by Eoin Colfer
Conor was momentarily puzzled. We lunatics? Then he remembered that Bonvilain had declared him insane. A turf head. A scatterfool.
The American was still talking. “Of course, technically, I am an invalid not a lunatic, but we are all lumped together here on Little Saltee. Lunatics, invalids, violent cases.” He stood slowly, extending a hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Linus Wynter. With a Y. In the middle of Wynter, you understand. You will be seeing a lot of me, but I won’t be seeing much of you, I’m afraid.”
Wynter emerged from the shadows like a stack of brooms falling from a closet. A tall gangle of a man, over fifty, clothed in the ragged remnants of a once fine evening suit. Like Conor, he wore a bandage. But his was tied across the sockets where his eyes had been. Jesse James had done a thorough job with his poker, the scars of which ran in purple welts across Wynter’s high brow.
Wynter tugged on the bandage. “I used to wear an opera mask when I played. Very melodramatic. Very Dickens.”
Conor shook Linus Wynter’s hand as firmly as he could manage. “Conor . . . Finn. That is my name now.”
Wynter nodded, his prominent nose and Adam’s apple sending triangular shadows dancing across his face and neck. “Good. A new name. In Little Saltee it is better to become a different person. The old Conor is dead and gone. A man needs a new sensibility to survive here. Even a very young man.”
Conor flexed his fingers. Pain scraped his tendons, but everything functioned as it should. He examined his prison cell without enthusiasm. It was as rough and ready as his previous cell, with one small barred and glassed window and a couple of wooden pallets.
Something Wynter had said struck him belatedly. Even a very young man? Conor waved his hand before Wynter’s eyes. “How can you tell my age? Have your other senses compensated?”
“Yes, they have; so if you could lower your hand. But I know all about you, young Conor Broekhart or Conor Finn, because you were fevered in the night and kept me awake with your babblings. The king? He is truly dead, then?”
Tears welled on Conor’s eyelids. Hearing a stranger say the words aloud had the effect of planting Bonvilain’s deed in the real world. “Yes. I saw him dead.”
Wynter sighed long and mournfully, running his fingers through fine, graying hair. “That is indeed grave news. More than you know. Bonvilain will drag these islands back to the dark ages.”
“You know Bonvilain?”
“I know a lot about the affairs of the Saltees.” Wynter seemed about to elaborate, his mouth open for the next word, when he paused, cocking his head to one side in the manner of a deer who senses nearby hunters. “Time for histories this evening. Over dinner, perhaps.” He leaned forward, fingers scrabbling through the air like spiders, until they settled on Conor’s shoulders.
“Now, listen to me, Conor Finn,” he said with some urgency. “The guard approaches. They will try to break you today. Watch carefully for trouble. A sly blade. A plank across the shins. Come through this day intact, and tonight I shall teach you how to survive this hell. There is an end to it, and we shall see it, believe me.”
“Break me?” said Conor. “Why?”
“It is the way here. A broken man, or even boy, is not likely to upset production. And on Little Saltee, production is the real king, not Arthur Billtoe.”
Conor pictured the monkey pirate who had ferried him to the prison. It was unlikely that Billtoe would lift a bejeweled finger to protect Conor. “What can I do?”
“Work hard,” replied Wynter. “And trust neither man nor beast. Especially a sheep.”
Before Linus Wynter could explain this unexpected remark, the door’s heavy bolt scraped through its rings with an almost musical sound.
“Top C,” said Wynter dreamily. “Every morning. Wonderful.”
This was a noise that Conor would yearn for over the months to come, a noise he heard in his dreams. The latch’s release signified liberation from his dank cell, but also served as a reminder that the liberation was temporary. Social diarists record that survivors of Little Saltee often suffered from insomnia unless their bedchamber doors were fitted with rusted bolts.
Arthur Billtoe peeped around the door, wearing the cheery expression of a kindly uncle waking his nephew for a plunge in the swimming hole. His hair was slicked back with a smear of grease, and thick stubble poked through his skin like nails driven from the inside. “Ready for the Pipe, are you, Conor Finn?” he said, jingling a set of handcuffs.
Wynter’s fingers gripped tight, like coal tongs. “Mouth shut. Work hard. Mind the sheep. And don’t cross Mr. Billtoe.”
