The Island of Whispers (3 page)

Heaving and
groaning, Fat One clambered up the long tunnel. He was tired and
hungry, and certainly not relishing the prospect of this extra
watch. Behind him, Twisted Foot and Long Ears were also
apprehensive. The mission, they knew, was important to the
underworld. It would be arduous and perilous. To succeed, they had
to get close to the Scavengers. The slaves had already demonstrated
their prowess, had tasted the blood of fellow warriors; discovery
by them would spell certain death. Exposed in the brightness of
day, the Watchers would have to exercise great caution and
stealth.

With a final
grunt, Fat One squeezed through the gap in the flagstones, emerging
into the half-darkness created by the overhanging debris. Twisted
Foot and Long Ears appeared moments later. Soon, all three were
sniffing through the rubble in search of Small Face. A trail of
fresh blood led them to a dark corner of the monastery and a narrow
crack at the base of the stonework where the walls met.

Twisted Foot
peered excitedly into the crack. ‘Small Face?’ he cried. ‘Are you
there?’

A weak,
muffled squeal came in response. Some moments elapsed, and then
slowly, cautiously, Small Face stepped into the light. Shaken and
hurt, he blinked furiously in recognition of his three companions.
Blood still seeped from an angry gash along his side.

‘
I – I’m sorry,’ he whimpered. ‘I couldn’t stop
them.’

Fat One
nuzzled into Small Face. ‘You did well to stay alive, comrade,’ he
consoled.

‘
Return to the lair now,’ Twisted Foot said softly. ‘Tell Sharp
Claws what happened. Rest up. We’ll take over here.’

As Small Face
began his painful descent to the underworld and Fat One concealed
himself beneath the rubble, Twisted Foot and Long Ears set off
gingerly from the relative safety of the ruins. Needing a vantage
point, they travelled in parallel paths up to the high ground on
the east of Inchgarvie. From there, they would have a clear view of
all sides of the island.

They climbed
with their backs to the railway bridge, fearfully aware that their
progress might be observed by any number of inquisitive Two-Legs.
Fortunately, the terrain was strewn with rocks, which provided
plenty of cover for the two Watchers. Darting from the shadow of
one boulder to the next, each paused, listened, watched and then
repeated the manoeuvre. It was some time, therefore, before they
reached the top of the slope. Nervous, breathing heavily, they
crouched side by side, Long Ears pointing to the west and Twisted
Foot to the east. Now utterly exposed, they pressed their bodies
flat to the ground.

Long Ears
craned his neck to peer down the slope that he had just ascended.
His gaze swept over the monastery and the jagged strip of rock that
jutted into the sea behind it, and then shifted up to the immense
orange-red superstructure of the Forth Bridge. Just as the
Chamberlain had warned – indeed, as Long Ears himself had observed
on previous watches – gangs of Two-Legs were active along the
length of the bridge. Thankfully, the presence of the Watchers
seemed to have gone unnoticed by those closest to Inchgarvie.

Long Ears
resumed his search of this side of the island, scanning the craggy
slopes to the north and south, examining and re-examining the ruins
of the monastery. Except for the occasional flap of a white bird,
there was no movement.

Twisted Foot’s
scrutiny took in the steep rock-faces which dropped directly in
front of him and to his left and right. This was where the white
birds dwelt – and where the Hunters stalked in the dark of night.
With gulls now taking off, wheeling and landing in rotation, there
was a great deal of activity among the recesses and crannies, but
so far no sign of the fugitive slaves. Further ahead of him, he
could see the flat, moss-grown roof of the concrete gun emplacement
which perched on the island’s promontory. Beyond that was the empty
sea and the faint outline of another larger island on the
horizon.

Patiently, as
still as the ground beneath them, the Watchers waited for their
quarry to emerge.

–
o –

–
Chapter Six –

Although not
particularly cold, the day was a dull one. Oppressive grey clouds
filled the sky. Rain was not far off. The sea was also dirty grey
and sluggish, its surface barely ruffled by the light morning
breeze. Familiar sounds vied with each other along the estuary: the
monotonous growl of traffic on the road bridge, drowned suddenly by
the rush of an express train over the nearby rail bridge; the
distant, steady thrum of passing vessels, punctured by the shrieks
of swooping gulls.

