* * *
—
How long it took the basket to make its journey to the other island Scarlett couldn’t tell. Only once did the forward motion pause—perhaps because Clarence was having another clam. The cessation was almost worse than endless movement. All sense of time disappeared. Scarlett hung in silence, listening to the creaks of the rope, the whispers of wind on the loose threads of the basket. A sudden terror arose in her that she would be abandoned in midair. There were people in Northumbria who raised their dead on poles, left them hanging for the birds to eat. Sometimes the remains dangled for years, freeze-dried by the elements, growing ever harder and more mummified…. Perhaps this would be her fate too.
The basket jarred and pitched; the rope began to move once more.
She sensed a change.
The light above was dimming. Bracing herself against the sides of the basket, she maneuvered to a kneeling position, then to a squat. She stuck her head cautiously above the rim.
The shock was almost total. Towering cliffs filled her vision—above, below, on either side. They stretched away; there was no end to them. Just ahead, the ropes ran into a great black aperture and disappeared. Scarlett scarcely had time to take in the lichen-covered concrete of the outer wall, the metal spurs projecting beneath like tusks; then she was in and swallowed by the dark.
Scarlett was dead.
That was the truth of it. That was the knowledge that filled and flooded him. It blurred his every word and action, dulled his eyesight, taste, and hearing. He was underwater with her, he was somewhere far away, he was imprisoned inside himself as if in a locked room. There was no escape. Stonemoor was nothing compared to this.
Scarlett was dead, and he had killed her.
Albert had woken to his guilt and terror in a pretty chamber with seashells on the wall. There were a great many of them, arranged in decorative spirals across the whitewashed plaster. Bars of sunlight came through the shutters of the window, striping the shells and the wooden bed and the disarranged blanket over his bare legs. His clothes hung on a chair beside a door. Outside the window, seabirds squalled. Albert lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, skewered to the bed as surely as if he had a fence post through his chest. He could not move. He knew what he had done, and that Scarlett was at the bottom of the sea.
That was the only clarity. Everything else was vague. Of the final moments on the raft, for instance, he had little recollection. It was a storm of splintering wood and rushing water, where light was engulfed by darkness and violence done to the rightness of things. He was at its center. There was no up, no down; he saw men in the air, boats sinking like rocks; heard the howling of an unnatural wind, the awful crack as the raft was pulled apart. And underlying it all, the terrible surge of pain and relief that came with the unleashing of his Fear.
He remembered the deck giving way beneath his feet and his abrupt submerging; remembered how the sudden shock and bitter cold instantly canceled out his power. He remembered plunging deep into the appalling silence, with unseen bubbles fizzing around him. Then surfacing, and a moment’s thrashing, gulping panic, before a hand took hold of the scruff of his jumper, slammed him against a boat hull, and somehow hauled him inside.
After that, fragments again: old Joe’s curses as he wrestled with the oars. The sound of Ettie crying. Being slumped in water against the inner ribs of a rowboat, his body limp, his mind as brittle as an eggshell. Strangely and most marvelously, a pattern of yellow lights far off, rising like a beanstalk against the stars.
And later, still in darkness, passing under a broad black archway. No stars now; only the swirl of lanterns—and voices close at hand.
Vaguely, in reveries down the years, Albert had envisaged a glorious arrival at the Free Isles. It involved bright sunshine, cheering crowds, and shimmering islands rising green and fair as his little sailboat skipped across the harbor waves. In reality he was bundled out, more dead than alive, into a dripping concrete cavern, then half carried, half dragged up endless stairs in guttering lantern light. His consciousness guttered with it—he did not remember arriving in this room. But one certainty had somehow worked its way into his mind, and he awoke to it hours later, ringing like a bell.
Scarlett had not been in the boat.
