The Island of Whispers (6 page)

‘
Understand this, comrades!’ Long Snout snapped. ‘The Cold
Cycle will last as long as the threat to our world remains. That
may be a long time – much longer than has been experienced for many
generations. During that time, we must be sparing with our food
supply. We must control our numbers carefully.’

The audience
was suddenly silent again.

‘
During that time, there will be Selections – frequent
Selections. We have decreed that none will be exempt from them. The
Selections will be complete!’

Long
afterwards, in the quiet of the Watchers’ lair, Twisted Foot was
roused gently by Small Face.

‘
Twisted Foot,’ his tiny companion whispered. ‘What did Long
Snout mean when he said that the Selections would be
complete?’

An eerie voice
came from the nest next to them.

‘
It means, comrade,’ said Long Ears, ‘that for as long as they
decree we shall keep on breeding our young for the mouths of the
Rulers.

‘
Just like the Scavengers do for us,’ he added.

Twisted Foot’s
heart jumped. Again, it was as if Long Ears had been listening to
his innermost thoughts.

–
o –

Part Two:

The Plot

–
Chapter Twelve –

Some called it
the Eighth Wonder of the World; they were struck by its imposing
splendour and majesty. Some were more impressed by the mechanics; a
great feat of human ingenuity, an engineering miracle, they
enthused. The statistics held others in awe: the many tons of steel
which clothed its vast structure; the countless rivets which fixed
the steel in place; the endless gallons of paint which kept
corrosion at bay. A rare few found ugliness in the colossus: a rich
man’s folly, a vanity, it had broken men’s backs in the making, had
sent not a few plummeting to their deaths. To admirers and
denigrators alike, though, the old bridge was a daily familiarity,
a fixture unconcerned with the passage of time or mortal lives, a
constant in a world of change and turmoil.

For a hundred
years, the Forth Railway Bridge had straddled the banks of the
estuary, a permanent bond between the ancient burgh of Queensferry
to the south and its identically named neighbour across the river.
A century of sunrises had woken the giant, beginning afresh its
sovereignty of the landscape. Across the decades, it had looked
down imperiously on the ebbs and flows of human development:
unflinching in 1939 when the Luftwaffe came so very close to
success; indifferent to the demise of the sturdy steam locomotives
which had crawled, chugging and panting, through its massive belly;
still defiant in 1964 when a rival road bridge sprang up on its
horizon: a sleek, modern pretender to its vast kingdom. Now, in
1990, its centennial year, the old monarch remained aloof from the
rush of activity along its mighty arches.

To celebrate the centenary of the bridge, the communities on
both sides of the Firth of Forth had united to organise a series of
local events. From March through to early October, there had been,
among other activities, exhibitions, concerts and open-air plays.
But the major events were reserved for the last day of the
celebrations on Sunday, October 14P
^thP
, the anniversary of the
bridge’s official opening. A million spectators would converge on
North and South Queensferry that day. Above the estuary, there
would be air displays and parachute demonstrations. In the towns,
pipe bands and street performers would entertain the crowds. At
night, the beams from powerful searchlights would split the sky
above the bridge, just as they had done during the anxious War
years. For the climax of the celebration, the giant silhouette of
the bridge would be seen against a backdrop of cascading rainbows
from a spectacular fireworks display. In the midst of this
splendour, a switch would be thrown to inaugurate the permanent
floodlighting of the bridge, its final birthday tribute.

With seven
days still remaining, the preparations for the finale were well
advanced. The logistics needed to cope with the expected influx of
sightseers to the area had been worked out carefully. On the
following Sunday, the local communities would be sealed off from
normal traffic; temporary car parks on their outskirts had been
designated for incoming motorists. Special trains would disgorge
other visitors on either side of the bridge, but, for the first
time in a hundred years, no trains would cross the bridge that day.
After weeks of intensive work, the floodlighting was in place. A
trial switch-on during the previous week had been successful. Now,
the contractors were busy securing the miles of cable that had been
threaded through the intricate arches of the bridge.