Billtoe entered the cell and clapped the cuffs around Conor’s wrists. “Oh yes, never cross me, little soldier. You lay one finger on me and you will be strapped to a low ring at high tide. And as for the sheep—wise words from the blind man. Sheep are not for stewing here on Little Saltee.”
All this talk of sheep was strange and ominous. Conor guessed that he had a surprise coming, and not the jolly kind.
Traditionally in hostelries and even in prisons around the globe, breakfast is served before a shovel is lifted. Not so on Little Saltee. Here the morning meal was used as an incentive to work harder. No diamonds, no bread. It was a straightforward equation that had proved effective for centuries. Conor had expected a detour to a mess hall, but instead was led directly to the diamond mine, or the Pipe, as the prison’s occupants called it.
Billtoe explained Little Saltee’s routine on the way. “Salts with a tum full of grub are inclined to be satisfied and dopey,” he said, chewing on a hunk of bread that he stored in his pocket between bites.
To Conor, who hadn’t tasted a morsel in twenty-four hours, this was yet another form of torture. His hunger pangs were soon subdued by Billtoe’s revolting habit of half swallowing each mouthful, then regurgitating it to relish the taste once more. Each regurgitation was accompanied by a convulsion that ran along Billtoe’s spine like a flicked rope.
Though Conor was repulsed, he knew his hunger would soon return, gnawing on the lining of his stomach, as if his body had turned on itself in desperation. He was distracted from his hunger by the peal of a church bell in the distance. This was something of a mystery in a such a godforsaken place.
Billtoe seemed cheered by the sound. “Say your prayers, boy,” he cackled. The guard jabbed his rifle butt into Conor’s spine, pushing him along a cobbled passageway lit by torches and dawn glow from roof portholes. The surf crashed against the granite wall on their left, which was half natural, half hewn, as though the island were growing through the structure. Each wave’s crash shook the entire corridor and set a hundred rivulets pulsing through mortar as crumbly as cheese.
“Below sea level, we are,” explained Billtoe, as though Conor needed telling. “A while back the prison and the mine were two separate things. But the Trudeaus’ greed and the inmates’ labor drew them together. The prison basement was heading that way and eventually the two met up. Just a matter of bashing through a wall. It was fortunate for us guards in the mad wing. Now there’s no need for us to venture out in the elements. We let the lunatics work the Pipe—half the time they don’t even know it’s dangerous, and most of them will work until their hands bleed if you tell ’em that’s what Mummy would want.”
This exposition was delivered in a cheery tone that belied Billtoe’s cruel nature. If it had not been for the gun butt in his back and the burning Saltee kiss on his hand, Conor might have believed the guard a decent man. They passed along a maze of corridors, dotted with strong doors and collapsing arches. The entire prison basement seemed in danger of imminent cave-in.
“Looks like the whole place is coming down, don’t it?” said Billtoe, reading Conor’s expression. “It’s been looking like that since I got here. Doubtless this pit will outlive you. Though you being a Salt, that’s not much of a boast.”
Salt. Conor had heard the term before. This was what Little Saltee inmates were called. Forever branded as such by the S on the
ir hands. He was a Salt now.
They emerged from the corridor into an open area that might have been a pantry in previous centuries. The walls were smeared with faded spice marks and flour swabs. The central flagstones had been excavated and ladders thrown down to the area below. Roughly a score more guards stood around, tooled with standard rifles but also more personal weapons. Conor spotted Indian blades, whips, dirks, cutlasses, American six-shooters, blackjacks, and even one samurai sword. The Saltee tradition of hiring mercenaries had left its mark on local weaponry. The guards lounged about, smoking, chewing, and spitting. They feigned ease, but Conor noted that every last man of them had a fist on some weapon or other. This was a dangerous place to be, and it didn’t do to forget it.
The ladders dropped down to open water. Deep, black, and ridged with whatever light could find it. More guards were ranged about the cave walls below, keeping their boots above the waterline. Several convicts wrestled with a scaffolding rig, taking the weight of a huge brass bell that swung pendulously in the confined space, knocking stone splinters from the cave wall where it struck and sending huge cathedral bongs booming through the upper level.
