by Eoin Colfer
And following this sparsest of introductions, Linus Wynter launched into his overture.
It was a grand number, but not pretentious, switching between moods. From delirious joy and relief, to unfathomable sorrow.
It could have been comical. A blind man playing all the parts of an orchestra for a frightened boy. But somehow it was not. Conor felt himself lost in the music and the story sprang up around him as he listened.
It was a sad yet triumphant tale, with fine arias and soaring marches and Conor clung to it for a while, but by and by the story faded, leaving the music alone. But music must have pictures to go with it, and in Conor’s mind the pictures were of a flying machine. Heavier than air, yet soaring among the clouds, with Conor himself guiding the rudder. It could be done, and he would be the one to do it.
I will do it, he thought. I will fly and Conor Finn will survive Little Saltee.
The third day. Billtoe arrived after the cannon, looking as though he had been dragged to work through the sewers. This, Conor was beginning to realize, was his standard appearance.
Wynter sniffed the air on hearing the hinges.
‘Ah, Guard Billtoe. Right on time.’
Billtoe flicked a chicken bone he had been sucking at the blind prisoner. ‘Here, Wynter, boil yourself some soup. And you, Conor Finn, look lively. The pipe waits. Maybe today we’ll get some work out of you, if you’re not too occupied with the unconscious floating.’
Conor sat in his bed, feeling the itch of salt and dirt on his back.
‘On my way, Mister Billtoe.’
He trudged to the door, searching his heart for a spark of enthusiasm for anything. Linus Wynter provided it with a farewell and a tilt of the head that served as a wink.
‘Until this evening then, Conor Finn.’
Conor could not help but smile. Being part of a secret is a great source of strength.
‘Until this evening, when the soldier returns.’
Wynter’s face broke into a broad smile, wrinkles stretching the scars that ringed each eye like rays from the sun.
‘I await The Soldier’s Return then.’
Billtoe scowled, uncomfortable with anything more than abject depression from the convicts.
‘Quit with the conversation and out the door with you, Finn.’
Conor Finn left the dank cell, leaving Conor Broekhart further behind with every step.
Malarkey was already in the bell when Conor swam under. The huge convict was squeezing water from his long hair like a washerwoman wringing towels.
‘Salt makes the hair brittle,’ he explained, glancing at Conor under the crook of a raised elbow. ‘If a man favours the long styles, he has to get as much out as he can. Sometimes I think it’s wasted work, as no one on this blinking rock gives my hair a second glance.’
Conor was not sure how to react to this genial gent who had replaced yesterday’s hired brute.
‘Ah… My mother recommends oil for brittle hair.’
Malarkey sighed. ‘Yes, oil. Where to get it, though; there’s the puzzle I have wrestled with for a decade.’
The man was serious, Conor realized. This was important to him.
‘Billtoe seems to have a ready supply. The man’s head is as greased as a wrestling pole.’
‘Billtoe!’ spat Malarkey. ‘That snake. I wouldn’t please him with a plea.’
Conor had a thought. ‘Well then, I have noticed that our daily stew is loaded with some form of cooking oil. A small pool collects in the bowl. I dare say it would do you more good on your head than in your stomach.’
Malarkey was thunderstruck. ‘God almighty, you are correct, soldier boy. There it was every day, three times a day, staring me in the mush, and me looking for oil. That’s good advice.’
‘And free,’ Conor added. ‘Though you may smell like stew.’
‘What matter?’ said Malarkey. ‘My hair will shine bright enough for a Piccadilly stroll.’
Conor shook the water from his own hair. He must, he thought, with the shaking and the caked dirt, bear more than a passing resemblance to a vagabond mutt. It was time to look to his appearance. Perhaps Otto Malarkey was the man to quiz on hygiene.
Malarkey finished with his hair and threw his head back.
‘Now,’ he said, in a more serious tone. ‘We have unfinished business.’
Conor tensed. Was it time for another row? Some students needed more than one pass at a lesson before the information took hold. He placed a hand on the butt of the Devil’s Fork in his belt.