Some concern
had arisen about the arrangements for the fireworks display. The
organisers intended to mount the display from Inchgarvie, the small
island close to the foot of the bridge’s central arch. The
fireworks would be stored on the island and set off by remote
control from a safe vantage point. These plans were put in
jeopardy, however, when it was discovered that the island was
inhabited by rats. At first, there were reports of a huge colony of
the creatures. Later, though, the local pest control expert advised
the organisers that the scare was unfounded. In his view,
Inchgarvie was incapable of sustaining a sizeable population of
rats. His search of the island had revealed only a handful of stray
‘visitors’, and these had been swiftly exterminated. The fireworks
extravaganza could go ahead as planned.

–
o –

–
Chapter Thirteen –

The two
youngsters wrestled in a corner of the lair. There was much
grunting and growling and scratching as they rolled over on the
hard ground. Little puffs of dust were thrown up by the impact of
their squirming bodies. Jaws open and fangs showing, each tried to
gain purchase on the other’s throat. Both were almost fully grown,
their grappling more in earnest than in play. A sudden lunge by one
of the youngsters sent his opponent sprawling backwards. Another
lunge, and needle-like teeth sank momentarily into soft, exposed
flesh, bringing the contest to an end. The loser uttered a sharp
squeal of pain and then scrambled up and fled from the scene. With
a great show of pride, the victor shook the dust from his fur and
licked his fangs before strutting triumphantly back to the
nest.

Twisted Foot
nudged the youngster affectionately. This was his only son. Lithe,
sleek and perfectly formed, he would reach his first full Cycle
soon, ready to join the ranks of the Watchers. Sharp Claws would
name him then. Soft-Mover, thought Twisted Foot; that name best
described the youngster’s sharpness and agility. Soft-Mover was a
good name for a Watcher; it signified stealth and cunning. There
was no hint of mockery in it, unlike the names that he and many of
his companions had been given. Yes, Soft-Mover was a good name; a
suitable name for a Hunter, perhaps. If the youngster proved his
abilities, he might one day be accepted into the Hunters’ lair.
That would be a proud moment.

His prowess
having been acknowledged by his father’s nuzzling, the youngster
now leapt away and began to creep along the neighbouring nests in
search of another challenge. As he watched his son go, poignant
memories of the last Cold Cycle returned to Twisted Foot. His mate
had provided him with three sons and a daughter, all healthy and
well-formed, his first offspring. The subsequent Selection had been
particularly cruel, though, depriving him of all but one of the
brood. The other young ones, although unblemished, had been
wrenched away by Broken Tail and his thugs. There had been no
cause, no justification. It had been a bitter blow, but in time he
had come to accept the disappointment, to reconcile the
indiscriminate and brutal nature of the process with the needs of
the society. He had looked forward to the next Cold Cycle, to the
next brood, and to another opportunity to raise strong and
intelligent youngsters like Soft-Mover. Now, however, that dream
had also been wrenched away by the Chamberlain’s cruel
proclamation.

The Cold Cycle
is upon us, Twisted Foot thought ruefully, but it brings scant
enjoyment while the threat of the Selections hangs over the lair.
Even our mating has lost its pleasure. He recalled the words that
Long Ears had spoken. Yes, he agreed, our breeding now has but one
purpose: to fill the bellies of the Rulers. The image of Long Ears
lingered in his mind, growing stronger, more solid.

‘
Time to go, comrade,’ the soft voice said suddenly.

Twisted Foot
blinked. Long Ears now crouched beside the nest, the image come to
life. The watch, of course! Twisted Foot remembered. He sighed and
left the nest reluctantly. The bitterness that he had felt after
the last Selection had re-emerged, deeper and more virulent than
before.

The four
Watchers travelled up the long tunnel in silence. It would be dark
on the outside world – and cold again. The effort to vacate their
warm nests had been difficult for all of them, particularly now,
when mating was permitted. Some of the young warriors down in the
lair had no mates of their own; they would waste little time before
pressing their attentions on the mates of the absent Watchers. A
few might succeed in snatching brief moments of pleasure from the
struggling she-rats.

