The Island of Whispers (12 page)

Fat One
scrambled up.

‘
Back from the dead, comrade?’ he growled
affectionately.

The others
pressed round Twisted Foot. Grey Eyes and Soft-Mover nuzzled into
him.

‘
Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Quickly!’

Led by Fat
One, the group moved off into the tunnel. Twisted Foot and Long
Ears lingered at the back. They took a final look at the mounting
slaughter in the Common lair. The black torrent continued to gush
from the Scavengers’ dungeon. The Protectors had all but lost
control; snarling slaves were moving in on their mates and young
ones. Up on the platform, the squealing, obese body of the King-rat
toppled over as Slasher and Belcher tore greedily at his snow-white
throat.

Sharp Claws
prowled anxiously outside the Watchers’ lair. Behind him, his
warriors were bunched round the entrance tunnel. Most of the
she-rats and youngsters were inside, safe for the time being. The
slaves would come soon, though. The Watchers would fight bravely,
but Sharp Claws knew that they would be quickly overwhelmed.

The noise of
the battle was deafening, terrifying. His eyes scoured the Common
lair, searching for stragglers amongst the carnage. He glimpsed
Grey Eyes and her son as they fled into the Protectors’ lair. Then
he saw Long Ears, and Twisted Foot next to him. They were staring
at the platform, as if transfixed by the sight of the Inner Circle
in its death throes. Now they were turning, sprinting after Grey
Eyes.

Escaping at
last, Sharp Claws said to himself. He was glad. Whatever perils
awaited them above ground could be no worse than down here. The
society was doomed, and he along with it. He had been its loyal
servant all this time; a true and faithful leader of the Watchers.
Now, it seemed, he would die protecting the society.

He thought
suddenly of his time as a young, fresh Watcher. The hardships. The
humiliations. The cruelty of the Protectors. The smug, bloated
faces of the Rulers. He had had dreams of escape then, but the
power of the society had always held him back, kept him servile.
Where was that power this day? What held him back now? He was old,
yes, but he was still fit and strong, with Cycles yet to live. He
didn’t have to die here.

He looked
again at the raging battle. Hordes of slaves had begun their
assault on the Hunters. The Watchers would be next. There was no
time for further thought. He sprang away from his warriors and then
raced for the Protectors’ lair. A small, lithe, muscular figure
slipped down from the platform and moved silently behind him.

–
o –

–
Chapter Twenty-Six –

He awoke with
a start. The pain was blinding him, burning into his head. He felt
suffocatingly hot. He was panting hoarsely, shaking with fever,
weaker than ever. It had been like this for many days: sleeping in
snatches, jolting awake; each time the pain returning with renewed
ferocity. His dreams were becoming more delirious, more
frightening. This last one had been particularly bad. He imagined
that huge, hideous monsters were in the lair. He could hear them
snarling. He could see their large yellow eyes. He could feel their
hot, fetid breath as they closed in on him. Then he had returned to
consciousness; back to the stifling fever; back to the burning
pain.

He held his
breath for a moment and listened. The screams from the Common lair
were muffled and distant. He remembered the special Assembly. He
had been too weak to attend. In truth, though, he would not have
wished to watch others perform his duties. Torture and execution:
those practices had been his special province once – before this
accursed affliction!

He listened
again. There were other noises. Scratching noises. Here in the
empty lair! He peered into the blackness. The pain stabbed at him.
There was a blurred shape near the entrance. Then another. And
another. Yellow eyes flashing. His heart thudded. Were these the
monsters from his dream? He stumbled from the nest, his head
swimming with the effort. The shapes became more blurred and then
melted away.

There were
voices now. Urgent voices. He couldn’t see. He was confused. Were
the voices in his own mind? He shook his head violently.
Excruciating pain jolted through him, almost stopping his heart.
Nausea swept over him. Then suddenly his vision cleared. The shapes
re-appeared. There were many of them. They were coming closer,
coming into focus; hazy images transforming into fur and flesh. He
recognised the faces. The fat, lazy one from the Watchers’ lair.
The little cripple at the back. The floppy-eared one. These were no
monsters! Fear and blinding pain were quickly forgotten, replaced
by blind rage. A great roar erupted from him. Then he charged at
the intruders.

