The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne

by Jonathan Stroud

  The man nodded placidly at her. “Morning.”

  He was dressed in a coat and trousers of animal skin, the pelts lying over him in layers and folds like a carapace of furry scales. The base of his coat was flapping in the breeze. He had a conical fur hat, an ancient pair of rubber boots. In one hand, he carried a metal pole with a steel hook welded to the end; in the other was a copper bell. He had a rawboned face, an enormous nose and chin, and eyes that gleamed with definite, if unhurried, intelligence. Even where she stood, slightly above him on the slope, the top of Scarlett’s head reached only midway up his chest. He was extremely large.

  It took Scarlett several seconds to gather her wits, force her heart rate down. During this time, the man did nothing, just looked at her appraisingly.

  At last she managed to speak. “How long have you been there?”

  “A fair while.” He spoke after some consideration. “I thought you were dead.”

  “What, even when I started moving? And vomiting and things?”

  “Well, it’s hard to tell with the stuff that washes up here,” the man said. “You get corpses with a buildup of gas inside; they can hop and flap about the shoreline for hours as the wind leaks out. Best not get too close to them, I say, especially with a sharp stick…. In short, I tend to let things play out now, see what happens.”

  “Shiva spare us. Do you? I might have died. You should have done something.”

  “I have been doing something. I’ve been ringing the bell. Hold on. Better just ring it a bit more….”

  The large man gave the bell in his hand a few industrious shakes, sending out an almighty clanging that echoed off the concrete overhangs and out over the water.

  Scarlett’s head hurt. “Stop doing that.”

  “Rules are I’ve got to ring the alarm bell if there’s an Unforeseen Event.”

  “What ‘unforeseen event’? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, bless you, I forgot you were new round here. Yes, an Unforeseen Event might be any one of the following: (a) a dead whale, (b) a quantity of wood, coal, or other combustible substance, (c) a sighting of a shark or kraken, (d) a piece of usable flotsam, or (e) an attack by enemy Archipelagans.” The tall man sniffed, wiped his nose amid the voluminous folds of his furry sleeve. “You fall into category (d).”

  “I’m ‘a piece of usable flotsam’?”

  “Better than being a dead whale, love.” The man gave the bell one more shake and desisted.

  “Gods give me strength. And who are you signaling to?”

  “Bob, mainly, here at the Watch Station. Also the good folks on Bayswater Isle yonder. They’d want to know something’s up.”

  He gestured behind him, and for the first time, Scarlett focused her attention on the wider vicinity. The mighty shard of shattered concrete on which they stood was an island in the lagoon. A few feet below her, it plunged at an angle into the surf. Waves washed against it gently; blooms of giant gray-brown mussels hugged the waterline, ringed like bracket fungus and large enough to step on. Below this, the ramp disappeared to unknown depths. But Scarlett’s gaze was drawn away across the water to where another jagged island rose, this one much larger and of incredible height, black and stark against the early-morning sun. Seabirds wheeled about its countless windows. Sunlight speared through cracks in its sides, which had been softened and rounded by centuries of sea storms. It was evidently inhabited. Ropes hung between its ledges, linking sections of the tower and looping away across the open water to subsidiary isles close by. A couple of ropes, thin as gossamer, spanned the gulf to the island she was on and disappeared high above, behind the overhanging slabs.

  Looking toward the sun, Scarlett saw other towers silhouetted far off, some even taller than the one nearby, others collapsed to form long, low, tumbled islands. The sea between them was flat, a yellow mirror; the isles were shadowed, almost black. It was a grandiose and melancholy scene.

  The Great Ruins.

  Scarlett had seen ancient towers in the Surviving Towns of Mercia and Wessex, some of them five or six stories high and functioning, but they were nothing compared to this. On another occasion, she might have continued to gaze at the isles with awe and wonder, but her eyes kept diverting to the blankness of the open sea.

  No sign of the raft. Of course not. It was gone. Gone, with everyone aboard.

  Albert. Ettie. Joe…

  Her eyes felt hot. “I need a boat,” she said.

