Infernal Devices (31 page)

  "Oh. Well; very good of you, I'm sure." I mulled over how best to broach my suggestions. "Perhaps – it struck me, you understand – perhaps that might best be accomplished if we were to… find a way off the island. Over to the mainland, that is. Perhaps if you could bring us a boat, or alert someone on the mainland as to our presence here, and they could come for us–"

  He was deep in his contemplations, barely conscious of me standing beside him. "All in good time," he said abstractedly. "These things will be done."

  Our brief conversation at an end, he returned to the sea.

 

The next few weeks settled into a pattern. Our island captivity continued; I scanned the horizons from the highest Groughay cliffs, anxiously awaiting the return of the Godly Army to finish their interrupted task; Scape, with Miss McThane as his assistant, laboured on the purported flying machine. He had unearthed a cache of tools and auxiliary parts, wrapped in oilsoaked cloth to protect them from the weather, which greatly facilitated the project: chains worked around the teeth of what were determined to be the appropriate gears, and the metal armatures no longer grated through the years' accumulations of rust. The taste of mutton became sickeningly familiar to all of us, but there was at least a plenitude of it. A growing section of the castle ruins began to resemble a charnel house, with the bloody skins of sheep draped about on the stones. Only the chillness of the northern air prevented rapid decomposition; Scape's methods of preparing the hides were marked by a crude haste and a complete lack of any appropriate knowledge; many of the poor animals' heads lolled, still attached to their skins, the dumb eyes seeming to wonder how such indignities had been visited upon them. The living sheep divined Scape's cruel attentions towards them, and became increasingly difficult to catch; the dog Abel, with his terrier cleverness, soon became expert at turning back the fleeing herds and driving them into Scape's clutches.

  My vigil upon the cliffs was ended the morning after a particularly severe storm. All night long, the stone walls of the castle ruins were lashed by driving rain; a section of the remaining roof was torn away by the gale. As Scape inspected the machine to see what damage had been done to it, I went to see if the storm had brought anything of value to land.

  From my vantage point, I could see the waves rolling in, thick with tangled seaweed; the tempest had raged through the offshore beds. As I looked over the churning rocks, an unearthly cry of despair sounded up to me, the wail inarticulate in its anguish. I knew whose voice it was, though I had never heard it torn by any such emotion. The loose stones grated under my boots as I scrambled down the path to the point from which it had come.

  I found the Brown Leather Man upon his knees at the edge of the lapping water. The sand was covered with the thick drapings of seaweed. His hands were thrust deep Into the dark foliage, lifting it to his gaze, the salt-water running from his arms.

  He made no response as I touched his shoulder stepped closer to him, to see what spectacle bound him in such fierce regard.

  Dead things twined in the seaweed.

  A sob broke from the Brown Leather Man's throat as he tilted his head back to face the blank sky. I could see the tiny forms, monstrously misshapen, idiot piscine skulls, innards everted and exposed. The storm had not killed them, but only brought their twisted corpses to view. The blood with which he had mixed his own had degenerated too far; the seed he bore could father only such abortions as these, when mated with the crossbreeds' wretched line.

  I could think of nothing to say; a race's final progeny was mired in the dark mass, the infants' miserable flesh pallid with decay. "I'm sorry." That was all that was possible.

  His fearsome gaze turned slowly around towards me. One hand pulled from the mass of seaweed; from where he knelt, his arm swept into my chest, knocking me backwards.

  He towered above me, where I lay gasping to regain my breath. His finger jabbed towards me as though it were some dark lightning-stroke of judgment. "You–" His voice was tortured into a choking rasp. "Your kind see what you have done. While yet there was hope – hope that again my blood could live – then I could forgive you. I could all of your kind forgive. But now… now that your folly has murdered my blood, and hope is no more–" His hand raised above his head, gathering its force for a blow.

  I shrank back into the sand, unable to flee. For a moment he remained, his arm trembling in air. Then, with another wordless cry, he turned and plunged back into the ocean's depths.

