The Island of Whispers (4 page)

‘
Enough!’ cried the Chief Protector. ‘Get back to your nests!’
he ordered.

The onlookers
slunk away; none dared defiance. Even Neck-Snapper, in spite of his
demented state, could not ignore the command. Before retreating, he
directed a final menacing glance at Sharp Claws. Twisted Foot
shivered, recognising the meaning of that look. There will be
another time and another place, comrade, it said, when we will meet
alone.

Broken Tail
now turned his attention to the intruders. ‘Why have you come
here?’ he rasped. ‘You know that this is the time of rest.’

‘
We have news from the outside for the Chamberlain,’ Sharp
Claws responded quickly. ‘Grave news,’ he emphasised.

Broken Tail
pondered for some moments. He had little regard for the Watchers,
but he did have some respect for Sharp Claws’ wisdom and
experience. The news must surely be important, he judged; important
enough to rouse the Chamberlain.

‘
Come,’ he commanded. Then he wheeled round and led the
Watchers to a tunnel in the centre of the lair’s left
wall.

Still shaken
by Neck-Snapper’s sudden onslaught, Twisted Foot stayed close to
the Chief Watcher as they headed towards the tunnel. The
surroundings were new to him. Peeking round nervously, he could see
that the lair was much bigger than his own one. Although many
bodies occupied the nests, he guessed that the place was not as
full as it would be normally at this time. Security in the
underworld had been increased substantially since the escape of the
slave-rats, with extra guards having been posted along the entrance
to the Common lair and outside the tunnel leading to the
Scavengers’ lair. Here in the Protectors’ lair, guards also
squatted round the tunnel now directly ahead of the Watchers. A
last, timid glance backwards gave Twisted Foot a blurred glimpse of
another group of Protectors at the far end of the lair, but he had
little time to think about or question their purpose.

They moved
quickly through the long, low tunnel, emerging into another
spacious lair, home of the Inner Circle. Rows of comfortable,
feather-lined nests took up the greater part of the floor area.
Some of their occupants looked up sleepily, blinked several times,
yawned and then settled down again. Rainwater glistened on the wall
to the left, collecting in a shallow pool in a corner of the
lair.

Twisted Foot
watched the slumbering forms of the Rulers with much envy in his
heart. Compared with the luxury of this place, life in the
Watchers’ lair was cramped and austere. He had faced considerable
danger that day. He was still cold and bedraggled from his time on
the outside world. He had had no rest, and hunger gnawed at his
belly. These experiences, he realised, were alien to the Rulers.
Here there was comfort and absolute security, and the certainty of
food and rest. For the first time in his short life, Twisted Foot
was conscious that he was becoming resentful of the favoured
lifestyle of the Inner Circle. The resentment that had crept into
his thoughts was abruptly ousted by fear, however, when the
Chamberlain rose from his sleep.

Long Snout was
wide awake and on his feet. His eyes glowed fiercely. There was
anger in his voice.

‘
What is the meaning of this disturbance?’ he hissed, towering
over the visitors.

Broken Tail
replied for the group. ‘News, Chamberlain,’ he bowed, ‘from the
outside world.’

‘
Well?’ Long Snout asked sharply, directing his stare at the
Chief Watcher.

Just as they
had been reported to him only a short time ago, Sharp Claws
recounted the events witnessed by Twisted Foot and Long Ears. The
Chamberlain listened carefully. Occasionally, he turned his cold
gaze to Twisted Foot, causing the young Watcher’s heart to kick
each time. When Sharp Claws had finished, Long Snout remained
silent for a few moments longer and then turned again to look at
Twisted Foot.

‘
You are certain that you were not seen by the Two-Legs?’ he
asked.

‘
Y-yes, certain, Chamberlain.’ Twisted Foot stumbled over the
words, fighting to control the tremble in his voice and
body.

‘
Good,’ pronounced the Chamberlain.

After some
further deliberation, he spoke in urgent tones to Broken Tail: ‘Go
quickly! Take word to One Eye. Tell him that the Hunters must
remain in the underworld. Let the fugitives enjoy their freedom –
for the short while that they will have it!’ The last words were
spoken with venom.

