The Madman’s Daughter (19 page)

Sunlight poured in from rusted-out patches in the roof, throwing puddles of light on the room. Dust danced in the hazy air.

My breath began to calm. I was alone, I told myself. I cleaned the cabin’s one dirty window with the edge of my sleeve. Outside there was nothing but empty porch and my walking stick leaning against a post.

On the table was a nub of tallow candle and a grimy green bottle filled with dust and the petrified husks of flying insects. I spied a cupboard in the corner and twisted open the latch. The door came off in my hand, and a heavy, rusted wrench spilled out at my feet, just missing my toes. I jumped back, my heart in my throat. Several more tools tumbled out with a dull crash of metal. I stooped to look. A claw-headed hammer. A railroad spike. A rusted pair of shears. My hand closed over the shears. Though the blades were dull, they could be used as a weapon. I slipped it into my pocket.

I turned to the bed and sucked in a quick breath. The remnants of a straw mattress and old quilt were matted with thick yellow fur. Something had made a den out of the bed—some animal. Images jumped to mind of a savage beast with claws big enough to slice a man open.

I fumbled with my skirt pocket and pulled out the
shears. With my other hand I touched the quilt, hesitantly. The fur felt gritty and rough against my fingers. A creature lived here.

And it might return.

A desperate need to flee pulled at my gut. When I turned, I caught sight of something startlingly white on the mantel above the caved-in fireplace. I stepped closer to see what it was.

On the mantel was a small glass bottle, broken at the top, filled halfway with water. In the bottle was a single fresh white flower.

No animal could do that. Someone had been here. A human.

A chill seized me.

This wasn’t the den of some wild animal—it was the filthy home of some person. I hurled myself at the door. But the wooden latch wouldn’t turn.

A creak sounded from the porch. I pulled back my hand as though the latch were on fire. My body went still as stone. I closed my eyes.

I waited.

I licked some moisture back into my quivering lips.

Another creak. And another, slow as the shallow breaths I took. Someone was walking on the bowed wooden boards on the other side of the door.

My eyes flew open. I dared not take a step and make my presence known. From my position I could see out of the window’s corner. The shadow of a tall figure stretched across the porch.

The latch rattled.

I shrank into myself, feeling a silent scream coming from every pore in my skin. There was no other way out of the cabin. The window was on the same side as the door, and the chimney had fallen in. I looked up into the dappled sunlight blinding my eyes. The roof would never take my weight.

The latch rattled again.

I fought against consuming fear. Panic would get me nowhere. I needed my head. He’d be bigger than me, no doubt, so I couldn’t overpower him. The shears were an extension of my hand, deadly and ready to strike. I needed to catch him by surprise as soon as the door opened. Strike something essential but soft, easy to damage with the shears. His abdomen. No—his eyes. I could get away easier from a blind attacker.

The latch rattled again, harder this time. Sweat rolled down the sides of my face. Somewhere beneath the fear, there was a thrill. I could almost taste it, like chimney ash. In the next minute, I might blind a man with my own hands. It made me feel savage and powerful.

Outside, somewhere in the jungle, one of the bloodhounds howled. A small ripple of hope.

Suddenly the door went still. The dog howled again, and then several more joined it. They had picked up a scent. I tried to peer out the window but saw nothing. The shears were slick in my sweating palm.

Then, as sudden as they had come, the footsteps left.

I waited ten seconds. Twenty. I lost count. Still, the
doorknob did not move. I forced my legs to walk to the window. The porch outside was totally empty.

Had the dogs frightened him off? Or was he just around the corner, waiting for me? I stood still as long as I could before the dust dancing in the air began to choke me like poison. I pounded at the latch with the shears until I could twist it. Slowly, I inched open the door. Sweat rolled off my face and soaked my blouse. I took a step onto the porch.

There was no one there. He’d gone. But he’d left behind wet footprints on the sagging wooden porch, interspersed with my own bloody prints. I crouched down to study the print closest to the door. It dwarfed my own. He’d been barefoot, which was strange. Stranger still was the number of toes.

One, two, three.