“Welcome to the Pipe,” said Billtoe, spitting bread crumbs.
Conor knew something of the island’s geology from Victor’s teachings and quickly realized what was happening here. The Saltee diamond pipe was brewed in the gullet of a volcano on the other side of the world, sliced off by a glacier and deposited off the Irish coast. This meant that someday, the diamond supply would run out, especially considering the constant and eager mining by the Trudeau family. This was not the first time underwater mining had been used to bolster diamond supplies, but King Nicholas had banned the practice within six months of his coronation. This brass bell was a diving bell, from the belly of which prisoners could chip rough diamonds from the underwater section of the Pipe. King Nicholas’s decrees were being overturned before his body was cold. Bonvilain had clearly been plotting for long, bitter years.
“That bell is ancient,” Conor said, almost to himself. “It must be a hundred years old.”
Billtoe shrugged theatrically, then unlocked Conor’s handcuffs. “That fact doesn’t bother me, being that I’m not the one going down in it, thank God. A man could get hurt and worse, as you will find out this fine morning. Down you go.”
Another shove from Billtoe’s rifle butt sent Conor stumbling toward a broad ladder poking from the cave’s shadows.
The ladder beams jabbed him in the chest, preventing a tumble into the hole and the end of a very short mining career. “One coming down,” Billtoe shouted.
The senior guard scowled up through the gloom. Conor recognized him as Billtoe’s partner of the previous evening. His main distinguishing features were a seeming lack of any hair and a pinched stance that made him appear almost hunchbacked. “We don’t need another, Arthur,” he cried. “Full complement, we have. Even if a few croak it in the bell.”
Billtoe took Conor by the scruff, urging him onto the ladder. “That’s enough out of you, Pike. This is Marshall Bonvilain’s special boy, remember? He needs to be looked after.”
Pike’s expression changed from wheedling to leering. “Ah, the special boy. The little prince. Send him down. I have a few rams waiting to bump horns with him.”
Sheep again. What could it mean? Billtoe stepped on Conor’s fingers, forcing him down a rung. “Down you go, Conor Finn. Don’t make me break your fingers. These are good boots, and Salt blood would ruin ’em on me.”
There was a curious, expectant silence as Conor climbed down into the pit. He could feel the temperature drop with every rung, until the cold of the water crept from its surface like an invisible cowl draping itself heavily on Conor’s shoulders. He was really scared during the descent. Almost too petrified to move, but gravity tugged at his bones, helping him on his way.
The mad wing convicts were a motley lot, favoring the stony stare, a slack-jawed demeanor. They glared at Conor with loathing and fear, and the threat of harm hung heavy in the salty air. For long moments, the only sounds were creaking ladder and the gentle slap of water on rock.
Finally Conor arrived at the water’s surface, feeling like an enemy flag under the hammering gaze of so many hostiles. Billtoe stepped down behind him and pointed at the diving bell. “That there is Flora. You know what she is, Salt?”
Conor mumbled his reply. “She’s a diving bell.”
“No, turf head. She’s a . . .” Billtoe was frustrated to have his information stolen. He poked Conor in the chest with a rigid finger. “Yes, she is a diving bell. And because you know all about it, you can be first into her. Flora has been out of service for several years, but I’m sure all is well with her fittings.”
Conor forced himself to study the bell, though all he wanted to do was clasp his knees in a quiet corner and cry for the bad luck that had cursed him. The bell seemed sound enough, though deeply gouged by stone in several places. She was suspended by a network of chains that hitched to an iron hoop dangling over its prow. The hoop in turn fed half a dozen more chains to the scaffolding above. The chains seemed as ancient as the bell, with several rust-dappled links shedding flakes as they swung. A cracked rubber hose poked from the top of the bell, snaking upward to a hand-cranked bellows affair, which Conor presumed to be an ancient air pump. The pump was being cranked by two inmates. One was racked with consumptive coughing fits and the other paused regularly to spit tobacco phlegm onto the rocks. Not the ideal pair for the job. Conor would not rely on either to supply enough oxygen to fuel the lungs of a small dog.
Billtoe stepped well back and called out his command to a guard above.