Fat One cursed
silently as he stumbled behind the others. He cursed the coldness
into which he would soon emerge. He cursed his own stupidity for
falling asleep during the Assembly, thus incurring this seemingly
endless round of extra watches. He cursed the unattached young
he-rats, who by now would be prowling hungrily round his nest. Most
of all, though, he cursed Long Snout and the old tyrant’s obsession
with the Two-Legs. Punishment and extra watches aside, Fat One
grumbled, the Cold Cycle usually brought less work, not more. The
Hunters were now idle; they could stay cosy in their lair. With
fewer Assemblies to guard and fewer executions to perform, the
Protectors likewise had less to do. But the work of the Watchers
had increased substantially. Still anxious about the menace posed
by the glowing giant, still deeply worried about the flapping
creature left by the Two-Legs, Long Snout had decided that, night
and day, four Watchers must maintain vigilance on the world above.
Since the great excitement of a few days ago, however, the giant
had not come to life again. Nor had the creature on the high ground
caused any harm; abandoned by the Two-Legs, it had merely flapped
forlornly in the wind. Even the white birds had returned to their
roosts, no longer afraid of the strange intruder. The high state of
nervousness in the underworld had also been replaced by calm,
albeit an uneasy calm. To all but Long Snout, it seemed that the
threat of discovery by the Two-Legs had passed. Clearly, these long
watches were so unnecessary, so unfair.

A blast of
cold air from above signified that they had reached the end of the
tunnel. Fat One shivered – and cursed again.

The members of
the daylight watch left happily for the underworld. The dialogue
with the sombre newcomers had been clipped, perfunctory. Twisted
Foot and Long Ears set off for the western point of Inchgarvie,
where they would be close to the shadowy bridge. Still grumbling,
Fat One agreed to watch the east of the island. In a rare show of
agility, he leapt up the monastery wall and squeezed his body into
the space afforded by one of the oblong window holes. This perch
gave him a clear view of both the jetty and the contraption on the
high ground. The fourth Watcher, Digger, stayed inside the
monastery, near to the entrance tunnel. Digger (so called because
of his propensity for scratching the ground in search of worms and
other tiny delicacies) was one of the lair’s veterans, probably
older than Sharp Claws, and certainly much frailer.

It was even
colder than they had feared. A chilling wind swept down the estuary
from the west, blustering through the bridge’s giant arches and
whipping into the faces of the two Watchers on the narrow point.
Weak moonlight, intermittently obliterated by the passage of dark,
fast-moving clouds, added a ghostly lustre to the battalions of
jostling waves which besieged the rocks on either side of the
ridge. The Watchers huddled together for warmth, their eyes closed
to the merest of slits against the buffeting wind.

‘
At times like these, comrade,’ Long Ears chattered, ‘I would
gladly be gone from this place.’

Twisted Foot
was quick to recognise the jest in his companion’s remark. Banter
like this would keep them occupied for a while; it would alleviate
the boredom and the miserable coldness.

‘
And where, apart from his nest, would a bold warrior go on a
night such as this?’ he quipped, playing along.

Long Ears
didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he peered across the estuary
to the strings of twinkling lights on the northern shoreline.

‘
To the land over there,’ he said at length.

Twisted Foot
snorted, but something about the statement, the tone of Long Ears’
delivery, told him that the jesting was over.

‘
There? But why?’ he asked weakly.

His companion
sighed and then regarded Twisted Foot for some moments. His outsize
ears were quivering; his whole body seemed to tremble. Twisted Foot
sensed that mounting anger, not the cutting wind, was the
cause.

‘
For many reasons, comrade,’ Long Ears hissed, his narrow eyes
now filled with venom. ‘Because I detest the oppression of our
society. Because I am treated no better than a Scavenger. Because I
don’t want my youngsters devoured by the fat brown ones. Because I
hate their smugness and their easy life.’