Isle of Man

CHAPTER 11

Waiting on Death



“He dun’ like algaecrisps, but he’ll eat the bars.”

“I got it,” the professor says, getting annoyed with Jimmy’s never ending list of instructions about caring for Junior.

“And he gets restless, so ya gotta run ’em with the rabbit.”

“Roger that,”

“Huh?”

“It means I understand. Run him with the rabbit. We need to hurry, in case someone sees the boat.”

Jimmy opens the hatch and disappears out into the dark. I follow on. A cold wind whips across the water, driving sea spray into my face, and the surfaced submarine heaves up and down on the swells, unsteady beneath our feet.

“I cain’t see nothin’!” Jimmy shouts.

“We just swim straight head, and we should make it to those steps no problem. Don’t you think?”

The professor remains just inside the open hatch, shielded from the weather.

“Remember the clue,” he calls out, his voice quickly carried away on the wind. “‘In the right hand of David you shall find your key.’ Take your time. I’ll be waiting for you right here until you find it.”

I see his face in the glow coming from the open hatch and could almost swear his eyes are wet with worry beneath his bushy brows. Or maybe it’s just the wind. He forces a smile and then pulls the hatch shut.

We stand on the dark deck and listen to the waves rolling past. It’s much colder and much wilder here than our swim to fell that coconut tree. Neither of us moves to dive in.

“Ah, crud! How’d you get out here?”

I turn to Jimmy.

“What?”

“I’ll bet he put him out on purpose.”

Jimmy bends and lifts Junior from the deck and carries him toward the hatch. But he never makes it. Waves rush onto the deck as the submarine dives, and in mere seconds we’re all three floating in the freezing water.

No going back now, I guess.

With no time to waste, we paddle toward shore. My feet go numb almost instantly. The frigid water constricts my chest, making it hard to breath. My instincts want me to race for dry ground, but I steel myself against panic and maintain a steady pace. It’s nearly pitch black. I can hear Junior paddling between us, breathing hard and blowing water out his nose.

Then something rough brushes against my leg. At first, I’m relieved, thinking it must be a rock, signaling that we’re close to shore. But my feet are nowhere near touching, and I can just make out the shadow of the seawall looming above, still many meters away. Again, something hits me. Harder this time. Like something passing by and woodenly knocking against my thigh.

I look over at Jimmy. I can barely see him in the dark, but I can see the fear in his eyes. Without a word between us, we each reach out a hand and grip Junior’s fur and kick furiously, paddling with our free arms and dragging Junior along between us as he struggles to keep his head above water.

A primal fear erases every other thought in my brain, and I think only of reaching dry land. A furious thrashing follows us in the dark as we kick like mad for the seawall and the steps. If I’m hit again I can’t feel it in my frenzy, but I’m consumed with the feeling of being pursued. Then my hand strikes something, and I recoil with fear. But Jimmy paddles by me, and a moment later he’s reaching his hand down and pulling me onto the step.

We scamper, slipping and sliding, several steps up from the water and slump down on the cold concrete and look back—nothing but blackness and the sound of waves rolling in. I’m trembling with so much adrenalin, I don’t even feel cold. But poor Junior sits between us, soaked and shivering, so tired he’s not even bothering to shake dry.

“We better get on ’fore we freeze,” Jimmy says.

Junior is too weak to walk by himself, and he looks like a dead seal draped limply over Jimmy’s arms as we follow the steps up and across the various snow-covered terraces toward the dark castle. Neither of us mentions what happened in the water just now, and I begin to wonder if it wasn’t a lone piece of driftwood tossed by the waves. Or maybe my imagination.

The path ends at a massive door. Even in the dark of night it looks ancient and rough compared to the refined materials we manufactured down in Holocene II. My teeth have begun to chatter, and my fear of the castle is quickly overcome by my fear of freezing to death. I lift the iron knocker and pause. I look over at Jimmy, soaking wet with his hair hanging in his face and Junior in his arms. Even in the dark I can see his smile that seems to say: “Too late to turn back now.”

