The Island of Whispers (13 page)

‘
We must go, comrade!’ he was shouting. His look was anxious,
impatient.

Twisted Foot
nodded. The time for explanations was past. They had to go now. He
had to lead them into the sea. He looked round the others, silently
rallying them. Then they moved off together down to the point of
the island. As if understanding their intent, the hungry waves
rushed up to meet them.

He appeared
suddenly at Twisted Foot’s side, bringing the startled Watcher to a
halt. The little Scavenger seemed to have materialised from the
greyness of the storm. Fat One was first to act. He rushed from the
back of the group to challenge the Scavenger.

‘
No!’ cried Twisted Foot as he sprang between the Scavenger and
the charging Watcher. ‘This is Slayer! The slave-King! He – he’s
coming with us!’

Fat One stayed
still, growling, eyeing the intruder suspiciously. Slayer seemed
more perturbed by the cold than by Fat One’s growls. He was
blinking and shivering like the rest of them.

‘
Well, Master,’ he chittered to Twisted Foot, ‘this surely is
the strangest of worlds.’

Twisted Foot
didn’t reply. He turned now to watch the churning sea, to steel
himself for the ordeal. The waves licked up, taunting him. The
giant’s foot seemed so far away. He had to go first. He had to show
courage, determination. He teetered at the edge of the rocks and
then plunged abruptly into the sea. The waves swept over him,
immersing him. The shock of coldness came instantly, vice-like,
compressing his lungs, expelling the air. He couldn’t move. He was
sinking into a deep black void. Then, suddenly, he could see light
again. His head was above the surface. His front paws were
threshing wildly. One of his back legs was jerking furiously, while
the other dangled in the water, twisted and helpless. He was
moving, bobbing on top of the sea, riding over the waves.

Slayer went
next, fearlessly, without hesitation. Then Grey Eyes and Soft-Mover
slipped into the sea together. The others followed quickly until
only Small Face and Fat One were left on the rocks. Small Face
looked pleadingly at his companion. He was stiff with terror. Fat
One prodded him sharply.

‘
Go on!’ he commanded.

Small Face hit
the water with a loud squeal. He sank down and then re-emerged
moments later, struggling, gasping for air. He was swimming,
though; making progress.

Fat One
watched them for a while longer. He had decided. He had to return.
He would never be able to rest otherwise. He would never forgive
himself. Old Sharp Claws deserved his help.

Fat One turned
suddenly and sprinted back to the escape tunnel. Tossed back and
forth at the whim of the restless sea, the ragged line of tiny
black heads moved slowly towards the bridge.

For perhaps
the hundredth time since leaving the rocks, Digger paused to
listen. He was very close to the entrance tunnel now, nearly home.
He had been inching his way through the rubble, extra-cautious
because of the Two-Legs on the high ground. He tried to listen
above the howling of the wind and the heavy splatter of rain.
Nothing. He poked his head up, glanced round and then ducked down
again. His heart gave a kick. Across from him, in the dimness of
the monastery, was a darker shape. He had just glimpsed the
Two-Legs. The giant was standing stiff and silent and staring in
his direction.

Long Snout
swept into the Protectors’ lair. About a dozen blood-spattered
Protectors rushed behind him.

‘
Quickly! Quickly!’ Long Snout was shouting. ‘We’ll hold them
off from here!’

The rest
seemed to come in a flood, squealing in terror, clambering over
each other until they were far enough into the lair; the surviving
mates and young of the Protectors mingling with the torn, bleeding
remnants of the Inner Circle. Another score or more Protectors came
behind them to take up their positions at the tunnel mouth and to
close the gap between slaves and survivors. Jostling bodies and
shrill voices now filled the place. Attracted by the commotion,
she-rats and youngsters were spilling out of the Inner Circle lair
and joining the anxious throng.

The two
combatants in the centre of the lair broke off from their struggle.
Both were breathing hard, their bodies streaked with blood and
saliva. They kept their eyes fixed on each other, conscious that
the incoming rats were forming a circle around them.

Sharp Claws
seemed dazed. It was some moments before he realised fully the
danger that he was in. He began to back away slowly from
Neck-Snapper, searching for a gap in the circle, ready to make a
dash for the escape tunnel. By then, though, Long Snout had seen
them.