  When I had managed to regain my feet, I looked out across the empty sea. There was no sign of him. With a piece of driftwood, I dug a shallow trench in the sand, and buried as much of the seaweed, and its rotting burden, as I could gather.

  Scape greeted me cheerfully when I returned to the castle ruins. His shirt was spattered with sheep's blood as he announced, "Just about ready, Dower! Maybe give it the first test flight tomorrow." He returned to his work, rubbing his hands with anticipation.

  I was still somewhat dazed from the events out on the shore. It took a few moments before I realised a hand was caressing the back of my neck. I turned and looked into Miss McThane's smiling face.

  "He's going to be busy for a long time," she said. "And I get so bored…"

  "No–" I shook my head; a violent tremor seized my limbs. I backed away from her, then turned and ran towards the empty fields.

 
 

 

A hand shook me awake; I opened my eyes to a silhouetted figure, dark, against the stars, bending over me. At first I took it to be Miss McThane; then the voice spoke, and I knew what entity had stealthily entered the castle ruins.

  "Come with me, Dower," the Brown Leather Man said softly. "I have much with you to discuss."

  I had shrunk back against the stone wall upon recognising him, but there was no trace in his voice of the rage he had displayed earlier; only an urgency that compelled my hasty obedience to his request. Scape and Miss McThane were still asleep some distance away; the Brown Leather Man gestured for my silence. We picked our way together over the rubble until we were well outside.

  "You must forgive me," he said, grasping my arm. The night's darkness seemed to be absorbed and condensed into his form beside me. "My anger today – you will understand. Great had been my hopes. But always I have meant you no harm."

  "Yes, of course." I could think of no other words to reassure him. "A very sad occasion." That sounded even more inadequate.

  "That is of the past. Other things are to be thought of. You must leave this island. At once."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. My earlier entreaties, it seemed, had had the desired effect. "I'm glad you feel that way. Soon as morning comes, I'll tell the others. I imagine a boat would be the most practical–"

  He shook his head. "No time is there. You must leave now. You alone – the others are unimportant."

  "But why? Surely–"

  His grip on my arm tightened. "Things of great urgency – great dangers that only you can avert. You must leave now, and back to England go. To Bendray Hall – when you are there, all will be explained."

  A petty annoyance welled up in me. "I cannot calculate the number of times that has been said to me. "Everything will be explained." And every time I do what's asked of me, based on that promise, I end up being chased by packs of bloodthirsty maniacs. I find it tiresome in the extreme."

  "My word I give," said the Brown Leather Man. "As we speak further, the precious moments flee. Only this one thing more, this one task, and all mysteries will be dispelled. But if what I bid you is not done – if to Bendray Hall you do not go – then great misfortune to all of us will come. Any harm to you will be the least of the consequences."

  The fervour of his speech dispelled my objections. "Very well, then – how do you propose I should leave this island?"

  "Come – to the water's edge we must go."

  He led me down the rocky path to the shore. The ocean, faintly luminous under the moon's glow, splashed against the rounded stones. "You I will carry," said the Brown Leather Man. "In my arms, through the waves. My native element is the sea; you will be safe."

  I looked dubiously at the ocean, the chill spray dampening my face. "Isn't it quite a ways? And… somewhat cold?"

  "Have no fear. In the sea, I have no need of this–" His hands traced the scar-like stitching across his chest. "The outer covering which on the land enables me to walk about. You I will wrap in it; such it is that it will protect you from the harshness of the sea."

  "Hmm…"

  "No other way is there. Your very life, and much else, on doing this depends."

  The life of which he spoke had been in his hands more than once; what trust was possible, if not in one who had already preserved me from death? "Very well," I said, steeling my nerve. "Proceed."

  Certain of the stitching eased and opened under his fingers. After a few minutes, the leathery covering wrinkled away from whatever nature of flesh lay beneath. As a snake sheds its skin, only in this instance standing upright, the Brown Leather Man slid the artificial epidermis from his frame.