I
JERKED UP FROM
the porch floor, searching the jungle. An eerie feeling of watching eyes crept over me. The island was full of life, and yet I saw none of it. The living things here had a way of creeping silently, like ghosts, keeping to the shadows, whispering. The spaces between the leaves could hold all kinds of dangers.

I snatched the walking stick and jumped off the porch, wincing as my tender bare soles connected with the ground. I hurried to the edge of the clearing. Sweat poured down my neck, pooling in the space between my breasts. Ahead, the grass bent from someone recently having passed through. An insect trilled behind me. The jungle watched my every move.

I turned and cut across the clearing, following the direction of the dogs’ barking. Tall blades of grass slashed at my skirt. Through breaks in the trees I could see the volcano plume, but there should have been a second column of smoke from the compound’s chimney. Either the fire wasn’t
going or I was too far away. I decided to circle the island until I found a road. The terrain flattened gradually as I neared the coast, but I hit a patch of dense brambles. My walking stick became a machete. At least beating back the vines gave me a distraction from not knowing which way to go. And not knowing if Edward was all right.

He might be wandering the island, lost like me.
I know about the scandal
, he’d said. But if that was so, why hadn’t he said anything earlier? Why had he agreed to come if he knew my father was a madman?

I beat back another bramble with my walking stick. Edward Prince was as difficult to figure out as the twists and turns in the jungle labyrinth. Every direction looked the same. Big, woolly vines clung to the trunks of many-armed trees. Brambles tangled like a wild horse’s mane.

A cry sounded in the distance, and a bolt of fear propelled me forward into a run. The three-toed creature was still out there—man or beast or murderer, I didn’t know. Maybe watching, even now. Waiting for nightfall. Following my steps like a phantom. The faster I ran, the greater the fear swelled. I wiped slick sweat off my forehead but more took its place. I started sprinting, faster and faster, until I crashed into a copse of leafy stalks. When I fought my way through, I found myself next to a small, winding stream.

I sank on the bank. The thump of my pulse was deafening. A bird warbled, and then another. But no phantom pursuer crashed through the jungle behind me. My breath slowed.

I splashed water on my burning face and lay back on
the moss and leaves, letting my lungs fill with air. Nothing about the island was predictable. It was as alive as a person, full of whims and lies and contradictions. I didn’t know what to trust. Each snap sounded like a pursuer. Every half-trampled path led to nothing. How could I even trust my own instincts? They had led me to the island to test some theory—some desperate hope—that the world had been wrong about my father.

My instincts had been wrong.

My vision was blurry and my head pounded—I’d missed my injection that morning. I wiped my face and noticed a streak of red on my arm. Blood bubbled from the thorn scratches. I touched my forehead, my cheeks, my neck. Blood stuck to my skin like tar. I’d become prey to the island but, as in my dream, I felt no pain. Only a fascination with the webs of slashes and bloody marks on my body. I was sliding, slipping away from humanity.

Had my father slid the same way?

Something fast and damp darted across my hand. I sat up with a shriek. Across the stream, something flashed again, then closer, moving incredibly fast. It was about the size of a rat but of an odd fleshy color. The longer I sat still, the more creatures appeared, slinking around on the other side of the stream. I bent forward slowly to take a drink, cupping the water in my hands, and looked up to find one standing on its hind legs on a rock, head cocked. I gasped. Not afraid, just bewildered. I’d never seen anything like it. It was a little smaller than a rat, furless, with a face like a snapping turtle. The thing squawked and disappeared
back into the foliage. For a few moments, not a single leaf rustled.

Biologists discovered new species all the time, but these rats seemed unnatural somehow. My thoughts were so consumed that I hardly noticed that the water had turned a dark tint like rust. The little creatures congregated on the other stream bank, leaping and chattering.

“What are you so excited about?” I muttered, wading over to them. The creatures scattered, revealing a mauled chunk of flesh and fur—one of the rabbits I’d set free. I jolted in surprise. It was ripped apart but uneaten. Blood still trickled into the stream.

A recent kill.

Something much bigger than the rat things was responsible. Maybe something with three claws, big enough to kill the islanders. I scurried to the opposite bank, tunneling into a thicket of bamboo to hide. The ratlike creatures vanished. The jungle filled with the trickling sound of water and the ever-present calls of birds. Slowly, I made out two voices.