  “A boat?” The man regarded her doubtfully.

  “You must have one. I’m a victim of a shipwreck. I need to go and search for my—for other survivors.” A sudden thought struck her, speared her through. “Wait. Have you found…anyone else washed up this morning?”

  The man’s brow corrugated. “I don’t think so…. Not here on North Shard, anyhow. We could ask Bob.”

  “Thanks.” The pain inside her eased a little at the idea of action. “Let’s do that now. And we’ll talk about the boat too.”

  The tall man didn’t answer; with his hooked staff, he gestured toward the concrete cliffs behind her. Docile as he seemed, he wasn’t trusting; he didn’t want her following him. Well, that suited Scarlett. It meant she could stride ahead, waste no further time. She started up the slope, boots crunching on shells, scuffling through sand, keeping well clear of the yawning fissures, from which echoed the booming of the waves. She had no idea how many hours had passed since the disaster—six? Ten? She did not like to think about the implications. Yet the currents had swept her to safety on a plank. If Albert or Joe or even little Ettie had grasped a spar of wood, or reached one of the boats moored alongside the raft, it was possible they might have survived. Not likely. But possible.

  She would find out for herself.

  It didn’t take long to reach the top of the slope, a dry and sheltered place in the lee of the overhangs. Here, where the concrete walls had split apart, there was a vertical tear in the cliff face. A set of wooden steps led inside the hole, down into the dark.

  Scarlett paused to allow the large man to catch up with her. His brow was still furrowed; evidently something was preying on his mind. Her taking a boat, perhaps? She needed to keep him happy at this stage. It struck her that she didn’t know his name. Albert would have found out at once, of course. In fact, he’d have been so insanely friendly, the guy would probably have ended up kicking him into the sea. But Scarlett had to admit he often got results. She arranged her face into what she hoped was a beaming smile.

  “I’m Scarlett, by the way,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  The large features softened with pleasure and surprise. “I am Clarence, assistant watchman on North Shard. It is kind of you to ask.”

  “Sure.”

  “But are you all right? Your face has spasmed strangely…. Perhaps it is that trapped wind I was speaking of?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Scarlett discarded her smile and headed down the wooden steps.

  The stairs wound for some distance into the interior of the structure, which was deeper than she’d suspected. They opened at last into a vast hollow space, a cave in the concrete, with flowers of rust caking the walls and iron stalactites dangling high above. One side of the space was open, with a slipway running down to the lagoon and a parapet half filled with an assembly of cogwheels, chains, and pulleys. From this issued several ropes that exited through the opening and arched away into the air toward the island across the water. A man-sized cylindrical basket sat on the center of the parapet, connected to the thickest rope by four stout chains.

  The rest of the room was sparsely but cozily furnished. There were threadbare rugs on the concrete floor, a table and chairs, two trestle beds, an ancient and rickety telescope pointing out to sea. A pile of clams lay on the table. A rack held a variety of rakes, hooks, and nets, evidently intended for the retrieval of objects floating past the North Shard Wa
tch Station.

  Standing at the telescope was a very short man, barrel-chested, bowlegged, wearing fur trousers and a leather jerkin. Presumably, this was Bob.

  Of more interest to Scarlett than him or any of the furnishings was a small, round seal-hide boat moored at the base of the slipway. It was a coracle, scarcely big enough for two people but complete with paddles and motor. Her eyes narrowed. Fine. It would do.

  The short man turned from the telescope as they entered. His head was bald, his weather-beaten skin the color of cold coffee. He looked straight past Scarlett and greeted his tall companion. “Heard the bell again, boy,” he said. “What was it this time? A whale?”

  “Just the same flotsam I told you of an hour ago. It’s not dead.”

  “Not dead?”

  “It’s woken up. Here it is. Name of Scarlett.”

  “Hello,” Scarlett said. “Are you Bob? So nice to meet you.” She hesitated, cleared her throat, tried the smiling thing again. It was hard to know how Albert did this stuff. It was just so fake and awkward, far harder than just kneeing the bloke in the groin and heading off with the boat. At least that way was honest, with no flannel, no lies, no smarmy prevarication. “I need to use your coracle,” she went on. “There’s been a shipwreck nearby. Some people have been lost. I need to look for them.”

