Isle of Man (The Park Service Trilogy #2) (15 page)

I get up and turn the lamp down until shadow envelops the room. Then I do something that surprises me. I get on my knees beside the bed and I talk to my dad. Not out loud, but in my head. I tell him that I miss him. I tell him that I’m scared. I tell him that I feel guilty for not trying harder to save him. It feels silly at first, but then tears come into my eyes, my throat constricts, and I hear his voice as sure as if he were sitting in front of me. I hear him tell me that he’s proud. I hear him tell me everything will be okay. And I hear him tell me to breathe good energy in and breathe bad energy out.

I’m woken much later by a scratching sound somewhere in the room. I lie perfectly still and listen. It sounds like a kind of muffled rustling near the wall, across from the bed. I jump for the lamp and turn the flame up, but only shadows are chased from the dark room. I’m laughing at myself and my overactive imagination when I hear it again. It’s coming from inside the wall. I follow the sound with my ear and notice the outline of a narrow door in the wall, a hidden panel with a recessed handle. I take a deep breath and pull the panel open.

Riley gasps but doesn’t scream. He’s flattened against the wall of a narrow passage with a lantern in his hand and a basket hanging from straps over his shoulders.

“I pray I haven’t woken you, sir.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“My apologies, sir. The stoves must be fed throughout the night. The passageways allow the wood to be loaded without disturbing you.” He lifts the lid on his basket, showing me a stack of split wood. “At least that’s the idea. I’m afraid Angus is much lighter on his feet than I am, sir. But he’ll be back at his duties tomorrow.”

“Sorry,” I say. “You just spooked me a little. Goodnight again.” I pull the panel closed.

After the excitement, I can’t get back to sleep. I have no idea what time it is. I look out the window, but it seems even darker than before, if that’s even possible. After testing out the bathroom, which is quite a chilling experience with the dark hole beneath me and a cold wind rushing up, I wash my hands using the water jug and bowl on the table.

I wonder if Jimmy’s awake, too. I’m tempted to go and check, but I’d have to pass Riley at his desk. Then I look at the hidden panel and get an idea. If all the stoves are connected by that passageway, shouldn’t it lead to Jimmy’s room? If so, we can talk in private and come up with a plan for tomorrow.

I slip into the passageway carrying the lamp and leave the panel cracked so as to be sure I can find my room again. Then I inch along the narrow passage, being careful to avoid brushing against the hot stoves as I pass. How many doors were between Jimmy’s room and mine? I pause and close my eyes, visualizing the walk down the hall. Three doors—then Riley’s desk—then two more doors, no three doors—and mine was the fourth. Seven doors. Jimmy’s room should be the seventh panel.

When I reach it, I put my ear to the panel and listen before opening it, just in case. All is quiet. I turn the lantern down, push the panel open, and step into the dark room. It looks like the right room, but I only saw it briefly from the door, so it’s hard to tell for sure. I creep toward the bed. There’s someone sleeping, but the covers are pulled up over the head. Holding the lamp at a distance, I pinch the corner of the blanket with my other hand and gently pull it back. Jimmy lies on his side with his hair spread out on the pillow and his thumb stuck in his mouth. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry, it’s so cute.

As much as I want to discuss our plan, I can’t bring myself to wake him. Instead, I stand and watch him for a long time. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I can picture him as a little boy, sleeping in his mother’s lap. Or maybe because he looks so peaceful and I wish I could feel that way myself. I wonder if he’s dreaming, and if so, what about. I remember watching him sleep in our tent in the cove, back when I still thought of him as ten feet tall and nothing but guts. And I remember him waking up and catching me and joking that he was going to start sleeping with his knife. That was the day he taught me to swim. We’ve sure been through a lot since then.

By the time I get back to my room, I’m tired again. I kill the lamp and crawl back into bed and close my eyes. I try to imagine myself sleeping as soundly as Jimmy. It doesn’t work, but I do fall asleep with my thumb in my mouth.

CHAPTER 12
The Funeral

“Breakfast in ten minutes, sir.”

Riley’s voice through the door wakes me.