As Broken Tail
scurried off, Long Snout now directed his commands to Sharp Claws:
‘Send up your Watchers when the next light comes. The Two-Legs will
return for the Scavengers. Let me know what takes place.

‘
This young warrior,’ he indicated towards Twisted Foot,
‘should lead the watch. He shows some promise.’

Twisted Foot
was too tired to react to the Chamberlain’s praise or to consider
the consequences of another daylight watch. Completely drained, he
followed Sharp Claws out of the lair. As he passed the line of
nests, he caught sight of a sleepy-eyed White Muzzle, curled up
snugly between the dozing figures of two red-furred she-rats. The
King-rat’s hefty girth and shining coat exuded health and
wellbeing. Dark resentment returned to Twisted Foot’s thoughts.

–
o –

–
Chapter Eight –

The small dog
sprang effortlessly up to the jetty. It remained there, surveying
the island, sniffing in the scents of this strange, new territory.
Its owner stepped up from the boat to join the dog in its scrutiny.
The man was tall and lean and slightly stooped. The wind coming
from the east tugged at his mane of grey hair and sent billows
running through his loose overalls and shabby green jacket. An
unlit pipe protruded from his close-cropped silvery beard.

Skilfully, the
man struck a match and placed it in the bowl of the pipe,
alternately sucking hard on the newly glowing embers and exhaling
great puffs of thick smoke, which were immediately snatched up and
dispersed by the wind. The man kept his gaze on the island,
exploring the contours, seeking out movement. His eyes were also
grey, and hooded like a bird’s. His face bore a calmness, an
expression that said: I’ve seen it all before; there are no
surprises left. Unhurriedly, he set off for the footpath on his
right. His height dwarfed the dog, which now trotted lightly behind
him, its nose pointing close to the ground.

As he walked,
the canvas bag which hung from the man’s angular shoulders swayed
and rattled in the breeze. Although it was shaped like a plumber’s
satchel, Tam Proudfoot’s bag contained only the paraphernalia of
his particular trade: a large torch; an array of traps with strong
steel springs and deadly shutters; poisons of all kinds, in
bottles, tins and small cardboard boxes; and foul-smelling offal,
wrapped in Clingfilm and kept in an old biscuit tin. The tools of
the rat-catcher’s trade were crude and simple, but always
effective.

Tam reached
the gun emplacement, climbed the rocks at its rear and then stepped
down on to its roof. The little Jack Russell terrier sped past him,
anxious to inspect the bird remains scattered over the roof.
Another gull had fallen victim to the rats during the night. Tam’s
examination of the carcasses was much less thorough than the dog’s
close-up sniff. He sucked on the pipe again, looking out to the
swelling sea, a hint of humour in his eyes. The visitors to
Inchgarvie the day before had returned to spread alarm in the
community about the hundreds of fierce rats which infested the
island. He had lived here all his life; rats were his business. The
story, he knew, was exaggerated. Not deliberately, of course, but
magnified as usual by peoples’ natural horror of the creatures.
There were rats on the island, that was true; but he was confident
that they, too, were visitors, not inhabitants. Tam took a final
pull at the pipe and then slid the heavy bag to his feet.

‘
Right, Nipper!’ he shouted to the dog. ‘Let’s dae our
job!’

Tam went to
the edge of the roof and crouched down. He was now directly above
the building’s entrance. The stale, damp smell which rose up on the
breeze confirmed the dankness within. Tam placed his hand on the
flat of Nipper’s head.

‘
Down there, boy,’ he said, using his other hand to point at
the ground outside the entrance.

The dog
understood. It leapt from the roof, landing lightly and twisting
round to face the entrance.

‘
In there, boy!’ Tam shouted. ‘In there, Nipper!’

Ears pricked,
tensed, the dog stepped cautiously into the gloomy interior. Tam
stood back from the edge. After a short period of silence, the
place erupted suddenly in a cacophony of loud yelps, squeals and
fierce growling. Rats began to spring from the slit holes,
scrambling up to the roof and then bounding away to the safety of
the rocks. Tam counted four fleeing bodies. The yapping from below
had subsided, but the growls persisted. He looked down to see
Nipper emerging backwards from the building, a fifth rat caught by
the neck between the dog’s small, powerful jaws. Nipper shook the
rat violently, hammering its struggling body repeatedly against the
ground. The squirming ceased abruptly as life went out of the
creature.