  The man’s face crinkled pleasantly. “Charmed, I’m sure. Bob Coral’s the name. Chief watchman. Would you like to sit down? We have fresh water for you, and raw clams.”

  “Thank you. Water, please.”

  A cup was filled from a tank at the back of the cave. Scarlett drained it gratefully; she had not realized how thirsty she was.

  “There,” Bob Coral said. “And what about a clam now?”

  Clarence nodded. “They’re good.” He flung himself onto a chair, set his pole beside him, and was picking open a pinkish shell with his long, curved fingernails.

  “You are very kind. But I need to look for my associates. May I use the boat?”

  “I am sad to hear about your shipwreck,” the short man said. “Where did it occur?”

  “Out there, somewhere. I guess to the west.”

  “Ah, yes. Sadly, we cannot sail that way. In any case, your friends are doubtless dead.”

  Scarlett’s jaw clenched. “We do not know that. Why can’t we sail over there?”

  The little man beckoned her onto the parapet. He pointed out beyond the nearby isle to the far horizon. “See yonder? That shapeless lump in the distance? That is Chelsea Atoll, home to our hated rivals. Their waters stretch to the west. We do not fish there.”

  “I don’t want to fish. I keep telling you. I want to look for my friends.”

  The bald man nodded calmly. “The Chelsea folk have all manner of vile habits. They eat foul, wriggling mud eels, for instance, while the noble rock clams that we revere are cast into the sea as unclean! Also, they do not wear seal-fur leggings like any chaste Archipelagan does—if you can believe it, on a clear day, through strong telescopes, you can see the women’s ankles flashing provocatively in the sun. Good Johnny Fingers abhors them, and if our coracle went knowingly into their waters, he’d surely cast us all into the Fissure.”

  Scarlett’s lips drew tight. “Johnny Fingers?”

  “He is the fond and beneficent ruler of Bayswater Isle.”

  “I see….” Her gaze flicked to the rack of tools close by. There was a rake there she might use as a weapon; yes, and a knife on the table. Bob Coral seemed to be unarmed. The big man, Clarence, was sucking complacently on a second clam. Very well. As she’d long suspected, politeness had its limitations. She prepared to move.

  A bell rang on the parapet; some of the smaller cogs hummed and whirled. One of the ropes was humming, rattling in its supports. Bob Coral gave a skip of excitement. “Aha! We have a reply! About an hour ago, I sent a message up to Bayswater that an odd piece of flotsam—namely, a drowned redheaded girl—had washed up on our shore. Johnny always likes to hear of anything unusual…. We will hear his edict shortly.”

  A sparkle in the sky. Something shot down from the heavens, twisting, gleaming, coming from afar. It resolved itself into a large glass bottle, tied to the rope, which swung into the cave opening and was intercepted by Bob Coral’s practiced hand. He unstoppered the bottle, took out a piece of paper, and read it carefully, finger moving across the lines.

  While he did so, Scarlett took the opportunity to edge toward the slipway.

  “Well,” Bob said, “that settles the matter. It is a message from Johnny Fingers himself! He requests your presence on Bayswater Isle! You are honored.”

  “I thought you told him I was dead.”

  “Yes. Probably he wants your hair for one of his cushions. But he will be delighted to see you alive, and so charming and personable too…. Are you sure you won’t suck a quick clam before you hop into the basket?”

  Each time Scarlett’s eyes blinked shut, she saw limp bodies floating in the waves. She had no intention of wasting any more time with half-wits in furry rags. “Maybe another day. I must insist I search for my friends.”

  The little man regarded her blankly. “But Johnny Fingers wants to see you. You have no choice.”

  “The answer’s no.”

  Bob Coral made a movement in her direction. Scarlett’s nerves, already stretched to the breaking point, jarred and twanged. She darted to the rack, snatched up the rake, menaced the short man with it, then turned and ran down the slipway toward the coracle.