Everything that followed for Albert was seen as if through a fog. He had dressed. He had looked out of the window at the sea. A kindly woman came, wearing furs and a necklace of colored shells. She gave him warm water to wash the wounds in his forehead. She led him through many rooms, up steps and ladders, along metal gangways spanning crumbling floors with the lagoon glinting far below. Other men and women met them, all dressed in furs, with shells and sea flowers in their hair. They greeted him gravely and asked his name. Mute with sorrow, he’d scarcely been able to answer them. He was shown at last into a squared concrete hall, with apertures on all four sides and the blue skies of the edge of the world showing through each one. In the center of the room was a long table, set about with food and drink, and here sat Joe, with Ettie on his lap, eating a late breakfast.
Ettie squeaked with delight at Albert’s appearance. The old man gave a cursory wave. “About time! Come and sit down.” He gestured to a chair. “There’s fish and clams and kelp cakes, which the people of this ruin have provided us. They’ve gone down to their nets to bring in the morning catch, but they’ll be back shortly.”
Albert walked slowly across to them. The little girl was negotiating an enormous slab of dark green cake. “Hey, Ettie,” he said. He ruffled her mess of straw-blond hair. He crossed to a chair opposite, sat down, took food without attention, and began to eat. His jaws moved mechanically. Joe said nothing. The events of the night hung over them like a slowly tipping stone.
“Scarlett McCain,” the old man said suddenly. “I want you to know I looked for her too.”
Albert swallowed, nodded. “Thank you, Joe.”
“Briefly.”
“Yes.”
“But it was dark and the sea was too rough, and I had Ettie to think of. We were lucky. When the raft came apart, just as we entered the water, one of the rowboats of those wicked men drifted past. Part of the prow was smashed in. It was listing, but it floated. I had to get us to safety.”
In the cool shade of the chamber, Joe seemed older and gaunter than usual. His skin gleamed with dull luster, the bones showing sharp beneath the skin. His hands, as he passed Ettie pieces of crabmeat, were all knuckles, hinges, tendons.
Albert stirred in his chair. “Thank you, Joe,” he said again. “I know you saved me.”
“I did, didn’t I? It was a decent effort, if I say so myself.”
“Were there…any other survivors?”
“No. The girl is gone. There is no sign of her. The murderers are all dead.”
Gone…. Tears stippled Albert’s eyes. He looked past Joe toward the windows and the sea. At last, when he could speak again, he said: “What about the other boats that were approaching when…”
“When things kicked off?” Joe shook his head. “Everything that was near us was destroyed, the boats wrecked, the people drowned. The citizens of the island say a lot of debris has washed ashore. Bodies too. And parts of bodies….” He eyed Albert, took a bite of fish.
“Was a pale-haired woman among them?”
“I do not know.”
Albert looked at his plate. He had no appetite for anything. “Is Ettie OK?” he asked.
“She is well.”
“I’m sorry about your raft. Poor Clara.”
“Yes.”
“All your possessions.”
“It is a grievous loss to me. Clara was a peerless vessel. Also she was my livelihood, my landscape, my home….” The old man sighed, ate a chunk of crab. “I shall try to comfort myself with the vast wealth that you shall shortly give me in payment for my services.”
Albert’s
shoulders drooped. He did not break the old man’s gaze. “I’m so, so sorry, Joe. But the money’s gone. Scarlett’s bag was on the raft. It’s lost.”
Joe stretched back in his seat with a cracking of arm joints, belched contentedly, and scratched at his scalp. “Actually, it’s not.” He hoisted Ettie off his knee. “Hop down—there’s a good girl…. The bag wasn’t on the raft, boy. If you remember, those murderers had our possessions put in one of their boats. And that happened to be the very boat that drifted past me. I have the rucksack in my room.”
“Really? You have Scarlett’s belongings?” The prickling in his eyes was back. Albert coughed, blinked it away. “Even her prayer mat too?”
“I have that noisome rag. I’ll fetch everything for you, and perhaps we can officially make the payment. I have no reason to stay on this isle, and it is now your home.” The old man rose stiffly. In passing Albert, he reached out a hand and patted his bony shoulder. “What’s done is done,” he said. “I saw how they attacked you. The carnage was no fault of yours. Scarlett did what she said she would do and got you to this island. We have all remained faithful to each other. Whatever our losses, that is one hard fact that can never be taken away. Now: you need to eat and be strong. Take care, though. The kelp cakes are good, the seaweed is tolerable, but there’s something rather sinister about the clams.”