The
Chamberlain pushed through the crowd until he crouched next to
Neck-Snapper. His presence silenced the hubbub of the spectators.
His cold glare transfixed Sharp Claws.

‘
What’s going on here, Chief Watcher?’ he rasped.

It was
Neck-Snapper who replied in a hoarse, wheezing voice.

‘
He – he’s a traitor, Chamberlain. He – he helped the others –
the other Watchers – to escape.’

Long Snout
looked in the direction of the escape tunnel and then back at Sharp
Claws.

‘
So!’ he hissed.

Sharp Claws
knew that he was trapped, that there was no escape now. He stayed
rigid, staring up at the Chamberlain, waiting for death. He saw the
jaws opening, the long yellow fangs reaching down for him. He felt
sharp, momentary pain as the jaws snapped over his neck. Then
blackness.

The jaws
snapped again. Hot blood sprayed across the crowd. The severed head
rolled off into them. The hubbub resumed.

Long Snout
rose up and spoke quickly to the guards who had gathered round
him.

‘
Go to the outside world! Find the traitors! Destroy
them!’

Then he turned
his attention to Neck-Snapper.

‘
You did well, warrior,’ he growled.

Blood was
still pumping in spurts from the crumpled, headless corpse of the
Chief Watcher. At the mouth of the escape tunnel, Fat One was
shaking violently. He closed his eyes to shut out the ghastly
sight. When he opened them again, he saw the yellow slit-eyes of
the charging Protectors. He moved too late. The leading Protector’s
fangs sank into his fleshy side. Fat One screamed and twisted away.
There was a ragged, gaping wound along his left flank. The pain was
incredible. He could hardly breathe. He began to scramble up the
tunnel. He felt weak and exceptionally heavy, but the snapping,
snarling jaws of the Protector drove him on.

–
o –

–
Chapter Twenty-Nine –

The inside of
the monastery was dank and gloomy. The place smelled of decay.
Charlie kept very still. He was numb with cold and soaking wet. His
hair was plastered to his head. Rain streamed down his face,
plummeted from the tip of his long, bony nose and rushed in tiny
torrents down his jerkin to splash on his sodden trousers.

Up to
Charlie’s right, on the crest of the island, his passengers were
still fussing around the display platform. Down below, Charlie
stared into the debris, clamping his teeth together to stop them
from chattering. He knew where the rat was. He knew that the rat
had seen him. They were both waiting: hunter and prey at
standstill.

Charlie
decided to break the stalemate. He stooped down, snatched up a
heavy chunk of masonry and hurled it in the direction of the
concealed rat. The stone seemed to skiff across the debris before
thudding into the opposite wall of the monastery. The rat sprang
up, streaked across Charlie’s left and disappeared through a gap in
the base of the wall.

Charlie
shuddered for just an instant. The rat was enormous, a monster. He
picked up another large piece of stone and headed out to the point
of the island. The two men up above watched him go. They looked at
each other, baffled, and then shrugged and returned to their
work.

Fat One pushed
himself along the last few feet of the tunnel. He was in great
pain. There was still a long way to go. Through the tunnel. Across
the rocks. Into the sea. If he could just reach the water’s edge,
he would let the sea swallow him up, soothe this searing pain. They
wouldn’t follow him. He would be safe. He would soon join the
others. But he had to move faster; he had to stay ahead of the
Protectors.

He bolted out
of the tunnel, back into the swirling grey day, and almost collided
into the feet of the Two-Legs. The Two-Legs stood with its back to
the tunnel mouth; a great, dripping giant with its arm raised and
poised to strike. Trapped between the Protectors and this monster,
Fat One knew that there was only one way to go. With a gasp of
agony, he twisted round and began to scramble up the slope towards
the monastery. His blood spattered on to the slippery rocks, but
was quickly washed away by the pounding rain.

The Two-Legs
completed its search of the south side of the point. Then it turned
slowly to the north, head bowed, scanning the rocks, the arm still
outstretched and menacing. The Protectors shrank back into the
tunnel. They had seen the giant’s evil white face and the great
rock clutched in its massive fist.