  “Clarence,” Bob Coral said, “if you would?”

  In the blinking of an eye, Clarence was out of his chair, his pole hook in his hands. He leaned down the slipway, swung the pole with dexterous ease, grappled Scarlett by the collar of her coat, and hoisted her, kicking and cursing, into the air. He swung her up and round, then dumped her unceremoniously headfirst into the wicker basket, thwacking her bottom briskly with the pole to send her completely in. Scarlett crumpled face-first at the base of the basket. There was a pungent smell of fish. As she sought to struggle upright, Clarence and Bob hauled on the pulley with a series of mighty tugs. The basket swung upward off the ground and careered out of the opening in the wall.

  Scarlett resurfaced, red-faced and breathless, squinting in the sunlight. She leaned over the edge of the basket, hoping to jump clear. Impossible: already she was sickeningly high. Far below, waves broke over slabs of tumbled concrete. Down in the mouth of the cave, she could see the tall man hoisting on the pulley, the little man capering beside him.

  “Away with her!” he cried. “Higher, higher! Johnny Fingers awaits!”

  Scarlett leaned out to shake her fist and make abusive gestures; the movement further destabilized the swaying basket, which lurched and spun. She clutched at the chains for dear life.

  “Don’t wriggle!” the little man called. “You’ll dislodge the basket from its hook!”

  Scarlett at once became very still. Even so, the basket continued to swing wildly left and right, back and forth, with appalling freedom. The rope creaked and groaned. She did not glance up to study whatever feeble strapping held the chains in place. Tentatively turning to look ahead of her, she saw the ropes climbing ever higher through the bright, thin air, with Bayswater Isle dim and hazy in the distance. Beyond, the sea was studded with other ruins. She hung in a shining void. Looking down was no better. Flecks of light glinted on the lagoon to mark the wave crests, and here and there the shadows of vast fish undulated in the depths.

  Up went the basket. Groaning, gagging, Scarlett slumped to her knees. The incessant swaying and her bubbling nausea were bad enough, but it was nothing to the realization that now, truly, she had to give up hope of seeing Albert, old Joe, and the little child again. It had probably been too late even when she woke on the concrete beach. Now, carried aloft to some other godforsaken island, with who knew how many inbred fools
to deal with, there was no chance of her surveying the surrounding waters any time soon. No, it was too late. They were sunk and drowned.

  Images assailed her. She saw Ettie toddling happily past her in a haze of nostalgic sunlight, dipping her fat legs in the water, or playing one of her stupid games. She thought of the girl crouched in the darkness of the fort, of Albert carrying her down the hill to safety…. And all for what?

  For her to be swallowed up in a tempest and lost.

  Well, she had guessed right about Albert’s talent—and she had been right to free him from his bonds. But his destruction of the raft had been a display of such awful and unimagined power! That was him “maxing out,” there was no doubt about it. She understood now all his hints and dark evasions; she understood why he fled himself, why he’d been seeking sanctuary at the edge of everything. What terrible deeds must he have done in his life! She thought of the chaos and misfortunes that she had personally endured while in his company—the injuries, the near-death incidents, the almost-drownings; the loss of first one fortune, then another; the price on her head courtesy of the Brothers of the Hand; the insane journey across half of England…And now the loss of Joe and Ettie too.

  Albert! Every single thing that had gone wrong these past twelve days—all of it was due to him. Crumpled in the basket like a spider in a jar, Scarlett tried to stoke her indignation, but she could not feel the necessary anger. Instead, she saw him as he’d been for most of their journey—grinning gawkily, tripping over his own feet, asking silly questions, playing with the child.

  She saw him pressed beside her in the darkness of the fort, saw him smiling at her in the courtyard, saw him running with her down the hill.

  She saw him wearing the cruel barbed circlet, the blood trickling down his face…

  From the depths of her misery, Scarlett rolled her eyes at her own crass sentiment. It was all so stupid and pointless. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” she said between cracked lips. “None of it does. The idiot’s dead and gone.”