‘What business is that? More paid beatings?’
‘No, soldier boy, no!’ said Malarkey hurriedly. ‘Your solution to that affair is a sound one. We fake the entire thing for a fortnight. You keep mum and that is that. Saves my knuckles and your head, best all round. A pity I didn’t think of it before now. I could have saved myself the pain of arthritis. Between the aching joints and brittle hair, this place will be the death of me.’
Conor relaxed somewhat, but left his hand on the fork. ‘I knew a cook on Great Saltee who suffered from arthritis. She always swore that willow bark is good for joint pain, if you can get it.’
Malarkey nodded. ‘Willow bark?’
‘Grind it into your stew, or simply suck on a piece. Though it is hard on the stomach.’
‘No worries on that score. I could digest a live bear with barely a twinge.’
Conor frowned. ‘So then, what is this business?’
‘I talked to Pike,’ said Malarkey, hiking a thumb at the bell porthole. ‘We decided that it would be best to do a little work before I knock you senseless. So, I thought we might dig around a bit, find a few stones then take our ease for a while. Following that, I drag you on out of here and no one is any the wiser. How does that sound, for a plan?’
Conor was about to agree, but then thought on his new identity. Conor Finn was a young devil, and would not be satisfied without profit.
‘It’s a passable plan. Most of the elements are there, but what of the three pounds you were paid to beat me?’
Malarkey was ready for this line. ‘One for you, two for me.’
‘I prefer the other way around.’
‘I have a proposition,’ said Malarkey. ‘We go straight down the middle, if you teach me how to use that fork the way you do. Proper fencing is a powerful tool. I could earn some real money, nail me a few officers.’
It was clear in Malarkey’s face that he was eager for this arrangement.
‘And can you keep the Battering Rams from slipping a blade between my ribs?’ asked Conor.
Otto Malarkey shrugged back his long hair. ‘There’s only one way to guarantee that.’ He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the horned-ram tattoo. ‘You must take the ink. Only members of the brotherhood are safe. I’ll stand for you, if you teach me fencing. I could say you took the beatings and have Irish blood in you, though your accent is well-bred Saltee. A Kilmore mum maybe? I think that you’re below army age, but that don’t matter to the Battering Rams. If you’re big enough to hold a pistol, you’re big enough to fire one.’
Joining the Rams was a sticking point. Conor Broekhart would never take up with a criminal gang, but then again Conor Finn would.
‘I’ll take your ink, but I won’t pay any dues nor swear an oath.’
Malarkey laughed. ‘Oath! The only oaths we have in the Rams are foul ones. As for dues, the fencing lessons will do enough.’
Conor rubbed his bicep where the tattoo would sit. ‘Very well, Otto Malarkey, we have an agreement. I expect the money tomorrow.’
‘Not tomorrow,’ said Malarkey. ‘From now on you will be searched every day. Wait until you carry the ram on your arm, then certain guards have hazy allegiances. Their search will be less thorough, for the right price, of course.’
Already Malarkey was proving useful. It could well be that the man’s idle chatter would be a fair trade for a few fencing lessons.
‘Very well, Malarkey, after the tattoo is dry. Until then we fence and dig
. First fencing, while the mind is sharp.’
Conor extended his trident, flicking his left arm up behind him.
Malarkey mimicked the stance.
‘So, Conor Finn, you’ll teach me everything you know?’
‘Not everything,’ said Conor, smiling tightly. ‘If I did that, then you could kill me.’
Billtoe waited until Conor supposedly regained consciousness before leading him back to his cell through the subterranean hallways of Little Saltee. For the first time since his arrival, Conor took careful account of his surroundings, counting each step, noting each door and window.
This section of the prison had a bowed look, as if the entire wing had dropped a floor since its construction. Walls leaned in overhead and the floor sank like a drain. Stone arches had lost their soffits or keystones and stood crookedly, like the efforts of a child’s building blocks. The walls were dotted with pitch patches where water had wormed its way through the cracks. Dozens more rivulets had yet to be filled. A gurgling saltwater stream ran down the centre of the collapsed floor.