“Lower her down. Do not break the hose, or the warden will tan all our hides.”
The diving bell descended in fits, according to the strength of the inmates bearing the strain and the clumsy coiling of chains on the previous use. Some of the links had fused in tangled knots and now popped free, sending the diving bell lurching and swinging. The cavern walls resounded with irregular clangs and bongs, causing anyone with free hands to cover their ears.
“Hell’s bells, man!” Billtoe called up to his comrade. “It sounds like drunk day in St. Christopher’s in here.” Saint Christopher had been adopted by the Trudeaus as the Saltees’ patron saint. The church on Great Saltee bore his name.
“It ain’t my fault, Billtoe,” retorted the guard. “She’s coming, ain’t she? Mind I don’t land her on your head.” It was said only in jest, but Billtoe stepped aside smartish just the same. Flora swung lower, like a skittish baby monkey on a rope, until eventually she splashed into the black water, sending wave rings rushing to the rocks.
“Every day,” sighed Billtoe, mopping his brow with a kerchief. “We have to go through this blasted rigmarole every day from this out.” He turned his attention and annoyance on the prisoners on the pumps. “Crank! You apron-tugging, turnip-brained scatterfools.”
“Yes, boss,” they mumbled and set to pumping the bellows, sending air through the rubber hose and into the bell itself. The hose wriggled and flipped as the air inflated it slightly. The bell sank slowly into the sea, emitting a curious shivering hum as the water caressed its surface.
Billtoe elbowed Conor. “You hear that, soldier boy? We call that the siren’s song. Because it’s the last sound many of you Salts hear. Lord, I had forgotten how soothing it was.”
A band of glass with rubber seals was set into the diving bell’s dome. The window was covered with a scree of algae and filth that made it impossible to see through. Billtoe followed Conor’s gaze. “Yes, pity about that port. Filthy as a beggar’s britches. We won’t be seeing much of what goes on in there today. I do hope and pray there are no unfortunate accidents.”
Conor had little doubt that whatever was coming would be unfortunate for him, but it would be no accident. Billtoe meant to break him in the bell. This whole affair was becoming nightmarish. He recoiled from the guard as he would from a brandished torch.
&nbs
p; “What are you twitching for, boy?” asked Billtoe. “Crazed so soon? You’d best be keeping your wits about you in the bell.”
Surprisingly, these were bordering on words of wisdom from the prison guard. They were meant as a warning, and Conor took them as one. Whatever his problems, he’d best forget them until he was safe in his cell. Linus Wynter would help him to survive this hellhole, but only if he lived long enough to see him again. While Conor did not believe that the traitor Bonvilain wished him dead, perhaps there was a kind of sheep that did not follow orders so well. “What do I need to do?” he asked Billtoe, best to be as prepared as possible.
Billtoe was happy to deliver a lecture. “We lower Flora into the Pipe, then you goes down with your partner and chip off diamonds. Simple as bread pudding.” He barked at an inmate loitering at the waterline. “You, fish bait. Give him your belt.”
The man placed a protective hand on his belt. “But, boss. I been polishing these tools for years. Got ’em from my dad.”
Billtoe tapped his head as though there was water lodged in his ears. “What’s this chattering? I hear the chattering of a dead man. Must be leaking through his punctured neck.” Two seconds later, the leather belt was in Conor’s hands. Billtoe ran through the tools. “You got your pick hammer for breaking down the rock. Hammer the rock, then pick out the diamonds, which will resemble nothing more than glassy marbles. Don’t worry about breaking the diamonds; you won’t be able to, because they’re the . . .”
“Hardest substance in nature,” said Conor automatically.
“Hardest substance in nature,” continued Billtoe, then scowled. He reached over and cuffed Conor on the temple. “Don’t be supplying me with information that I am supplying to you. That is a very annoying trait, which I would relish beating out of you.”
Conor nodded, ignoring the pain in his head, just as he was ignoring the other pains.
“This here,” said Billtoe proudly, pointing to a little trident tool, “is a Devil’s Fork. Invented on this very island by one Arthur Billtoe over twenty years ago. Got me a job for life, this little beauty did. Plus, Marshall Bonvilain himself granted me a house on Great Saltee. It’s tele . . . tele . . .”