I pound three good whacks on the door.

We stand on the stoop for a long time, listening to the wind whip at our backs and the distant waves crashing against the seawall. My legs ache. My teeth chatter. My arms shake. I’m reaching for the knocker again when the door swings open and a triangle of light washes over us.

A small man stands before us, dressed in an odd vest-suit made from some type of wool. His eyebrows and hair are black as night, but his neatly trimmed beard is gray. He looks us over without a word. Then he leans out and looks up at the dark sky, as if perhaps to explain our condition by looking for rain.

At last, he says: “May I be of service?”

“Um—well—yes,” I stammer, completely forgetting what I had planned to say. “At least I hope so. We’re a little bit wet, and we wondered if you might be able to help us out.”

“Of course,” he says, as if the request needed no thought at all. “By all means. Come in, come in.” He steps aside to let us enter the foyer then shuts the heavy door behind us. “Let’s get you sorted. You’ll need dry clothes straight away. Straight away. And something hot to drink as well, I would presume.”

“That would be great,” I say.

“Yes. Follow me.”

We follow him across the grand foyer and down a long hall to a cozy room with a roaring fire. The room is sparsely furnished but comfortable, the floors covered in carpets, the walls hung with colorful tapestries. Giant, shaggy hounds lie everywhere, sprawled in front of the fire or draped over chairs. The man shoos one of the hounds off the sofa, and it moans and bellows in protest, stopping to stretch before sliding to the floor and shooting us an annoyed look as it trots off and flops down in front of the fire on a rug. Junior whimpers, and Jimmy protectively pulls him tighter in his arms.

“Don’t worry,” the man says, closing one eye and peering closely at Junior. “They haven’t been trained to hunt anything but deer for generations. Is she a fox?”

Jimmy nods.

“He.”

“Well, he’s different from the ones we have around here, that’s for certain. I would imagine he’d enjoy some warm milk very much? Perhaps some fresh venison?”

“I’m sure he’d like that a lot,” Jimmy says.

“Yes, then. Straight away. You two just make yourselves at home now. Anything you need. I’ll be back momentarily with dry clothing and a service of tea.”

He retreats from the room with a bow, leaving us alone with the fire and the dogs.

We sit on the couch and let the fire’s warmth waft over us. It feels nice. Jimmy holds Junior in his lap and pets him, and I notice that his coat is already beginning to dry. The hounds are mostly sleeping, but occasionally one will open its dark eyes, as if checking to be sure we haven’t moved. True to his word, the man is back in almost no time with a tea tray balanced in one hand and his other arm draped in clothing.

“First things first,” he says, setting the tray on a small table next to the couch. “Let’s get you two into something dry before the cold gets into your bones. Here we are, then. These might be a bit large but should do nicely, I think.”

He hands us each a pair of pants and a shirt. He doesn’t offer us anywhere private to change, but he turns away and busies himself with the tea. I strip, grateful to be rid of the professor’s soaked and ugly patchwork clothes. Then I slip on the new pants. They’re loose and short, coming just past my knees, almost like a pair of long shorts, but I tie them off at the waist with the attached sash, then slip on the puffy shirt. I feel like a pirate in some old storybook from my lesson slate. Jimmy looks equally ridiculous.

When I turn around, Junior is already on the floor, lapping milk from a bowl, and the man signals for us to sit and hands us each a cup of steaming tea. It tastes of mint and sweet cream. The man bows and leaves us with our cups. The warm room smells slightly of wet dog. The clothes are soft, and the fire feels nice on my bare legs.

“What’s that?” Jimmy asks.

“What?”

“On your leg?”

I lean forward and see a nasty scrape on my calf. The skin is rubbed off as if by sandpaper, and the exposed flesh is angry and red. A trickle of blood runs down to my ankle.

“I don’t know. I guess something did hit me in the water.”

“I felt it, too,” Jimmy says. “But I got nothin’ on my legs.”