He stumped away, his granddaughter pattering after him. Albert sat in his chair, alone. He took a piece of purple-green samphire, considered eating it, and put it carefully back upon his plate.
He looked around the room. The hall, with its open windows on all four sides, was for the most part a place of wonder. The sea shone far below; wire fences bolted to the ancient concrete pillars prevented people falling through the gaps. Spiked nets deterred the raucous seabirds wheeling in the sunshine beyond. Perhaps the smell of guano was a little stronger than he would have liked, perhaps the rust spreading across the pitted ceiling glistened a trifle too wetly. But what did it matter? The table was piled with food. Shilling and Dr. Calloway were dead. He was at the Free Isles. Everything was fine. Fine….
He stared out blankly toward the sea.
“And so another new citizen joins us! Welcome to Bayswater Isle!” A great voice echoed across the chamber. The cutlery tinkled, the clamshells rattled in their bowls. Beyond the windows, seabirds evacuated in their nests. Albert leaped up from his chair.
Standing in the doorway was a large and effusive gentleman wearing fur boots, patched jeans, a ruffled white shirt, and an expansive fur cape that flapped behind him as he set off across the room. He was in the prime of life and knew it; a thatch of yellowed hair was swept back above twinkling blue eyes; ruddy cheeks glowed from behind an impressive blond beard. Trotting in his wake were a number of smaller, quieter men and women, whose smiles and winks and nods of welcome were instant, paler copies of those doled out, with swaggering geniality, by the bearded man. He reached the table, gave a florid bow.
“Welcome again, lad!” he said. “I hope you have recovered from your various ordeals. Be assured you are among friends. We have heard of your desire to join our company, and we commend you for it. The trustees of this fair isle extend their hospitality to you.”
When he smiled, he was all beard and teeth; his eyes crinkled almost to nothing. Out of habit, Albert looked to sieve his thoughts, but there were no images showing above the sleek blond sweep of hair. It didn’t surprise him. It would take days to recover from what had happened on the raft; he was tired.
“Thank you,” Albert said slowly. “My name is Albert Browne. I have long dreamed of reaching such a place. I hear it is a sanctuary for all.”
The big man nodded, glanced round at his companions. “You see, friends? Word of our isles spreads quietly across the kingdoms, and kindred souls percolate toward us. They leave the towns and the cruel edicts of the Faith Houses and follow the roads. When the roads run out, they follow the river. When the river ends, they reach the estuary, and from the estuary there’s nowhere to go but here. We are the last hope for the weak, the wounded, the unusual. And Bayswater Isle is the crowning glory of the whole archipelago. Isn’t that right, my friends?”
There was a general chorus of whoops and clapping from the assembled throng. A woman in a dress of knitted sea grass, very tall and thin, said: “Bayswater is the only true Free Isle. You have done well to land here. Most of the rest are morally degenerate in one way or another. See there, away to the south? On Lambeth Rock, they light beacons on their towers, strip off their clothes, and caper shamelessly round the flames. We know. We’ve watched them.”
A girl nodded. “The Chelsea islanders worship a giant octopus in an underwater cave.”
“As for the lunatics of Wandsworth Isle—”
“How many islands are there?” Albert asked, once the hubbub had died down.
The bearded man grunted, lowered his bulk into a cushioned chair. “No one has ever counted. The lagoon is large. Some isles are merely slivers of concrete that scarcely rise above the waves. Even these have their hermits. Most of the other Archipelagans are of no account, but some occasionally make war on us. Have no fear—we guard ourselves vigilantly against attack! We at Bayswater are brave, resourceful, and strong, thanks to our fine morals and excellent seafood diet. But what am I saying? You must eat! Children, attend!”
Albert sat once more. A host of quiet serving boys and girls, who had previously remained in the shadows, hurried forth with new plates of hot seaweed. They were a ragged group, some with notable birthmarks, one or two with missing limbs, all seemingly of great cheeriness. Albert, who realized he was famished, began to eat; the big man watched him, smiling.
