed by the cold than by Fat One’s growls. He was blinking and shivering like the rest of them.

  ‘Well, Master,’ he chittered to Twisted Foot, ‘this surely is the strangest of worlds.’

  Twisted Foot didn’t reply. He turned now to watch the churning sea, to steel himself for the ordeal. The waves licked up, taunting him. The giant’s foot seemed so far away. He had to go first. He had to show courage, determination. He teetered at the edge of the rocks and then plunged abruptly into the sea. The waves swept over him, immersing him. The shock of coldness came instantly, vice-like, compressing his lungs, expelling the air. He couldn’t move. He was sinking into a deep black void. Then, suddenly, he could see light again. His head was above the surface. His front paws were threshing wildly. One of his back legs was jerking furiously, while the other dangled in the water, twisted and helpless. He was moving, bobbing on top of the sea, riding over the waves.

  Slayer went next, fearlessly, without hesitation. Then Grey Eyes and Soft-Mover slipped into the sea together. The others followed quickly until only Small Face and Fat One were left on the rocks. Small Face looked pleadingly at his companion. He was stiff with terror. Fat One prodded him sharply.

  ‘Go on!’ he commanded.

  Small Face hit the water with a loud squeal. He sank down and then re-emerged moments later, struggling, gasping for air. He was swimming, though; making progress.

  Fat One watched them for a while longer. He had decided. He had to return. He would never be able to rest otherwise. He would never forgive himself. Old Sharp Claws deserved his help.

  Fat One turned suddenly and sprinted back to the escape tunnel. Tossed back and forth at the whim of the restless sea, the ragged line of tiny black heads moved slowly towards the bridge.

  For perhaps the hundredth time since leaving the rocks, Digger paused to listen. He was very close to the entrance tunnel now, nearly home. He had been inching his way through the rubble, extra-cautious because of the Two-Legs on the high ground. He tried to listen above the howling of the wind and the heavy splatter of rain. Nothing. He poked his head up, glanced round and then ducked down again. His heart gave a kick. Across from him, in the dimness of the monastery, was a darker shape. He had just glimpsed the Two-Legs. The giant was standing stiff and silent and staring in his direction.

  Long Snout swept into the Protectors’ lair. About a dozen blood-spattered Protectors rushed behind him.

  ‘Quickly! Quickly!’ Long Snout was shouting. ‘We’ll hold them off from here!’

  The rest seemed to come in a flood, squealing in terror, clambering over each other until they were far enough into the lair; the surviving mates and young of the Protectors mingling with the torn, bleeding remnants of the Inner Circle. Another score or more Protectors came behind them to take up their positions at the tunnel mouth and to close the gap between slaves and survivors. Jostling bodies and shrill voices now filled the place. Attracted by the commotion, she-rats and youngsters were spilling out of the Inner Circle lair and joining the anxious throng.

  The two combatants in the centre of the lair broke off from their struggle. Both were breathing hard, their bodies streaked with blood and saliva. They kept their eyes fixed on each other, conscious that the incoming rats were forming a circle around them.

  Sharp Claws seemed dazed. It was some moments before he realised fully the danger that he was in. He began to back away slowly from Neck-Snapper, searching for a gap in the circle, ready to make a dash for the escape tunnel. By then, though, Long Snout had seen them.

  The Chamberlain pushed through the crowd until he crouched next to Neck-Snapper. His presence silenced the hubbub of the spectators. His cold glare transfixed Sharp Claws.

  ‘What’s going on here, Chief Watcher?’ he rasped.

  It was Neck-Snapper who replied in a hoarse, wheezing voice.

  ‘He – he’s a traitor, Chamberlain. He – he helped the others – the other Watchers – to escape.’

  Long Snout looked in the direction of the escape tunnel and then back at Sharp Claws.

  ‘So!’ he hissed.

  Sharp Claws knew that he was trapped, that there was no escape now. He stayed rigid, staring up at the Chamberlain, waiting for death. He saw the jaws opening, the long yellow fangs reaching down for him. He felt sharp, momentary pain as the jaws snapped over his neck. Then blackness.

  The jaws snapped again. Hot blood sprayed across the crowd. The severed head rol
led off into them. The hubbub resumed.

  Long Snout rose up and spoke quickly to the guards who had gathered round him.

  ‘Go to the outside world! Find the traitors! Destroy them!’

  Then he turned his attention to Neck-Snapper.

  ‘You did well, warrior,’ he growled.

  Blood was still pumping in spurts from the crumpled, headless corpse of the Chief Watcher. At the mouth of the escape tunnel, Fat One was shaking violently. He closed his eyes to shut out the ghastly sight. When he opened them again, he saw the yellow slit-eyes of the charging Protectors. He moved too late. The leading Protector’s fangs sank into his fleshy side. Fat One screamed and twisted away. There was a ragged, gaping wound along his left flank. The pain was incredible. He could hardly breathe. He began to scramble up the tunnel. He felt weak and exceptionally heavy, but the snapping, snarling jaws of the Protector drove him on.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty-Nine –

  The inside of the monastery was dank and gloomy. The place smelled of decay. Charlie kept very still. He was numb with cold and soaking wet. His hair was plastered to his head. Rain streamed down his face, plummeted from the tip of his long, bony nose and rushed in tiny torrents down his jerkin to splash on his sodden trousers.

  Up to Charlie’s right, on the crest of the island, his passengers were still fussing around the display platform. Down below, Charlie stared into the debris, clamping his teeth together to stop them from chattering. He knew where the rat was. He knew that the rat had seen him. They were both waiting: hunter and prey at standstill.