‘Pretty, ain’t it,’ said Billtoe, taking note of Conor’s roving eye. ‘This place could flood at any second, they say. Of course they have been saying that since long before I put on the uniform. If I was you, I’d try to escape this hellhole. That’s always good for a giggle. You should see what desperate men are willing to try. Jumping off the wall is a favourite. The crabs never go hungry on Little Saltee. Tunnelling is another one. Tunnelling! I ask you. Where does these turf heads think they are? The middle of a meadow? We got barely a spoonful of clay on this island, and yet we have these gaol-crazed prisoners spending every waking minute sniffing out a vein. I tell you straight, little soldier, if you do find some earth on Little Saltee, then you should plant yourself some vegetables.’
Conor knew not to interrupt. After all, in a previous existence he had learned that information saved lives, and there was a wealth of information to be gathered about this place. Luckily Guard Billtoe seemed eager to dish it just as fast as he could get it out of his flapping mouth.
He pushed Conor down a corridor, a full step lower than the rest. The floor ran off at a gentle gradient, water actually flowing under some of the doors.
‘Home again, fiddle dee dee,’ sang Billtoe. ‘The lunatic wing. We got all sorts here. Deaf, dumb, blind. One legged, one armed. Fellas what have got a bump on the noggin. Every class of lunatic you care to mention. We got one fellow who doesn’t do words. Just numbers. All blooming day numbers. Tens and hundreds, thousands even. Like a blooming banker he is. Don’t even know his name, so we call him Numbers – clever, eh?’
Conor stored that nugget. A numbers man could be useful if his counting meant something. There were calculations in any plan.
They arrived at Conor’s cell door. Conor noticed the steel hinges and heavy locks.
Billtoe turned a key in the lock. ‘Big door, ain’t it? These doors are about the only thing we keep repaired around here.’ He winked at Conor. ‘Couldn’t have you simpletons running around during the night, spooking each other with your crying for Mummy and counting and such. I like it better when you stay in your cell and howl.’ Billtoe wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek. ‘It sounds like a choir of angels. Helps me sleep during my time on the island.’
The man was an animal. Base and foul. In a just world he would be the prisoner and Conor a free man. The door swung open, helped along by the slant of the wall.
‘In you go, Salt. Enjoy being on your lonesome.’
Conor was halfway down the ramped floor before the words registered. He turned, but the door was already closing.
‘On my lonesome? Where is Mister Wynter?’
Billtoe spoke through a shrinking slice of light between door and frame. ‘Wynter? That cheeky blind beggar? Why, he’s been released. Solitary for you from here on out, the marshall’s orders.’
Conor felt his weight pulling him to the floor, and was on his knees before he could stop himself.
Murder is the most expeditious way to prevent overcrowding, Linus had said. I pray that we fortunate two are never released.
‘You’ve killed him,’ breathed Conor.
But he was talking to a closed door.
CHAPTER 9: LIGHT AT THE END
This latest disaster had Conor huddled at the back of the cell, sobbing like a baby. He was alone now. Friendship could have brightened time spent even here. But now there was no one. He crawled as far back as he could into the room, and was dully surprised to find the room extended deeper into the rock than he had believed. Behind Wynter’s cot was a deep alcove with roughly the dimensions of four stacked coffins. This he could tell by touch alone as not a glimmer of light extended to the black hole.
He lay there for hours, feeling his determination sliding away like weed sluiced from a slipway. The new identity he had created for himself dissolved, bringing poor desperate Conor Broekhart to the surface.
So he stayed, wrapped in nothing but self-pity, wallowing in dreams of family all night long. Useless, futile dreams. Conor could well have perished in the next few days, dead from a broken heart, if not for one little ray of light.
