Infernal Devices (30 page)

  "Good to see ya, man." He jovially slapped my back, One of the blue lenses had a slight chip on its edge, but he showed no other sign of damage. "We all made it safe and sound."

  Miss McThane laughed scornfully. "Yeah, we're doing fine, all right." Her words were heavy with sarcasm. "Stuck on some goddamn pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere. Now what are we gonna do?"

  Scape's mood was considerably more buoyant. "Not just any pile of rocks, sweetheart – I think we might find some interesting stuff here. And besides – at least we're not gonna starve." He pointed up to a section of cliffs above our heads.

  I followed the direction of his finger and saw the vacuous faces of several sheep gazing down at us. "I wonder how many there are here."

  "Who knows? Place has been abandoned for quite a while. They've had nothing else to do except breed. There's probably enough to last us until we figure a way of getting off here."

  "Yeah?" Miss McThane remained sceptical. "What do you know about butchering a sheep? They're not just a bunch of cutlets running around in a woolly jacket, you know."

  He shrugged. "Can't be too hard. You get a knife, rub a coupla sticks together – we'll all be singing around the ol' campfire tonight. You wait and see."

  I looked towards the grey clouds mounting over the ocean. "I suggest our first concern should be finding some sort of shelter. The weather in these parts is reputedly severe."

  "Good thinking. See, baby – ol' Dower here's getting into the swing of things. Cheer up a bit; think Boy Scouts."

  "Screw the Boy Scouts." Grumbling, she stood up and wrapped her dress over her shoulders like a shawl. "What this place needs is a goddamn enchilada stand."

  We climbed up through a cleft in the rocks, the loose stones sliding under our feet. As Scape led the way, Miss McThane stopped and laid her hand on my arm. "Actually," she said, smiling, "there are some advantages to being, like, shipwrecked. Out here where there's nobody around, and it's all kinda… wild and primitive. You know?" She brought her face closer to mine. "Sometimes people get… inspired…"

  "I assure you," I said, drawing as far away is possible on the narrow path, "my feelings remain unaltered."

  "We'll see about that." She turned and resumed climbing after Scape.

  Having gained the top of the cliffs, Scape reached down and assisted the rest of the party up beside him. "What'd I tell ya?" He waved his hand about at the rugged, sparsely grassed landscape. Sheep, numerous if thin-shanked from their scanty fare, gazed at us with placid equanimity. "Groceries on the hoof." Abel ran barking at them; they turned their mild faces at his furious noise before shambling slowly away in search of their next meagre mouthful.

  I directed Scape's attention to what appeared to be crumbling walls some distance away. "Perhaps we can find shelter there."

  "Must be old Bendray's place," he said. "I don't think he'll mind, under the circumstances."

  The stones turned out to be the remains of a castle, its rude structure indicating considerable antiquity. Portions of one hallway were still roofed over; the rest had fallen into hollow decay. A crumbling table and chairs were soon reduced to firewood; flint and steel found by a towering chimney brought a welcome blaze, by which Miss McThane and I huddled while a hungry Scape went back into the surrounding fields.

  He returned a few hours later, a spectre of spattered blood and exhaustion, with an excited Abel yapping behind him. "Damn things are more complicated than I thought," he announced, wiping his pocket knife on his trousers leg. The ragged lumps he had carried back were forthwith skewered and held over the fire until sufficiently blackened to hide their grisly origin.

  So passed our first day upon the island of Groughay, in no great discomfort, considering how recently we all had been resigned to surrendering our lives. A more cheering discovery was made when a cache of whisky was found underneath a section of rotting floorboards. The skies opened during the night; I awakened to the sound of a storm lashing the stone walls against which we huddled. Close by me, Miss McThane hopefully whispered my name. I feigned sleep, and she gave up for the time being.

 

Following a breakfast of cold mutton, Scape made further explorations of the ruins. His triumphant shout announced the fruit of his labours. "Get a loada this." He stood in the middle of what had once been a room of considerable size, truncated at one end by the collapse of one of the walls. Around him were various metal constructions, all now sadly lapsing into rust. "It's your father's old workshop – when he was here years ago!"