‘
Here, boy!’ called Tam. ‘Up here, wee boy!’

Nipper carried
the prize up to the roof, dropped it at Tam’s feet, and then danced
and yelped with delight.

‘
Good boy, Nipper,’ said Tam as he stooped down and picked up
the limp rat by its tail.

He peered at
the body. Black, he remarked to himself. Not like the local ones.
Better fed, too. Probably from some ship that’s been to foreign
parts. West Africa, maybe, or the Mediterranean. A visitor, right
enough. With a sudden heave, he tossed the rat far out into the
sea.

Tam chuckled
as he set about his next task. ‘Hundreds o’ rats!’ he laughed.

He knelt down
and selected four traps from the bag, together with the biscuit
tin. Warning the dog to stay back, he placed the traps at intervals
along the roof. He returned to each trap, priming it with a chunk
of pungent offal and carefully setting its stiff shutter. Carrying
the bag in one hand and the tin of bait in the other, he left the
roof and entered the gun emplacement. Nipper followed him, but kept
at a discrete distance.

Tam crouched
down again, placing both bag and tin on the ground. He pulled the
heavy torch from the bag and snapped it on. The solid beam cut
through the darkness, revealing rubble, cobwebs, dried bird
droppings, some feathers, but little else. Tam nodded. The absence
of a nest confirmed his theory about the rats’ origins. He tossed
the last piece of offal into the centre of the building and then
covered it with the contents of a box of poison pellets.

With the torch
and bait tin stowed away, and with the bag slung back on his
shoulder, Tam stepped out of the gloom.

‘
That’ll do it for the now,’ he said to the waiting
dog.

The
rat-catcher re-lit his pipe, stood puffing for some moments and
then returned slowly to the jetty. The tiny dog pranced playfully
at his heels.

As the noise
of the rat-catcher’s boat became a distant drone, the Watchers at
the top of the island relaxed only slightly. Danger still lurked in
the rocks below. The Scavengers were well concealed down there, but
they could re-emerge at any moment.

Twisted Foot
and Long Ears had left the underworld at dawn. Shortly afterwards,
they had watched the events unfold at the gun emplacement, this
time without the noisy accompaniment of the Two-Legs on the bridge.
With its resounding cry and strange, mottled coat, the Four-Legs
held them mesmerised. Neither had seen a creature like it before.
The ferocity of its attack on the slave-rat was something that they
would not forget easily.

The Watchers
now tried to concentrate on the lower part of the slope leading to
the gun emplacement, but the tantalising smell of offal, carried up
to them on the wind, kept drawing their attention back to the
building’s roof. The food left by the Two-Legs puzzled them.
Whatever its purpose, though, however enticing it seemed, they
regarded its presence with significant mistrust.

The Scavengers
were not so sceptical. One by one, lured by the pungent scent,
their small dark heads appeared above the rocks. All four moved
forward stealthily until they crouched together on the edge of the
roof. After some moments of hesitation, the bravest (or greediest)
of them darted to the first of the traps and snatched at the bait.
The bait would not give. The Scavenger tugged again. This time the
trap’s shutter hammered down with a loud, sharp crack, crushing the
Scavenger’s neck and driving a steel spike through the back of its
brain. The others fled from the roof. It was not long, though,
before they were back again, first devouring the offal that had
eluded their dead companion and then moving on to examine the next
trap. In seconds, another victim had been claimed, and the process
began again. On this occasion, despite the more cautious, joint
approach of the two survivors, a swift double-kill was scored by
the snapping shutter.

The young
Watchers had flinched each time a trap shut. For a long time
afterwards, they gazed down on the corpses of the fugitives, still
marvelling at the cunning and treachery of the Two-Legs, equally
astounded by the utter foolishness of the Scavengers. The
excitement was now over; the immediate danger gone. Another long
day on the outside world loomed ahead of them.

–
o –

–
Chapter Nine –