In the early hours, Conor woke to see a red line flickering on the opposite wall. For a long sleepy moment this line puzzled him, resembling nothing more than a ghostly number one, wavering gently. Was this a message of some kind? Could his cell be haunted? Then he awakened fully and realized that the line was, of course, a shaft of sunlight. But from where?
For distraction’s sake, Conor decided to investigate. It took no more than a moment for him to find that a narrow fissure along the seam between two blocks of the alcove extended to the outside world and was allowing weakened light to filter through. Conor tapped the left block with a fingernail and was surprised to find that it budged, scraping against its neighbours. He prodded more forcefully and the block wobbled on its base, dislodging caked muck. The block itself cracked, for it was not a true block, merely a husk of dried mud. Conor wiggled one finger along the side of the false block and popped it from its hole. A wedge of sunlight blasted him in the eyes, blinding him for several seconds. Not that it was light of any great brightness, but it was the first direct light Conor had seen in many hours.
Conor closed his eyes, but did not turn away. The heat on his face was wonderful, like a gift straight from the hand of God. He thumped at adjoining blocks, checking for more counterfeits. But there were none. The rest of the wall was solid as a mountain. One hole only, the size of his two fists.
He squatted there for a while feeling the light warm his skin, watching it trace the veins in his eyelids, until at last he felt prepared enough to open his eyes. He was not disappointed with what he saw, because he had not allowed himself to feel any hope. This hole was a devilish small one, and deep too, encased by four feet of solid rock, with barely a napkin’s worth of sky at its end. Only a rat could escape through this tunnel, perhaps a largish one would struggle. And even if by some miracle he managed to mimic Doctor Redmond, the famous escape artist, and wiggle through this narrow pipe, where would he go? The ocean would swallow him up quicker than a whale swallowing a minnow. If he managed to steal a boat, the sharpshooters on the walls would pick him off for sport. No one had ever escaped from Little Saltee. Not one single person in hundreds of years.
So, accept this light as a small secret gift, and nothing more, Conor told himself. Allow it to heat your face and wipe your mind clean of pain, if even for a moment.
Conor sagged back against the compartment wall, relishing the meagre warmth. Who had made this fake block? he wondered. And what had caused the hole? There were any number of answers to both questions, and no way of confirming one of them.
The prison walls possibly sagged an inch, concentrating vectors of force at this point, pulverizing the block. Or perhaps successive generations of inmates scraped away with primitive tools. Saltwater erosion, or rainwater. Though that was unlikely in less than a millennium. A combination of all th
ese factors, most likely, and a dozen more besides.
Conor studied the clay block, which had hidden this treasure of light. It was chipped, but intact. It would certainly serve to hide the hole for his tenancy. But he would not hide the opening just yet; Billtoe would not arrive for a short time. Until then he would enjoy the dawn like scores of convicts before him. The devil take his troubles.
Water. A mug of water would be nice.
Conor closed his eyes again, but images of his parents tormented him so he opened them again, and for a long moment thought he was dreaming or insane. What was happening, should not, could not be happening. The wall of this hidden alcove was aglow, and not just with sunlight, with a strange ghostly green glow. Not the entire wall, just lines and dots. Familiar characters. Conor realized that he was staring at music. The walls and roof of this tiny alcove were covered in music.
Mister Wynter had said: ‘I keep an opera on the broiler inside my head and in other places.’
The other place was back here in a secret alcove. He would have shared that fact, had they not killed him.
Conor ran his fingers along a series of notes, up and down they went like a mountain range.
What was this glow? How was it possible?
Victor’s ghost tormented him.
Come on, dimwit. We studied this. Basic geology. And you call yourself a man for the new century.
Of course. It was luminous coral. It only grew in certain specific conditions, which must have been freakishly mimicked by this damp, close environment.
Conor scraped away a thin layer of mud to reveal the rough plates of luminous coral below. This part of the cell was living coral, fed by the constant drip of salt water. It must have grown up through the rock over the centuries and was activated by the sunlight. What a marvel. He had not expected to find marvels here.