“I hear that cruel enemies sought to prevent your arrival here,” the man said, “but they were capsized in a storm. That is lucky for them! If they had dared set foot on this rock, we would have whipped them into the sea and burned their boats to celebrate our victory. No one is allowed to threaten the folk of Bayswater, and you are now under our protection.” He waved a hand benignly.
“It was not just my enemies who were lost,” Albert said. “I had a companion too…. She is pale-skinned, redheaded…. I wonder if—”
“Ah.” The man’s heavy-lidded eyes grew melancholy. “I am sorry to say that I received a report from one of our stations that the body of a red-haired girl had been washed ashore.” He plumped his cushion soberly. “Now, now, this is not a place for tears. Let me cheer you by introducing myself. My name is Johnny Fingers, I am one of the trustees of Bayswater. These kind folk behind me are some of our other luminaries. This is Ahmed, who tends the kelp and samphire fields, and this is Nanna, who guards the sea doors, and this splendid gentleman, with missing arm and generous girth, goes by the name of Selwyn Sand, and he is master of the ropes and winches. Zoe here marshals our defenses ferociously against sea raiders from Chelsea Atoll and Holborn Rock…. But there is time enough for you to get to know us properly, Albert, in the long years ahead. Come, you need distraction! Let me show you the glories of this isle.”
He rose with easy condescension, waved his entourage away. Albert rose on listless limbs and followed Johnny Fingers through the door. They passed down a flight of concrete steps and out into a dim and open space. In his earlier confusion and distress, Albert had hardly taken in the details of his surroundings. Now, with the sharp clarity of his grief, he saw that the whole island was indeed an edifice of ancient times, its interior a hollowed-out maze of stairs and interlinking floors.
A vast diagonal chasm ran through its center, a split in the structure of the tower. Opening onto the internal cliffs thus created were an unknown number of halls and rooms at different levels, some lit by candles, others by coils of electric light. Many were dark and empty. Albert could see storerooms, bedchambers, workshops; in one, the citizens of the island worked on spinning wheels and looms; in another, clothes were being fabricated from se
al furs. Pulleys jutted from the parapets, with ropes hanging like vines across the abyss; along these, baskets were being swiftly raised and lowered. The chasm dropped away out of sight. Albert looked down, saw only blackness, heard the sloop of water sloshing against rocks.
Johnny Fingers halted on a wooden bridge that spanned the gulf. “This is the Great Fissure—the beating heart of the isle. Over the other side is the central staircase. There are twenty-one flights above water level, and who knows how many below. The stairs descend into the dark, turn after turn. Girl called Misha, ten years back—she was a daredevil swimmer, could hold her breath three minutes straight. She dived five flights underwater with a lit flare and saw hallways full of white fish and the staircase still going down….” He smiled at Albert. “Of course, the easier way to explore it is just to jump off here.”
Albert did not quite see the humor in the remark; it was a fearful drop. He looked bleakly out into the murk. He could hear the hum of spinning wheels, the soft mutter of serious conversation. “It seems a busy place.”
“Ah, we all must work! Quiet industriousness is the secret of our community! Each of us has our allotted place and function. In due time, we must decide on a role for you.”
“I would certainly wish to be useful. I have interests in many things.”
“Yes, yes, and there are many options. Maybe you will be a weed gatherer, diving in the kelp beds below the south wall of the isle. Or a netsman or harpooner, who dangles upside down from ropes above the rapids and snares the savage swordfish as they pass. Perhaps you will be a painstaking artist, adroit with shells and mud, working on the endless murals with which we decorate our walls…. There is a lifetime of satisfaction to be had from learning any of these skills. We will allot you something at the next meeting of the trustees. Come, let us go on.”
The tour continued. Albert learned that most people lived in simply furnished rooms off the main stairs. There were many empty chambers; it was suggested he choose one for himself, visit the kelp hangers to get dried seaweed for his mattress, call in on the pottery workshop and ask for his personal cup and bowl. At dawn and dusk, everyone gathered for their communal meals. After supper, there were prayers and songs and dancing….
The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne Page 27