  His own, more pallid skin shone wetly in the moonlight. A slit-like mouth, and eyes of perfect circularity, only marginally comparable to the fish-like denizens of Wetwick and Dampford, were revealed when his head was bared. Released from the confines of the covering, a pinkish frill swelled about his throat. "Hurry," he said. "In the air, as this I may stay only a little while."

  I let myself be draped with the garment he had discarded. As I was of considerably smaller stature, the thin "leather" hung loosely about me, with no need to exert any force to slide my limbs into the appropriate places. It hung in overlapping folds over my legs, as though I were a child appropriating his father's trousers for play.

  The Brown Leather Man – brown no longer, but rather shining in the manner of a sea creature catching the faint light – gathered the loose cloak tighter about my chest, fastening it into this position by a twisted knot at my shoulder. He led me into the waves; when the water came surging up to my chin, he reached down and easily lifted me from the sea floor, my weight distributed between his own inordinate strength and the buoyancy imparted by the salt ocean.

  The assurances made as to my comfort turned out to be well founded: the garment kept me reasonably dry, only my face catching the salt spray as the Brown Leather Man bore me above the waves, and provided sufficient insulation to retain the warmth of my own body. After my initial apprehensions had passed, I endeavoured to relax as much as possible, as though I were lying on the bottom of a secure boat instead of being lifted across the surging water by the other's arm clasped tightly about my waist. His powerful strokes with his free arm, and the easeful motions of his lower body, cleaved through the waves with a rhythmic grace, proving his natural adaptation to the element.

  Against the splash of water, I suddenly heard a distant cry. I tilted my head back to look. The morning sun was just breaking across the cliffs; a figure stood at their crest, having spotted us in the waves below. It was Scape; from this distance I could not see the expression on his face, but his fist shaking in air was clearly visible.

  "You sonuvabitch!" came his howl. "Running out on us – you'll see! You bet your sweet ass…" The sound of his voice faded as I was carried farther away from the island.

  The singular voyage lasted more than an hour, despite the Brown Leather Man's speed of progress through the water. Only once, when a particularly high wave washed over us, had I experienced any degree of discomfort, and then only a mouthful of salt water that left me sputtering for breath. When we waded ashore on the Scottish mainland, the sun was well lifted above the horizon. Its rays brought an additional urgency to my companion's request for the return of his garment. I hastily stripped the dark skin off; finding my own clothes somewhat damp underneath.

  "Extraordinary," I said, brushing my sodden hair away from my face. The island of Groughay was visible only as the smallest speck on the horizon. I turned to look at the heather-covered hills at my back. As I did so, a rifleshot rang out, sending up a puff of sand at my feet.

  "Quickly!" The Brown Leather Man pushed me towards the shelter of an outcropping of rocks. "Run!" He was unable to follow me, the skin-like covering that would have protected him on the land still wadded up in his arms. He dived back into the sea and disappeared.

  Another shot sounded before I reached the outcropping's safety. The marksman was evidently some distance away, by the faint sound of the report; no doubt I had been spotted from some high vantage point in the surrounding hills. With my heart pounding in my chest, I circled around the rocks and began climbing up the slope on the opposite side, screened from view by the brushy foliage…

  I soon gained the top of the small hill. As I crouched down, the shore was down below at my left hand. In front of me, across the valley at the hill's foot, was the confirmation of my first guess as to what person might have directed the shot at me. I could recognize, even at this distance, the figure of Sir Charles Wroth, dressed in hunting tweed, his rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. He commanded a party of considerable size, tramping through the countryside's thick heather: on either side of him, more men, undoubtedly of the Godly Army, were arrayed in line, each similarly armed. Before them, several score of the local men, unarmed save for their keen knowledge of the terrain, swept ahead in the nature of grouse-beaters in search of game to flush for the hunting party's pleasure. It was easy enough to conjecture how they had been enlisted in this cause: the Highlanders' lack of education and sternly Calvinist religion would make them enthusiastic pursuers of anyone accused of deviltry and various other blasphemous acts. I could expect much the same fate from their bare hands as from the bullets of the Godly Army.