Crouched on
the crest of the island, Twisted Foot and Long Ears attempted to
block out the sounds of life around them, to concentrate on the
terrain immediately below, straining to catch some unfamiliar noise
or to glimpse some unusual activity. Both came in rapid succession.
A flurry of movement at the foot of the eastern slope was followed
by the raucous call of a gull in distress and then the sharp crack
of wings beaten against rock. Hearing the gull’s cry in the same
instant as his companion, Long Ears shifted round quickly to join
Twisted Foot in his search of the lower slope.

Flapping and
croaking, the gull tumbled out from the rocks. A slave-rat clung to
its back, while another tugged furiously on the bird’s neck. Others
danced around the melee, dodging the wing swipes, waiting to
pounce. The struggle was over in seconds. Its gullet now torn open,
the bird uttered a last wheezing rattle and then became still.

Another flurry
of activity ensued as the five slaves proceeded to half-carry,
half-drag their prey away from the rocks and across to the flatter,
more defensible surface of the gun emplacement’s roof. Once there,
the onslaught was violent and noisy. Growling incessantly, clawing
and tearing through the feathers, greedily devouring great chunks
of bird flesh, the Scavengers seemed totally unconcerned about any
dangers that might lurk near them, only occasionally raising their
heads to glance about or to regard with lazy indifference the
circle of gulls which hovered high above, sending down screams of
empty challenge.

Twisted Foot
and Long Ears watched the slaves’ activities with considerable
envy. Neither had eaten for some time, nor had they ever tasted the
succulent flesh of the white birds; that pleasure was only enjoyed
by the ruling Circle. In their eagerness to obtain a clearer view
of the carnage, both stretched out over the ridge, but a casual
glance up the slope by one of the Scavengers had them promptly
shrinking back. Twisted Foot, his heart thudding, knew that their
incaution might prove fatal. They were a long way from the
underworld. The slaves were fast: if they gave chase, Long Ears
might just make it to safety, but his own halting pace would not be
enough. With growing dread, he peeked over the edge. The Scavengers
were still on the roof, their attention completely absorbed in the
gull’s entrails. Twisted Foot drew back again, this time breathing
easier.

His relief was
short-lived. Only moments later, Long Ears was prodding him
urgently.

‘
Look!’ his companion whispered. ‘Over there!’

Twisted Foot
followed the direction of Long Ears’ gaze. Not far off, a small,
brightly coloured Two-Legs vessel was cutting through the placid
water at speed, the sound of its engine overpowered for the time
being by the thunder of a passing train. The vessel was heading
straight for the weather-stained wooden jetty on the south side of
the island.

Twisted Foot
had observed Two-Legs visitors on several occasions in the past,
but never from a place so open and vulnerable as this one. His
first impulse was to scuttle in panic down to the monastery, where
he and Long Ears could join Fat One in the security of the shadowy
ruins, but the impulse was denied by a superior power. Their orders
from the underworld were to maintain vigilance over the fugitive
slaves: that was what they must continue to do. If we keep as flat
and as still as possible, Twisted Foot began to reason, we may not
be seen by the Two-Legs. Besides, the visitors hardly ever ventured
up to the high ground, usually keeping to the narrow footway which
ran round the lower parts of the island. His panic subsided for the
moment.

The two
occupants of the lime-green dinghy stepped up on to the jetty’s
greasy surface. Wearing bright orange lifesaving jackets on top of
shiny yellow anoraks, their appearance matched the gaudiness of the
dinghy. Both were bareheaded, clean-shaven and young. One carried a
plastic box containing a powerful drill; the other a satchel full
of short aluminium tubes. Theirs was no casual visit to Inchgarvie:
they had business to perform.

Hardly
glancing to their left or right, the two men set off immediately
for the crest of the island. Regretting their earlier decision to
stay put, the Watchers now sunk closer to the edge of the ridge,
ready to slip down the steep face of the northern slope. The
visitors had climbed only a few steps when a chorus of shouts and
whistles from the direction of the bridge halted their progress –
and at the same time sent Twisted Foot and Long Ears scrambling
over the edge.