The man comes back with a platter of food and slides the small table closer and sets the platter in front of us. It’s covered with cheeses, crackers, meats, and pickled vegetables. I’m not sure whether swimming for our life worked up my appetite, or whether it’s just because of weeks with nothing but algaecrisps and canned food on board the submarine, but my mouth fills with saliva at the sight of fresh food, and I rudely dig in without even saying thank you.

The man stands several paces away with his arms behind his back, gazing idly at the fire, as if waiting to fill any request we might make.

“I’m Aubrey, and this is Jimmy,” I slur, my mouth full of crackers and cheese. “The fox is named Junior.”

“Yes. How thoughtless of me not to introduce myself. My name is Riley. At your service, young sirs.”

“May I ask you a question, Riley?”

“Of course,” he says.

“It might sound strange.”

“Ask anything, sir.”

“How old are you.”

“Oh. Well. Let’s see then.” He looks down and bobs his head from side to side as if tallying invisible figures lying on the floor. “I believe this spring will make fifty-three, sir.”

After such a seemingly odd question, I expect Riley to ask us some questions of his own, but he doesn’t. He just stands at the ready and asks us if we’d like any more food and then takes the empty tray away. He comes back some time later with two small glasses of warm milk laced with something sweet.

“This should help you get to sleep,” he says.

“You don’t mind if we stay?”

“Quite on the contrary, sir,” he says. “His Lordship loves entertaining houseguests. I’m afraid I must apologize, though, for his absence, and for the depressed nature of the house in general. We’re waiting on death to pay a visit.”

“Waiting on death?”

“I’m afraid so. His Lordship is mourning at the bedside as we speak. Sometimes the trip mont da Anaon can be long.”

“Well, it’s very kind of you to take us in,” I say.

“Pleasure, sir. And whenever you two are ready, I’m happy to show you to your rooms. I’ve already kindled the stoves and warmed the beds for you.”

“We’re ready now,” I say, finishing the last of my milk.

“Straight away we go, then.”

“What about Junior?” Jimmy asks.

“Your fox? Oh, he should be quite comfortable down here with the deerhounds. The fire stays lit constantly, and they’re let out for a quick run at sunrise, before their breakfast. And what time would you two like to breakfast?”

I look at Jimmy, then answer: “Whenever is fine.”

“I’ll come by for you at nine. All set then? I’ll see you up.”

Jimmy pauses to look back at Junior, but Junior is already spread out on the rug in front of the fire, sleeping.

“He’ll be fine,” I say.

Riley leads us up a wide and winding staircase to the floor above and down a long hall lit with oil lamps hanging from the walls. He stops at a door and opens it. The room is small but warm. A small window, a sideboard with a pan for washing. A lantern hangs next to a chair beside the bed.

Jimmy and I step inside.

Riley clears his throat.

“Excuse me, but I took the liberty of assuming you would be needing separate rooms.”

“Of course,” I say, stepping back into the hall. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Jimmy.”

“See ya then,” he says, looking a little worried as he presses the door closed.

Riley leads me past several other doors, stopping to point out an open sitting area with a lantern and desk.

“I’m afraid it’s just me tonight, so I’ll be right here if you need anything at all.” He continues on to the last door at the end of the hall. “Here we are, then. Any special requests for breakfast, sir?”

“Anything should be fine.”

“All righty, then. Full breakfast it is. See you at nine, sir.”

Then he pulls the door shut, and I’m alone in the room. I cross to the window and pull the shutters open. The moonless sky shows no shape beyond the window’s ledge. I don’t even know which direction I’m looking. Since there’s nothing at all to see outside, I turn and inspect the room.

There’s a ceramic stove in one corner, a mirror and wash pan on a desk in the other. A small elevated door in the outside wall makes itself out immediately to be a toilet when I open it and get wind of its odor. It’s a kind of closet you step into and squat over a crude hole in the floor. Unfortunately, I know I’ll likely need to take advantage of it later.

