The Isle of Blood (Monstrumologist)

by Rick Yancey

  I am nasu now.

  I came out of the water and threw myself back upon the ground. I was shivering uncontrollably; I had no feeling in my left arm. My neck was stiff and my eyes felt very dry. The hour was late.

  The day was dying, and so was I.

  To hold out against the end of hope is not stupidity or madness, the monstrumologist had said. It is fundamentally human.

  I sat with my back against the mountain, Awaale’s knife cradled in my lap.

  The knife was very sharp. Its edge was stained with my blood.

  I will not tell you that it will bring you luck—it is the knife I used to sacrifice the one I loved—but who knows? You may redeem its blade with the blood of the wicked.

  Two doors: I might wait for death to come in its own time—or I could choose the time. I could perish a monster or I could die as a human being.

  We are the sons of Adam. It is in our nature to turn and face the faceless thing.

  The day was dying, and yet the world seemed dazzlingly bright, and my eyes gathered in the smallest detail with astounding clarity.

  It is called Oculus Dei… the eyes of God.

  It had found me out at last, Typhoeus, the Faceless One of a Thousand Faces.

  I was the nest.

  I was the hatchling.

  I was the rot that falls from stars.

  Now you understand what I mean.

  Night fell upon the Isle of Blood, but no darkness crowded my eyes. Mine were the eyes of God now, and nothing was hidden from me, not the smallest speck of matter. I could see through the mountains. I could see clear through to the burning heart of the earth. The wind drove the clouds away, and the stars were an arm’s length away; if I wanted, I could reach up and pluck them from the sky. I was numb; there was nothing I did not feel. I felt the contagion worming in>

  I still held the knife. I would not wait for the moment that the doctor had said would come—When everyone else is dead or has run off, he turns upon himself and feeds from his own body.…

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Warthrop,” I whimpered. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I had failed him and I had saved him. I had gone down to the darkness that he might live in the light.

  I think you are lonely a great deal of the time.

  I set down the knife and dug into my pocket for her photograph.

  It’s for luck, she had said, and for when you get lonely.

  I eased it out of my pocket; it had gotten wet, and the paper was soft. The last time I had seen Lilly, I’d had the urge to kiss her. Some of us never learn the difference between urge and inspiration.

  I picked up the knife again. In one hand Awaale’s gift, and Lilly’s in the other.

  I think you are lonely a great deal of the time.

  I heard them coming long before I saw them. I heard the bones of the earth snap and crunch beneath their feet, and I heard their labored breath and I heard their anxious hearts in the spaces between their ribs. I turned my head and saw Kearns first, and his voice was the width of a fingernail from my ear, “Here, Pellinore; I found him!” He slung his rifle over his shoulder and hurried over, and then I saw the doctor racing past the water’s edge, and his hand shot out and shoved Kearns out of the way.

  “Don’t touch me!” I cried. “It’s too late, Doctor, too late, don’t touch me, too late!”

  “I told you one of the buggers got him,” Kearns said, and the monstrumologist cursed him and told him to be quiet.

  He opened his instrument case, donned a pair of gloves, murmuring to me all the while, telling me to relax, to stay calm, he was here now, and he had not forgotten his promise, and I wondered what promise he was talking about as he felt my pulse and shined a light into my eyes. My lips drew back in a snarl of pain and anger when the light struck. With shaking hands Warthrop carefully withdrew a vial of blood from his case. It was one of the samples he had extracted from the baby. The yellowish-white serum had separated out from the coagulated blood and now floated on top, suspended above the deep crimson. The doctor pressed the vial into Kearns’s hand and instructed him to hold it very still while he loaded the syringe.

  “What the devil are you doing?” Kearns asked.

  “I am attempting to slay a dragon,” answered the monstrumologist, and then he plunged the needle into my arm.