The demented
Protector came at them from out of the darkness. The apparition was
hideous. The whole of the right side of his head was horribly
bloated and oozing pus. His long fangs were bared, gleaming white,
dripping foam. There were shrieks of alarm from the Watchers. Small
Face scuttled back with the mates and youngsters, but Fat One stood
his ground. Arching his back and spitting, he forced Neck-Snapper
to draw up. Twisted Foot and Long Ears raced from behind to join
their companion. Growling loudly, Neck-Snapper regarded the three
Watchers for some moments. The growling stopped suddenly. Then he
reared up, ready to pounce.

The sea heaved
up again and tossed the little boat against the wooden supports of
the jetty. The sharp crack of the impact woke Digger. The old
Watcher opened his eyes. Wind and rain whipped into them. He felt
colder and more miserable than before. There was another crack. He
peered down through tiny slits and saw the boat and the two
brightly dressed men who were clambering out of it. One of the men
slipped on the sea-lashed jetty. His companion helped him to his
feet. Then they set off, struggling against the wind, heading for
the high ground. The hoods of their anoraks were pulled down over
their heads, almost completely concealing their frozen white
faces.

Digger cursed.
He should have stayed more alert. There was still time to redeem
himself, though. He must return to the underworld at once. Special
Assembly or not, he must find Sharp Claws and report the presence
of the Two-Legs.

He squeezed
out of his makeshift shelter and then moved stealthily across the
slippery rocks. At least when he got to the underworld, he thought
selfishly, there would be some respite from the foul elements.

–
o –

–
Chapter Twenty-Seven –

The voice was
deep and gruff. It came from near the entrance tunnel.

‘
Over here, Neck-Snapper!’ it shouted.

For the second
time in only a few moments, Neck-Snapper cut short his attack. He
looked in the direction of the voice. Sharp Claws moved further
into the lair, closer to Neck-Snapper, placing the Protector
between him and the young Watchers.

Neck-Snapper
shifted round slightly, using his one eye to follow Sharp Claws’
progress.

‘
You!’ he hissed slowly.

‘
Yes, me.’

Neck-Snapper
snarled. He turned round fully now and faced Sharp Claws. The young
Watchers were forgotten for the moment. It was the old warrior whom
he wanted. He had old scores to settle with him. Their bodies were
only inches apart. Their meeting was long overdue.

Sharp Claws
glanced at Twisted Foot.

‘
Make your escape now,’ he said. ‘Quickly!’ Then he returned
his stare to Neck-Snapper.

Twisted Foot
hesitated. He was confused.

‘
But –’

Sharp Claws
kept his eyes fixed on the Protector, watching for the slightest
movement, ready for the lunge that would come.

‘
Go now!’ he roared.

Twisted Foot
nodded. He was still unsure, but he spun round and raced for the
escape tunnel. The others scurried behind him.

Fat One
watched them go. He wanted to stay, to help the old Watcher, but he
knew that there was little time to lose. With a wrench, he moved
off after his companions. He stopped at the tunnel mouth and
glanced back. They hadn’t moved. Each waited for the other to act,
Neck-Snapper snarling and drooling, Sharp Claws calm and alert;
sworn enemies savouring that taut, scary stillness before mortal
combat.

Fat One
slipped into the tunnel.

Neck-Snapper
made the lunge. Sharp Claws dodged its impact, came up on the
Protector’s right side and gouged into his injured head.
Neck-Snapper bellowed in agony. He jerked his head back, managing
to dislodge Sharp Claws. Blood was pouring out of the re-opened
eyehole.

The two flew
at each other again, jaws agape, growling incessantly, each
thrusting for the soft flesh of the throat. They toppled over in a
deadly clinch, rolled across the hard ground and then crashed into
the rows of empty nests.