Attracted by
the din of the hovering gulls, about a dozen workers on the bridge
had gathered to watch the slave-rats’ feast. Except for the
occasional murmur, they had observed this spectacle in silent
fascination. The arrival of the two men on the island now provoked
a more excited reaction from them. As the workers shouted, stamped
and gesticulated, one of the visitors, mistaking these actions as
signs of a jocular greeting, grinned and raised his arm to wave
back.

‘
No!’ cried a worker. ‘Over there!’ He pointed down to the gun
emplacement and then cupped his hands round his mouth. ‘Rats!’ he
boomed. ‘Hunners o’ them!’

The worker’s
exaggeration ringing in their ears, the men moved round the slope
with mixed feelings of curiosity and trepidation. In moments, they
had a clear view of the oblong concrete building and the rat pack
on its roof. They stood quite still, open-mouthed, not daring to
get closer. Whoops and catcalls continued to rain down from the
bridge.

Undeterred by
the constant shrieks of the gulls high above them or by the clamour
of the equally distant Two-Legs, the Scavengers had proceeded to
gorge on the flesh of their victim. The freedom that had been
snatched so recently from their captors; their daring escape from
the very jaws of death; the excitement of the kill; the scent of
fresh blood in their nostrils: all these sensations combined to
intoxicate them. They felt strong, invincible. The sudden
appearance only yards away of the brightly clad Two-Legs brought a
swift challenge to this new-found confidence.

All five
Scavengers stopped abruptly to watch the visitors. Like the
visitors, they remained stock-still, unable to decide on their next
action. The strange giants showed no outward sign of threat, but,
instinctively, the Scavengers sensed immense danger from their
presence. A loose rock dislodged by one of the visitors rolled
noisily down the slope, breaking the stalemate. Each of the
Scavengers flew off in a different direction, scurrying down from
the roof and slipping through one of the emplacement’s high slit
holes into the safety offered by the building’s dark interior. The
men stared for some moments at the bloody mess of bones and
feathers abandoned by the rats. Then they returned hastily to the
jetty. To a fresh chorus of cheers and whistles from the bridge,
the dinghy’s engine spurted into action. The two visitors left the
island just as quickly as they had come.

From their
precarious perch near the top of the northern slope, Twisted Foot
and Long Ears had witnessed the flight of the slaves and had
listened to the sounds of the retreating visitors. Some time later,
they observed the dispersal of the gang of Two-Legs on the bridge.
Cautiously, they crept back to their original position. A steady
drizzle had broken free from the heavy skies, accentuating the
greyness and bleakness of the scene below them. The rest of the day
was uneventful. The slaves remained hidden in the gun emplacement.
There were no more visitors to the island. When dusk fell, the
Watchers picked their way carefully down the wet slope. They were
tired, cold and very hungry – but they had much to tell Sharp
Claws.

–
o –

–
Chapter Seven –

Neck-Snapper
winced. He curled more tightly in his nest, seeking some relief
from the excruciating pain that stabbed into his head. He had come
off badly in the incident with the fleeing slave-rat. The attack
had left a deep score down the right side of his muzzle and a
gaping, bloody hole where his right eye had been. A lost eye was
normally an impressive battle scar, one which drew looks of
admiration and envy from the younger warriors, but the whole of the
Outer Circle knew that his injury had been caused by a lowly
Scavenger. He had been humiliated in front of them. His failing had
led to the slaves’ escape. He would never again be trusted to carry
out executions; guard duty would be his lot from now on. Fuelled by
the blinding pain, anger and resentment boiled within him, on the
verge of exploding. The appearance in the Protectors’ lair of the
Chief Watcher and his crippled comrade triggered the waiting
explosion.

With a great
roar, Neck-Snapper leapt from his nest and charged at the Watchers.
Twisted Foot cowered back in alarm, but old Sharp Claws stood his
ground, arching his back and facing square on to the crazed and
drooling attacker. Others in the lair had also leapt from their
slumber and were now assembling behind Neck-Snapper. The crowd
quickly parted, however, as the burly form of Broken Tail pushed
through from the back.