  Throughout the night he remained by my side, the man I kept human, battling to keep me human. He did not sleep that night or for the two that followed. Occasionally I would fall into a fitful, feverish doze, and when I woke, there he would be, watching over me. My dreams were terrible, filled with shadows and blood, and he woul

  d literally pull me out of them, shaking me roughly and saying, “Snap to, Will Henry. It was a dream. Only a dream.”

  My symptoms did not immediately disappear. For two days the light scorched my eyes, and he would prepare compresses soaked in the cold lake water to lay over them. While the numbness in my other extremities slowly faded, my left arm had lost all sensitivity. He forced me to drink copiously, though the tiniest morsels made my stomach heave in protest.

  Once I gave in to despair. It was too late. The serum was not working. I had seen the face of the Faceless One, and it was my face.

  To which the monstrumologist replied fiercely, “Do you remember what I told you in Aden, Will Henry? Not by numbers or force of arms.” He seized my hand and squeezed it. “By this… by this.”

  On the morning of the third day I was able to open my eyes a little, though tears of protest streaked down my cheeks, and I actually had an appetite. While my delighted caretaker dug into our bag of provisions, I looked about for Kearns. I could not remember seeing much of him.

  “Where is Dr. Kearns?” I asked.

  The doctor waved his hand toward the mountaintop. “Playing Theseus, looking for his Minotaur. He’s become quite obsessed with it. It offends his estimation of himself as a tracker par excellence.”

  “Are we… Is it safe here, Dr. Warthrop?”

  “Safe?” He was frowning. “Well, that is always a matter of degree, Will Henry. Is it as safe as Meister Abram’s brownstone? Probably not. But the worst is over, I would say. There may be a few of the infected still wandering about up here, though I doubt any are left in the plains or coastal regions. The natives are well acquainted with Typhoeus, and when an outbreak occurs, they isolate the infected villages and take to the caves until it burns itself out. Pwdre ser loses its potency over time, as I think I’ve told you, and the monsoon rains wash the remnants to the sea. I suspect the contagion emerged in Gishub and spread from there. Kearns informed me it was a fisherman—a boy around your age, actually—who was first exposed, probably on one of the smaller islands, and he gave—or, mostly likely, sold—his gruesome discovery to Yeoman Stowe.”

  “So there is no monster,” I said. “There never was.”

  “Really, Will Henry? What do you want in a monster, anyway?” he asked. “Size? The magnificum was the size of Socotra with the potential to grow as large as the world. An insatiable appetite for human flesh? You have experienced firsthand how ravenous it is. A grotesque appearance? Name something—anything!—more grotesque than what we have seen on this island. No, the magnificum is worthy of the name—a dragon by functionh, not—as we’d supposed—by design.” He patted his instrument case, where he had carefully packed the remaining samples of the baby’s blood. “And I have it in my power to slay it.”

  He rose and walked the few steps to the water’s edge, and the man in the glassy surface gazed upward into the monstrumologist’s eyes.

  “It nearly undid me,” he said pensively. It struck me as an exceedingly odd thing to say to the one recuperating from its terrible bite. I did not realize he was referring to an entirely different monster.

  “My ambition bore me up like the wings of Icarus,” he said. “And when the truth of the magnificum burned those wings away, I fell. I fell very far. And I did not fall alone.”

  He turned to me. “When you were attacked and I lo
st you in the melee, it… broke something in me. As if I’d been rudely shaken from a deep sleep. In short…” He noisily cleared his throat and looked away. “It reminded me of why I became a monstrumologist in the first place.”

  “Why did you?” I asked.

  “Why do you think?” he returned testily. “To save the world, of course. And then, at some point, as with most self-appointed saviors, it became about saving myself. Neither goal is entirely realistic. I cannot save the world, and I don’t care much anymore about saving me… but I do care very much about…”

  He returned to sit beside me. I saw something in his hand. It was Lilly’s photograph.

  “And now I must ask you about this,” he said. His tone was grave.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, reaching for it. He held it just beyond my grasp.