He knew that
he had made a terrible mistake. He had been so close to the
entrance tunnel, only a few steps from home. But the attack by the
Two-Legs had panicked him. He should have stayed in the monastery.
Now he was out in the open, cringing among the rocks, further than
ever from the underworld. The Two-Legs was here searching for him,
ready to attack again.

Digger tried
to stop his body from shaking and to regain control of his
breathing. He had to concentrate on getting back to the monastery.
He raised his head very slightly and peeked over the rocks. He
could see the Two-Legs turning, its gaze sweeping the ground. Then
he saw Fat One scuttling up towards him. The young Watcher seemed
to be in pain. The whole of his left side was covered with blood.
Where had he come from? Was the Two-Legs pursuing him, too?

As if trying
to beckon to his comrade, Digger raised his head higher. He saw the
rock before it hit him, a fleeting glimpse of something dark and
solid. The impact lifted him off the ground. A sharp, blinding
flash filled his head.

Charlie gave
out a yelp of victory as he rushed up the slope. The rat was
stretched out on its side, motionless. Thick blood was seeping from
the wound in its head and spreading quickly across the wet ground.
Charlie nudged the rat with the toe of his shoe. The rat didn’t
move. Its small, dark eyes continued to stare lifelessly into the
rain. Charlie grinned, bent down and lifted the rat by its tail. He
held the corpse at arm’s length, feeling the weight, admiring his
trophy.

‘
Ya beauty,’ he murmured.

It is a
monster, he thought. As big as a cat. But there must be others like
it. As big as this one. Maybe a whole colony of them. The grin
disappeared quickly. There was a frown on his face now. He glanced
behind him. Where were they hiding? Were they lurking among the
rocks? Watching him? The cold, grey island seemed suddenly more
hostile. The sounds of the storm grew sinister, full of whispers,
full of unknown menace. He could feel their eyes on him, following
his movements. He had a vision of hordes of furry black vermin
streaming down from the ruins, closing in on him.

Still
clutching the rat by its tail, Charlie began to move back to the
jetty, his eyes darting constantly among the rocks. His pace
quickened as he got nearer the boat. He would never admit to it
afterwards, but his legs were shaking uncontrollably.

–
o –

–
Chapter Thirty –

Twisted Foot
could barely keep his head above the water. His eyes were almost
completely closed against the stinging spray, and he couldn’t feel
the rest of his body. He was utterly exhausted now, but he knew
that he must be very close.

A huge wave
rose up in front of him. He didn’t attempt to fight it. The wave
swept him up, engulfed him in its spume and then spat him out again
like unwanted jetsam, dashing his body back into the cold, murky
sea.

Twisted Foot’s
head re-appeared above the surface. Water gushed from his mouth and
ears. He was choking, sucking for air. He was clinging to something
soft and slimy. But it felt solid underneath. Hard rock! He had
reached the giant’s foot.

He climbed
higher until he left the seaweed behind and there was only rock
under his claws. The waves leapt up in pursuit, anxious to reclaim
him. He climbed another few feet, reached the top of the pillar and
then hauled his aching body over the edge. He lay there panting,
his eyes closed blissfully, the pounding of the sea still deafening
in his ears. Safe.

There were
four such circular granite pillars under this section of the
bridge; each sunk deep into the River Forth and rising several feet
above the surface like a giant steppingstone; each supporting a
convergence of massive steel stanchions and arches from high above.
The tops of the pillars formed the corners of a square. Inside the
square, the seawater slapped and gurgled darkly.

When Twisted
Foot opened his eyes, he saw the small, sleek form of Slayer
crawling up to join him. The slave-King was shivering and panting
loudly, but otherwise unscathed. The others came quickly behind
him, each clambering up from the seaweed to find a space on the
narrow ledge round the top of the pillar. They huddled together,
seeking each other’s warmth; a tightly packed semicircle of wet,
shivering bodies.

Only Timid One
was left in the water. She had fallen behind the others halfway
through the journey, as if her strength and willpower had suddenly
deserted her. Now a wave was picking her up and dashing her against
the pillar. She clung to the trailing seaweed for some moments,
looking up helplessly at her companions. Then she seemed just to
let go, to yield to the hungry sea. The waves claimed her back,
quickly sweeping her away from the bridge and out into the estuary.
Her head vanished below the water and didn’t rise again.