I toss the covers back and look at my leg. The scrape is crusted over with scab, and the flesh surrounding it is swollen. I sure hope it isn’t infected. Ignoring the throbbing pain, I get up and step to the window and look out. The view is of the inland side of the castle where snow-dusted trees dot rolling hills of winter white. A road winds away through the trees, passing by some outbuildings and a stone and timber stable.

When I finally find the breakfast room, Jimmy is already seated at the table, pouring cream into a steaming mug.

“You’s limpin’ a little,” he says.

“I know it. What are you drinking there?”

“Ain’t totally sure, but it tastes great.”

The breakfast room window overlooks a garden where an old man walks the rows of plants, stooping to inspect them and carefully dusting their leaves free of snow.

Riley enters with a steaming mug for me.

“Good morning, sir. Your breakfast is just on its way.”

I take the mug and thank him. Then I reach for the cream from Jimmy.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good, I guess,” he says.

When I first walked in, I had planned to tell him about the secret passageway, but sitting here now it feels weird to admit that I watched him sleeping, so I don’t say anything.

Next Riley brings a rack of toast with pads of butter and a dish of honey. Plates of sausages, poached eggs, and some kind of black potato cake follow. I watch the old man tend his plants out the window as I eat, and Jimmy watches, too. When Riley comes back to refill our teas, I thank him.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, bowing slightly.

“But I didn’t do anything except eat this great food.”

“And I thank you for it, sir.”

“You know,” I say, “we’d be happy to work it off.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Chores. Clean windows or mop floors or something.”

“Very kind of you, sir, but everything is quite taken care of. Perhaps when his Lordship has time to see you he’ll have some work for you, if that’s what you’re after. Until then, I’m happy to serve. Would you be staying on for the funeral then?”

“Funeral?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir. It appears as though the long wait has ended late last night. She suffers no more. We’ll be gathering to see the departed off later this morning.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t dare interrupt something so personal.”

“Quite the opposite, sir. While the preliminaries are a very personal time of mourning, of course, the passing itself is cause for celebration. It would be proper to attend. You must come.”

I look at Jimmy. He smiles and shakes his head, honoring his deal to leave the talking to me.

“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”

Riley smiles.

“Very well. We meet at the steps at eleven.”

“The steps?”

“Yes, sir. At the water’s edge.”

After breakfast we’re not sure what to do until the funeral, so Jimmy and I wander around the castle. It’s very homey, not at all pretentious. The walls are hung with tapestries and quilts, and the furnishings are big and comfortable. We find Junior in a room off the kitchen, eating with the deerhounds, all of them wet and dirty as if they’ve just come in from outside. Even though Junior has grown a lot, he’s still only a third their size, and his red-tinted fur and bushy tail stand out against their gray, matted coats. But he looks right at home. He sees us and runs over and licks our hands. Then he returns and forces his way past the deerhounds and buries his face back in the food.

“Made himself right comfortable, ain’t he?” Jimmy says.

“He better not get too comfortable,” I reply.

At the end of the great hall, we find a huge statue room. The high walls are lined with busts on shelves, and the floor is a maze of sculptures. It’s all very strange because many of the faces look familiar. As if I’d known them. I wonder if some of them aren’t famous people I might have seen likenesses of in educationals. Greek philosophers or something.

We stop to look at a sculpture of a topless woman. Both of her arms have been broken off, but the statue is still stunning. Jimmy caresses her cheek and I can’t help but wonder if he sees shades of his mother in her. We carry on. Warriors and athletes, mothers with child, kings and their horses, it’s an astounding collection. They must have been ancient long before the war.

Then I see it. At end of the room, standing in the light of a tall window. I recognize the statue instantly. There’s no other form like that. The David. It’s much larger than I’d imagined from the images I’ve seen, and much more beautiful, too.

“Wow!” Jimmy steps up beside me.

“Makes you proud to be human, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Must have taken a tribe to carve it?”

I shake my head.

“Just one man.”

“One man made this?”

I nod.

“An Italian Renaissance man.”

“Italian?”