  “Nullité?” he asked. “Nothing?”

  “Yes. It’s… She gave it to me…”

  “Who gave it to you? When?”

  “Lilly. Lilly Bates, Dr. von Helrung’s great-niece. Before I left for London.”

  “And why did she give it to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “She said it would bring me luck.”

  “Ah. Luck. Then, you did know why she gave it to you.”

  “I don’t like her very much.”

  “Oh, no. Of course not.”

  “Can I have it back now?” I asked.

  “You mean ‘May I have it back now.’”

  “May I?”

  “Have you fallen in love, Will Henry?”

  ̶That’s stupid.”

  “What is? Love or my question?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You’ve tried that trick once. Why do you suppose it will work better the second time?”

  “I don’t love her. She bothers me.”

  “You have just defined the very thing you denied.”

  He stared at her face in the photograph with a curious expression, the naturalist stumbling upon a strange new species.

  “Well, she is pretty, I suppose,” he said. “And you are getting older, and there are some contagions for which we will never find a cure.”

  He handed the photograph back to me. “I told you once never to fall in love. Do you think that was wise advice or self-serving manipulation?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He nodded. “I don’t either.”

  Kearns returned at dusk with a fresh catch of camel spiders and a chip on his shoulder. For Kearns, he was downright sullen.

  “Bagged only three today,” he said. “This isn’t a hunt; it’s a turkey shoot.”

  “Except they are not turkeys and we are not hunting them,” replied the doctor. “We are ending their agony and preventing the spread of a deadly disease.”

  “Oh, you’re always desperate to be so bloody noble.” Kearns glanced at me. “Are you cured?”

  “It appears so,” Warthrop answered for me. He preferred to limit Kearns’s interaction with me, as if he feared an altogether different sort of contagion.

  “Then, shouldn’t we be using what you have to cure them and not be slaughtering them like cows?”

  “Human beings are not cows,” retorted the doctor, echoing his old master. “I’ve only two vials of sera. These vials must be preserved in order to replicate the antidote.”

  “You realize you are talking out of both sides of your mouth, Pellinore. You didn’t worry about preserving the antidote when it came to your assistant here.”

  “And you really should avoid mimicking the voice of conscience, Kearns. It rings hollow, like someone attempting to speak in a language he does not understand.”

  Smiling mischievously, Kearns stuffed a whole spider into his mouth. The monstrumologist turned his head away in disgust.

  The doctor had designed a brutally efficient protocol to finish the grisly work of eradicating the magnificum from the island. We set up camp at a spot that provided good cover and some shelter from the elements, a few hundred feet below the clouds that enveloped the nesting grounds. We kept our quarry’s hours, sleeping by day and luring them into the killing zone by night.

  Fire was our bait. It drew them in, and Warthrop and Kearns would hide behind an outcropping or a boulder and pick them off as they crept into the circle of light. The bodies from the night before were used for fuel for the next night’s fire.

  It was grim, grisly work. There was no thrill of the chase, no near brushes with death. There was just death.

  This was the somber side of monstrumology, heroism of the grittiest kind, the labor in darkness that the rest might live in the light. It began to take its toll on my master. He stopped eating. He slept only a few minutes at a stretch, and then would be up again, staring into the distance with eyes that had taken on a desperate, haunted look, like a man caught between two unthinkable alternatives.

  Kearns was not faring much better. He complained constantly that he still had not found his Minotaur and this was far from the epic quest he had envisioned.

  “Come now, Pellinore. Surely we could make this more fun,” he said late one night. Not a single victim had wandered into our trap. “We could split up—make a game of it. Whoever bags the most wins the prize.”

  “Leave us if you like, Kearns,” Warthrop said wearily. “In fact, I wish you would.”

  “You’re being very unfair, Pellinore. It isn’t my fault, you know. I didn’t invent the myth of the magnificum.”

  “No, you just used it to turn a profit.”

