“And … the Hatch?”
“Yes. The beach, foot by foot, year by year, went away. Swallowed. Then, in a storm, the pier was washed away. Behind the Hatch is a staircase that leads down to the very bottom floor. The cellar, if you will. During the asylum days, it was a sort of special prison for the most troublesome.” He returned the book to the shelf and half turned to look up at Jonathan in his queer way. “A dungeon, you would probably call it. My father was there, briefly. During his dark days. Eventually, as the water rose, it was too wet for people. There was standing water at high tide. It was a storeroom then. High shelves. Then the water got too high even for that. It filled the room, began to climb the stairs. During one bad storm, maybe, oh, twenty years ago, there was a surge and it came all the way up, up into the main floor. So many rats died that night.” He scratched his yellow fingernails through Ninety-Nine’s fur and nuzzled the rat’s neck with his face.
“So they installed the Hatch. That’s an iron door, solid through. Nine inches thick, bolted into the stone with foot-long bolts. Sealed with cement and mortar and soldered steel. Strong enough, they say, to hold the sea back. And those sounds you hear? That is the sea, crashing and surging beneath us. Sucking at forgotten windows. Opening and closing submerged doors. Tossing old furniture around. Rattling old chains. Chewing at the foundations. And always, always, knocking at the door.”
He closed his eyes and sighed and stroked his monstrous rat.
“The sea is in the dungeon. Seething, beneath us. But it doesn’t want to stay there.” The old man’s eyes opened and focused on Jonathan’s. “It wants the whole island. It wants it all. And someday. It will. Get it.”
Jonathan’s mouth was dry. He blinked. His mouth was stuck open.
“Now,” the librarian said, taking a step and brushing past him. “What book would you like?”
“I’m, um, still reading the first one,” Jonathan said, shaking his head. “I don’t need another one just yet.”
The librarian stooped down and Ninety-Nine crawled down his arm and onto a shelf. The old man looked back at Jonathan and shook his head and smiled a crooked smile.
“No. You can’t leave a library. Without a book.” He scanned the nearest shelf with a finger and one sideways eye. Jonathan stood where he was and watched the hunched old man creak along the shelf, muttering to himself and shaking his head.
“Ah. Yes. This one. Is appropriate.” He pulled a thick volume off the shelf. “Another island story. About a boy. And a crazy sea captain. And treasure found.” He held the book to his nose and closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then handed it to Jonathan.
Treasure Island, the cover said in plain black letters on red leather. By Robert Louis Stevenson.
“Thanks. I better get back.”
“Yes,” the librarian said, walking with Jonathan to the door. “You should. Thank the Admiral. For letting you come. It has been so long.” Jonathan stepped out into the dark corridor, holding the candle before him. The librarian closed the door nearly all the way, so that only his mouth and one eye were visible in the crack. “And say hello. To the ocean. For me. When you go past. The Hatch.”
The door closed, leaving Jonathan with his feeble flame and the sound of rats and, in the darkness ahead of him, a rattling door to a watery dungeon.
“You know the drill,” Sebastian decreed from where he sat on the table, his shoes on the Admiral’s great chair. “No dinner until we have your letter. Get it done.” He was bent over, focused on the tip of the sword he was holding. He was using it to carve something into the surface of the table.
The boys each filed by to grab a pen and sheet of paper from where Benny sat frowning officiously at them, coiled up in a chair. Already out the windows the sun had set on their second day alone on the island. The room and its long tables were lit here and there by flickering candles.
Jonathan sat and looked at his paper. He remembered his mother’s words from the letter that still waited under his pillow. So much needs to be said, she’d written. But we don’t know what it is yet. His fingers balled into fists. His tongue was pinched between tight teeth. He looked up and saw Colin watching him from across the table. His flitting, hummingbird smile came and went and he looked down at his own paper. All around was the sound of pen points on paper. A thin mile of ink, measured in words. I love yous and I miss yous and can’t wait to see yous. Messages from naughty boys, sent home to worried mothers. Jonathan blew a breath out through his nose and picked up his pen and began to write.
He scratched out a message, writing quick without thinking too much. He signed his name in a hasty scrawl and walked over to where Benny sat waiting to check their letters.