“Yeah. It was a country on this side of the Atlantic.”

The David is easily three times as tall as I am, and his face is so alive that it draws me to look in the direction of his stare to see what it is he’s after, but I can’t seem to pull my eyes away for even a moment. Chiseled muscles, striking features, lean body poised for a perfect throw. His left arm at his shoulder gripping the sling, his right hand at his side, holding ...

“Jimmy, this is it. This is the hand!”

“I still cain’t believe one man carved it.”

“No. This is it. The clue. The David. ‘In the right hand of David you shall find your key.’ This must be it. The encryption key has to be hidden there somehow in his hand.”

“In the statue?” Jimmy asks.

“This had to be brought here by Radcliffe. He had smaller things he’d salvaged around the lake house.”

We stand on our tiptoes and inspect the statue’s hand. It is gripping something, perhaps a stone for his sling, but it’s all cut from the original block of marble and there doesn’t appear to be anything added. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious, as if all the eyes of all the busts and statues behind us are watching.

I turn around and am startled by a strange man standing behind us. He’s taller than I am, his shoulders filled out with muscle. And he’s wearing a white tunic tied at the waist, giving him the appearance of one of the statues having come to life. His golden hair hangs to his shoulders, his eyes are piercing blue. He’s older than we are, but still young. Maybe twenty-five or thirty.

“His hands always fascinate me too,” he says, nodding to the David’s hand that we had just been inspecting. “They seem so lifelike. If not a little large for the rest of his body, don’t you think? But then, perhaps that’s how they were.”

I wonder how long he’s been standing there and what he heard. I hold out my hand to shake, the way my father taught me too when meeting strangers.

“Hi. I’m Aubrey.”

Instead of shaking my hand, he catches my wrist and holds my hand up, inspecting it in the sunlight slanting in through the window. I feel awkward, caught in his strong grip as it dawns on me that it might not be their custom to shake.

“Amazing things, human hands are,” the man says. “Don’t you think so? You can use them to play a game, or to chisel a work of art, like this one here, or even to make a fist and strike down your brother. But the hand is indifferent, only doing the bidding of the mind.” He pauses and looks me in the eye and smiles. Then he says: “You’ve got good hands. Use them well.” He releases my hand and turns to Jimmy. “Let me see yours now.” Jimmy reluctantly holds out his hand, and the man looks it over. “You have good hands as well,” he says. “I’m assuming you’ve come for the games?”

Jimmy looks at me, confused.

“Yes,” I say, deciding to go along with it. “We have.”

“Good for you. It’s an honor many lesser men fear. You don’t look familiar to me, but perhaps I know your parents?”

“Both our parents are dead, sir.”

He sighs.

“Well, some of us get to go home sooner than others, I guess. Which is why I’ve come to fetch you, actually. I’d like your help with the catafalque.”

“The cata-what?”

“The lowering.”

“Oh, sure,” I say, still having no idea what he means.

“Good,” he says. “And please don’t call me sir. Or His Lordship. Or any of that fancy poppycock. I get enough of that from Riley. Just call me Finn, and we’ll get along fine. Now, you said your name was Aubrey?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, then quickly adding: “I mean, Finn.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Aubrey,” he says, bowing slightly. “And what’s your name, young man?”

“Jimmy.”

“Aubrey and Jimmy. Good solid names. I’ll cheer for you in the games. Very well, then. Shall we go and do our duty?”

We follow him across the great hall, through a large pair of double doors and into a chamber room where a corpse lies in waiting, its body wrapped in a thin, white sheet and its head resting on a pillow. It’s an old woman, her thin skin gray and sagging, but I can see the resemblance in her bone structure. She must be Finn’s mother. The old man we saw tending the garden through the breakfast window earlier kneels beside the corpse, securing the sheet corners with pins.

“I brought some strong hands to help, Angus,” Finn says.

Angus looks up without expression, nods to us, and turns back to his work.

“I promise he’s not being rude,” Finn says to us. “It’s just that Angus doesn’t speak. However, he hears just fine. Don’t you, Angus?” Angus nods. “Be a couple of champs there, you two, and grab the head,” Finn continues. “I’ll take the other end, and perhaps Angus here can get the door.”