  “And you would have used it to profit your reputation and take revenge upon your rivals. ‘All hail the great scientist, the self-righteous knight who brought home the grail to Christendom, Pellinore the Pure, Pellinore the Proud, Pellinore the Magnificent!’” He laughed merrily. “As motives go, mine was by far the most pure.”

  “Leave him alone!” I snapped at him. I wanted to take Awaale’s knife and slice off that insufferable smirk. “It’s your fault—all of it! He almost died because of you!”

  “What are you talking about, boy? The Russians? I didn’t tell the Russians to kill Pellinore. That was their idea.”

  “You sent him the nidus.”

  “For safekeeping, and you should thank me that I did it.”

  “I should kill you, is what I should do!”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Well! Aren’t we the bloodthirsty little savage? What have you been teaching this child, Pellinore?”

  The monstrumologist shook his head ruefully. “Lessons of the unintended kind.”

  For a week we labored in the vineyards of the dead. After two nights without a sighting, Kearns began to talk of returning to Gishub, where we would await the arrival of the Dagmar.

  “I suppose I must give up on my Minotaur.” He pouted. “But all things—even the best of things—must eventually come to an end.”

  A troubled look passed over the doctor’s face. He pulled me out of Kearns’s earshot and whispered, “I have made a terrible mistake, Will Henry.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I whispered back. “Everyone thought the magnificum was real—”

  “Shhh! I’m not talking about the magnificum.” He glanced toward the ledge upon which Kearns lay hidden. “I don’t know what he’s waiting for. Perhaps his mind is divided; perhaps he still retains some vestige of his humanity, though I’m hard-pressed to see much evidence of that. Most likely the opportune moment simply has yet to present itself.”

  He smiled grimly at my startled expression. “He has to kill me. Well, you too, of course—both of us. What choice does he have? He’s trapped here until the end of the monsoon, and even then he will find it difficult to escape. To whom can he turn for help? The only port on the island is controlled by the British, but he’s wanted by them for murder and treason. The Russians? They will hold him accountable for the expedition’s debacle and will seek retribution. Stay and be hunted—or risk escape and be arrested.”

&
nbsp; “But that’s why he won’t kill us,” I argued. “He needs us to escape.”

  “Does he? He knows when and where we will be rendezvousing with the Dagmar. That was my terrible mistake, telling him that. All he has to do is inform Captain Russell that you and I were lost or killed on the hunt. And then John Kearns is free to go anywhere he wants, become anyone he wants. He will melt back into the human family with his human mask—and life—intact.”

  I was quiet for a moment, thinking it through, worrying with it, trying to poke holes in his argument. I decided it was useless and focused instead on finding a solution.

  “We could hit him over the head, knock him out, tie him up.… Or wait till he falls asleep…”

  The doctor was nodding. “Yes, of course. It’s the only way. He has to sleep sometime.…” His voice trailed off. The haunted look of the past few days flitted across his countenance. “Well, we can’t tie him up. That would be a death sentence, and a particularly cruel one at that.”

  “Then, we hit him over the head and take his rifle.”

  “Why do you insist on hitting him over the head? We merely have to wait for him to fall asleep to take his rifle.”

  “Then, that’s what we do. Wait till he falls asleep and take his rifle.”

  “And then… what? Take him prisoner?” he asked.

  “We can turn him over to the British.”

  “Who will then question him about Arkwright, and you will be arrested omplicity in his murder—von Helrung, too.”

  “He said he didn’t know Arkwright.”

  Warthrop gave me a withering look. “Why is it, Will Henry, that at the precise moment when I begin to think you might actually have a head on your shoulders, you say something like that?”

  “Then, we don’t turn him over to anyone. We hold him until we board the Dagmar, and then we leave him here.”

  The monstrumologist was nodding, but he still seemed troubled. “Yes. It’s the only acceptable alternative. When our work is finished, we’ll spring the trap.”