  I came down beside him and gazed about at the scene. The kaleidoscopic variety of my father's genius was rendered even more confusing by the decrepit state of the devices. Some towered above our heads as though they were the skeletons of some species of metal giant; others were mere handfuls of gears and wheels, rusted into lumps. The workbenches had rotted away, spilling the discarded tools and partial assemblages into the puddles on the stone floor.

  Scape, undismayed by the decrepitude of the machinery, set about rummaging through the tangled remnants. "Hey, this one's in pretty good shape," he said, tugging at an iron strut. "Gimme a hand."

  Between the two of us, we pulled free the device in question. To me it seemed the fleshless carcass of a bat, though on a considerably magnified scale. The thin struts formed umbrella-like ribs, arching out when unfolded to a distance of several yards. They were connected by a system of chains to the gears of a central clockwork apparatus; shreds of rotten canvas hung about the figure.

  One of the wings – if such they were – grated harshly through its layers of rust as Scape waggled it back and forth. "Far out," he said admiringly. "What a find."

  I surveyed the thing dubiously. The fragility of its construction, in combination with the disrepair into which it had fallen, gave the impression of imminent collapse. "What is it?"

  He patted in tenderly, flakes of rust drifting from under his hand. "Remember how ol' Bendray told you that line about how he came to believe that there were people – I mean, like aliens – zooming around in outer space? From other planets? Did he say he'd seen them himself, zipping around in the sky out here at Groughay?"

  I cast my mind back to Lord Bendray's monologue in his cellar laboratory at his Hall. "Um… yes. He did, as a matter of fact."

  "Figured he did. He goes rabbiting on about that crap to everybody he meets, given half a chance. Well, the funny thing is, he really did see 'em zooming around." He worked the metal strut harder, so that the entire device squeaked and groaned, wobbling where it stood. "This is it, man – visitors from outer space. This is what ol' Bendray saw."

  My gaze went from him to the device. "This… whatever it is? He saw this?"

  Scape nodded. "It's a flying machine. Great, huh? I told you your old man was running a few numbers on Bendray. The way I figure it, your father had to convince him that there were guys from other planets, flying around checking out things here on earth, so Bendray would go for that bullshit pile-driver he's got in his basement. You know, the one he thinks he can blow up the whole planet with. Your father already had a workshop out here, from the work he'd already done for Bendray; all he had to do was come out here, build this contraption, then let Bendray see it flying around and tell him it's aliens from outer space. He'd probably already got a pretty good idea by then of how much guff he could get Bendray to swallow."

  I let these aspersions on my father's moral character pass by, finding it preferable to believe that he had engaged in a fraudulent manipulation of Lord Bendray, rather than actually having built a machine capable of destroying the earth. "I find it difficult to credit that this… device could actually go up in the air."

  "Well, when it was in better condition, it could. All these spaces here were covered with some kind of fabric, so it was like real wings." The rotting canvas fell apart at the slightest pressure from his exploring finger. "Then the gears and stuff ran off the master-spring there, and off it'd go, flapping away."

  "Hm." I was still not convinced, though I could envision no other purpose the ungainly contraption could have served. "Interesting enough, I suppose. I don't see any great cause for excitement in it, though."

  "Don't you get it, man?" Scape's voice rose with excitement. "This is how we can get off this flippin' island. We can fix this sucker up, and just fly off."

  "What! With this? Don't be absurd. The thing's nothing more than a… a mechanical kite."

  "Your ass." He pointed into the device's spindly framework. "Right there – look. See? Those are the steering controls; those lines run out to the wings. And right there's where you sit. Christ, maybe your own father flew this thing around."

  The notion brought a scoffing laugh from me. "Really… how gullible do you think I am? A flying machine! Capable of bearing a person's weight aloft – the idea is patently ridiculous. Completely beyond the realm of possibility."