Jimmy and I hesitate, making nervous starts toward the corpse, but not committing. Then I see that she’s resting on a moveable board. Relieved that I don’t have to actually touch the body, I grab a side of the board near her head, and Jimmy grabs the other. Then Finn snatches up the board at her feet, and we lift her from the platform and walk toward the door. She’s surprisingly light.

As we exit the chamber and cross the great hall, Finn walks backwards, always keeping her feet pointed in the direction that we’re heading. As he faces us over the corpse, he talks as if it were just another day and just another chore.

“I was sorry to see the snow,” he says. “It’s early this year. Might delay the games by a few days, but don’t worry, it’ll melt. Have you any interest in joining the hunt tomorrow morning?”

“The hunt?” I ask.

“The men won’t mind, I promise. We always celebrate a passing with a feast, and since you’re here and helping today, I see no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy the hunt tomorrow.”

When we arrive at end of the hall, Angus opens the same door Jimmy and I knocked on last night, and we carry the body outside. The castle exterior looks different in the light of day. Less frightening. The path has been cleared of snow, the steps sanded for traction. I can imagine in the summertime it’s a gorgeous seaside spectacle of green lawns and flowers.

Several rough-looking men stand by the seawall, assembling a wooden crane-like contraption, wheeled out from a nearby stone shed. The water beyond the seawall is calm and dappled with dull silver as the sun tries to burn through high clouds in gray skies. Somewhere out there is the submarine, hovering beneath the gentle waves. I look to the edges of the seawall as our landmarks and try to triangulate where I think it should be. It’s not as far out as I thought, but still an awfully long swim in the freezing black of night.

When we reach the last terrace, Finn steers us to the crane and lies the board in front of it. With all that timber scaffolding surrounding the corpse, it almost looks like the funeral pyre that I built in the cove, except the machine is connected with iron joints and iron hinges and the wear marks on the wood give it the appearance of something well used.

Finn thanks us and heads back into the castle, leaving us to watch as the men finish erecting the crane. I can’t discern its purpose, though. With a long, weighted crossbeam hinged in the middle, it almost looks like photos of catapults I’ve seen, except I can’t imagine hurling a dead body from a catapult.

The men eye us as they work, seemingly annoyed by our presence there. When their work on the crane is done, they return to the shed and wheel out a cast-stone firebox with an iron kettle suspended above it. While they load the box with wood and light a fire, one of them carries the kettle down the steps and scoops it full of seawater. With the kettle of sea water warming over the fire, the men drift off toward the shed and pass around a pouch, dipping something out and stuffing it into their lips and proceeding to spit on the ground while they visit.

People begin arriving in ones and twos. They drift down from the castle, carrying little pine wreaths woven with bright fabric bows. Each new visitor gazes a moment at the deceased and lays their wreath at the base of the machine. Then they mingle, discussing mundane things, mostly the weather.

“Is this how they go?”

“How what goes?” Jimmy asks.

“Funerals?”

“Pretty much so,” he says. “But we usually had a day of silence. Then we’d tell stories about whoever died ’round the fire. What’d ya’ll do?”

“We never had funerals.”

“You didn’t?”

“We just gathered at the platform and said goodbye when people left to retire.”

After the last stragglers arrive, Finn comes out from the castle wearing a crown of pine branches on his head and an elaborately stitched cape. He carries an iron helmet attached to the end of a thick chain. Riley follows him, ringing a bell. The guests fall quiet as Finn descends the steps and approaches the machine. As I watch Finn move through the small crowd, it becomes clear to me that these must be his relatives. They have the same high cheek bones and wide-set eyes.

Finn bends over his mother’s corpse, at least I assume it must be his mother, and caresses her gray and wrinkled cheek. Then he lifts the iron helmet on its chain and unclasps the sides and opens it like a clam shell on hinges. He slides the helmet over her head and closes and latches it again. Then he lifts the chain and hooks it to a rope running through a pulley on one end of the crane’s main beam.