The
Scavenger’s cold, hard eyes flickered in the darkness. The struggle
no longer interested him. He licked his fangs and moved lightly
past the noisy, writhing bodies.

Charlie lit
another cigarette and continued to peer out at the island, a broad
grin on his face. His two passengers had managed to get to the
display platform. They were checking the structure now, making sure
that it hadn’t been loosened by the wind and that the layers of
polythene which swathed it were keeping out the rain. One of the
men was kneeling down, examining the base of the platform. Caught
by a sudden gust, the corner of a sheet of polythene flapped up and
wrapped itself round the man’s head. He struggled to free himself
and fell on his backside.

Charlie
sniggered. It was pure comedy out there. He had watched them waddle
up the slope, sliding and stumbling every few feet, like a pair of
penguins. Earlier on, just before they left the cabin, he had
ribbed them about the rats.

‘
Mind now, boys,’ he had said with a straight face. ‘Watch out
for an ambush.’

The men had
looked perplexed.

‘
Aye,’ he continued, ‘they rat bites can be awfie
painful.’

It was just
his wee joke, but they hadn’t been very amused. Well, it served
them right. They were the ones who had started the scare about the
rats.

His gaze
wandered away from the men and down to the monastery. He would be
surprised if rats or anything else wanted to stay on the island. It
was such a godforsaken place. He came past it in the boat almost
every working day, but he hardly ever gave it more than a second
glance. He knew very little about Inchgarvie’s history, and he had
been on the island only once, way back, when he was a
youngster.

Something
moved among the rocks. It was just a flicker, but it caught his
attention. He got closer to the windscreen and peered out through
the haze of grey rain. The thing moved again. It seemed to slide –
no, to squirm – over the rocks. His face was pressed against the
Perspex now. He wiped away the fog caused by his breath, screwed
his eyes up, peered again. His first thought was a dog. But, no,
not moving like that; not squirming. A cat, maybe. A big black
cat.

The boat began
to rock wildly. He lost sight of the creature for a moment. Then it
re-appeared, creeping slowly, heading up towards the monastery. He
wiped the Perspex again. He saw the long tail slithering over a
boulder. A rat! The size of a cat!

‘
Naw,’ he murmured. ‘It couldnae be.’

The tail
curled round another boulder. The creature’s black body seemed to
undulate as it slid through a gap in the monastery wall.

Charlie
stubbed out his cigarette and zipped up his jerkin.

‘
Right!’ he said.

He left the
boat quickly and scrambled up to the jetty. The wind tore at his
hair and clothes. Icy needles of rain stung his face. He struggled
along the jetty, trying not to slip, wishing that he had stayed
where he was. His smirk had gone. The joke was on him now.

–
o –

–
Chapter Twenty-Eight –

They were out
in the open now, huddled together, shivering uncontrollably. The
sea rose up on either side of them, wild and threatening, flinging
its angry spray across the rocks. The he-rats were veterans of the
outside world, past witnesses to its ugly, violent moods, but they
were dismayed by the unexpected fury of the storm. It seemed as if
the full wrath and vengeance of the Cold Cycle had been unleashed
upon them in an effort to impede their escape.

For the
she-rats and youngsters, this was their first terrifying glimpse of
the world above their own. The sights, the sounds, the smells of
this awful place were mind-numbing, beyond their comprehension.
They had lived in permanent darkness, but here there was a
lightness, a vast lightness which made them blink and want to hide;
a great force which magnified all around them. Invisible creatures
flew out of the lightness to strike at their bodies and sting them
with armies of sharp, icy water. There were other creatures in the
enormous expanse of water surrounding them: huge, angry white
monsters which leapt up and battered the rocks. Theirs was a world
of quiet, furtive movements; of warm nests and familiar scents.
This world that they had fled to was harsh and squalling and
hostile, with a jarring coldness which found its way into their
bones.

Twisted Foot
recognised their discomfort and bewilderment. He wanted to console
them, to reassure them.

‘
It’s not always like ...’ he tried to say, but the wind
snatched away the rest of his words.

Long Ears
pushed his snout into Twisted Foot.