  "A lot you know," said Scape with some irritation. "Hey, I've been there – in the Future. All the flying machines you could want. The sky's gonna be just full of 'em some day. Huge goddamn things – carry hundreds of people. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."

  I didn't care to dispute the point with him; his visions of the Future – I retained a healthy scepticism about their origin – were a matter of some conviction with him. "Yes, well," I said in an attempt to mollify. "It might be diverting to… muck about with it a bit."

  "Muck about, my ass. We gotta get this thing working. Up, up, and away, and off this stupid island. And fast."

  "Why such urgency?" His eyebrows arched above the rims of his spectacles. "Hey – have you forgotten about those Godly Army characters? It's not gonna take 'em long to get their courage back up, and come around here to hand our butts to us. Those kinda guys – they're fanatics – they don't give up. And they wanted to kill us before – what kinda mood do you think they're gonna be in, the next time?"

  In truth, I had forgotten about our former captors, so great had been my relief at finding myself still alive and in one piece on this island.

  Aroused from slumber by our voices, Miss McThane picked her way through the rubble to join us. "What's all the shouting about?"

  Scape's thumb indicated the device. "We're gonna fly off the island. In this."

  "Neat-o." With no sign of trepidation, she grasped one of the struts and waggled it through its groaning motions.

  "But surely," I protested, "there must be some other means of leaving this place."

  "Like what? You can't swim to the mainland – it's too far. And the currents around here are murder; I looked at the captain's charts back when we were on the ship. And there's no wood on this flippin' rock, so we can't build a boat. No, man; this is the only way." Scape patted the rusty metal. "Up into the wild blue yonder."

  The more confident he sounded, the more my heart filled with dread. "But – the wings… the fabric has all rotted away. What do you propose covering them with?"

  Scape dismissed my objections with a wave of his hand. "No problem. We're surrounded by the woolly bastards, aren't we? Sheepskin, man; we just skin 'em and pop it on to the frame here."

  Miss McThane laughed. "This oughta be good. You're really hot with a knife and a sheep."

  He glared at her for a moment, then turned back to me. "Nothing to worry about," he said reassuringly. "You'll see."

  The awful premonition mounted in my breast that I would indeed.

 

I left Scape to his work upon the supposed flying device my fear of it having reached the point where I could not bear to lay a hand upon it – and wandered down to the shoreline where I had awoken after the wreck of the
Virtuous Persistence
. Perhaps some article of value, a portion of the ship's stores undamaged by the saltwater, had washed up on the rocks and could be used to supplement our bleak diet of mutton.

  A few scraps of wood lay on the sands – the bulk of the ship, holed by the violent action of the seaweed gathering apparatus, had apparently gone to the bottom, beyond our reach. I poked among these until I heard a familiar voice call my name.

  The Brown Leather Man stepped out from behind a sheltering line of stones. He grasped my arm in both his hands, this gesture of good will transcending any gulf of nature between our races. "Much gratitude I owe you," he said. His voice thickened with emotion, though the stitched covering over his face remained impassive.

  "For what?" I said, puzzled. After all, it had been he who had saved me, and the others, from execution at the hands of the Godly Army.

  "The children. Of my blood. Safe they are, and growing." He stretched his arm out towards the ocean, where the beds of seaweed lay.

  "Oh. Yes, indeed. Yes, I imagine you must find that most gratifying." He seemed to overestimate any responsibility I might have had for this happy event; I could see no reason to correct him on the point. "Um… a, uh, certain concern has sprung up among my companions and myself. I was wondering if… perhaps… you could be of some assistance regarding the matter."

  "Hm?" He made a slight noise, more from courtesy than any attention to me. His gaze remained focussed on the sea, his thoughts obviously far away.

  "Yes, we were concerned about the wisdom of staying for very long here on this island. After all, there are some people about who seem to bear a marked hostility towards us, and we thought–"

  "Do not with thoughts of those others disturb yourself." His chin sank on to his chest. "It is my undertaking – in gratitude – to protect you from them."