Arguing.

The voices had a strange, rough lilt, like Balthazar’s.
Thou shalt not crawl in the dirt
, I remembered him saying.
Thou shalt not kill other men
. The voices of islanders, which meant they were likely loyal to my father and could take me to the compound. But something held me back. There was no proof the murderer was a wild animal. It wouldn’t be hard for a man to disguise knife wounds to look like claw marks.

I crept closer, silently.

“He says, Caesar,” one of them said.

“Shalt not eat flesh. Shalt not eat flesh. Nonsense,” another answered.

My chest pressed to the rotting leaves. Between the twisted roots, I made out two figures with their backs to me. Islanders for sure. They shuffled as they argued, making quick, awkward movements. The underbrush hid their bottom halves, so I couldn’t see if they were barefoot or count the number of toes.

Through the screen of leaves I could tell one of the men was about Balthazar’s size, perhaps even larger, with matted black hair and a canvas jacket like Montgomery’s. The other was smaller, with a dingy white shirt. His straw-colored hair was gathered messily at the nape of his neck. These men were even more malformed than the servants at the compound. I reached into my pocket for the shears, just in case.

“Shalt not eat flesh,” the large one grunted, motioning to something in the other’s hand. I saw a flash of white—the rabbit’s head. A drop of sweat rolled down my face. Montgomery had said they didn’t eat meat, but ripping a rabbit in half didn’t sound like the actions of a vegetarian. “Shalt not kill,” he added.

These men were not my allies, that was clear. But it was too risky to creep back to the stream. All it took was one snap of a branch to give me away.

The blond one growled and waved the rabbit head around. “Nonsense! Nonsense!” He walked more gracefully than the other. His nimble, quick movements reminded
me of the panther on the
Curitiba
, pacing, pacing, tensed to spring at any moment. The bigger man lumbered as if he wasn’t used to his own feet. They continued arguing.

As terrified as I was, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. One of Darwin’s books talked about a link between animals and humans, even suggested we came from some primordial animal-like form. These men could be holdovers, evidence of Darwin’s theories. Yet I couldn’t forget the same odd twist of limb on Father’s operating table. So were they creatures from Darwin’s theories—or my father’s laboratory? The idea hit me with a stab of pain between the eyes. If my crazy idea was right, if Father was
creating
creatures out of the caged animals … No. Such things weren’t possible.

I felt a sharp prick on my leg and held in a gasp. An ant must have gotten under my skirt. Well, I’d just have to let it bite me. But then something larger moved—a lump the size of my fist, crawling up my leg, making the fabric roll like a wave. Something smooth, like a fleshy hand, brushed against the bare skin of my thigh.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I shook the skirt frantically until one of the little rat beasts fell out. It scurried away and disappeared under a rotting log. My hands were still shaking. Then I remembered the men and hugged the ground again. Ahead, the smaller man had turned and keenly watched my thicket.

My stomach leapt to my throat. I didn’t know if he’d seen me. In any case, I could clearly see their faces now, and they were horrible to look at. The dark-haired man
had Balthazar’s same bearlike protruding jaw, though more slovenly, with a tooth the size of my thumb sticking out of his bottom lip.

The blond man’s face was equally strange, yet I couldn’t look away. His skin was covered in fine yellow hair with faint brown markings. His piercing eyes were set deep below a heavy brow. His nose was wide but flat, giving him a powerful, leonine look. Pointed incisors gleamed as he wrinkled his nose to sniff the air.

My breath caught. So this was what Montgomery had been so afraid of. The guns, the worried glances into the jungle. He and Father were frightened of these creatures.

The blond man looked directly toward my hiding spot. His companion snorted and began to speak, but the small one silenced him with a paw on his arm. He stared at me like a hunter, nose flaring, eyes narrowed. And then he grabbed the black-haired man’s jacket and pulled him sharply away into the trees. In a second, all trace of them had vanished.

It was some time before I could think clearly again. Dusk had fallen and the forest was shrouded with haze. The men might have looped back and could be stalking me even now. If they were there, watching, waiting, there wasn’t anything I could do about it but keep moving. Shakily, I made my way to the stream. Finding a safe place to spend the night seemed impossible.