After three weeks in the submarine bunk, the bed feels like floating on a cloud. It must be feathers. I lie on my back and watch the lantern flame cast shadows on the stone ceiling. I almost wish we didn’t have to worry about the drones, or about freeing my people from Holocene II. I hate myself for feeling it, but it would be so nice to just be here with Jimmy and have none of the other anxieties weighting me down. There are moments when I forget why we came on this adventure. Times when I’m caught up in the excitement of it all and actually having some fun. Then the sudden unexpected image of drones slaughtering people rips away the feeling of well-being like a forgotten diagnosis of impending death.

I have no idea who these people are or how we’ll find an encryption key on this island, if it’s even here. And why was this Riley guy so nice to us? He didn’t ask anything. Not one question. As if he’d been here all night, waiting for us to arrive. And who’s this Lord he’s referring to? And who’s dying? I guess all we can do is take everything as it comes and do the best we can. I sure hope Hannah and Red are all right.

I get up and turn the lamp down until shadow envelops the room. Then I do something that surprises me. I get on my knees beside the bed and I talk to my dad. Not out loud, but in my head. I tell him that I miss him. I tell him that I’m scared. I tell him that I feel guilty for not trying harder to save him. It feels silly at first, but then tears come into my eyes, my throat constricts, and I hear his voice as sure as if he were sitting in front of me. I hear him tell me that he’s proud. I hear him tell me everything will be okay. And I hear him tell me to breathe good energy in and breathe bad energy out.

I’m woken much later by a scratching sound somewhere in the room. I lie perfectly still and listen. It sounds like a kind of muffled rustling near the wall, across from the bed. I jump for the lamp and turn the flame up, but only shadows are chased from the dark room. I’m laughing at myself and my overactive imagination when I hear it again. It’s coming from inside the wall. I follow the sound with my ear and notice the outline of a narrow door in the wall, a hidden panel with a recessed handle. I take a deep breath and pull the panel open.

Riley gasps but doesn’t scream. He’s flattened against the wall of a narrow passage with a lantern in his hand and a basket hanging from straps over his shoulders.

“I pray I haven’t woken you, sir.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“My apologies, sir. The stoves must be fed throughout the night. The passageways allow the wood to be loaded without disturbing you.” He lifts the lid on his basket, showing me a stack of split wood. “At least that’s the idea. I’m afraid Angus is much lighter on his feet than I am, sir. But he’ll be back at his duties tomorrow.”

“Sorry,” I say. “You just spooked me a little. Goodnight again.” I pull the panel closed.

After the excitement, I can’t get back to sleep. I have no idea what time it is. I look out the window, but it seems even darker than before, if that’s even possible. After testing out the bathroom, which is quite a chilling experience with the dark hole beneath me and a cold wind rushing up, I wash my hands using the water jug and bowl on the table.

I wonder if Jimmy’s awake, too. I’m tempted to go and check, but I’d have to pass Riley at his desk. Then I look at the hidden panel and get an idea. If all the stoves are connected by that passageway, shouldn’t it lead to Jimmy’s room? If so, we can talk in private and come up with a plan for tomorrow.

I slip into the passageway carrying the lamp and leave the panel cracked so as to be sure I can find my room again. Then I inch along the narrow passage, being careful to avoid brushing against the hot stoves as I pass. How many doors were between Jimmy’s room and mine? I pause and close my eyes, visualizing the walk down the hall. Three doors—then Riley’s desk—then two more doors, no three doors—and mine was the fourth. Seven doors. Jimmy’s room should be the seventh panel.

When I reach it, I put my ear to the panel and listen before opening it, just in case. All is quiet. I turn the lantern down, push the panel open, and step into the dark room. It looks like the right room, but I only saw it briefly from the door, so it’s hard to tell for sure. I creep toward the bed. There’s someone sleeping, but the covers are pulled up over the head. Holding the lamp at a distance, I pinch the corner of the blanket with my other hand and gently pull it back. Jimmy lies on his side with his hair spread out on the pillow and his thumb stuck in his mouth. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry, it’s so cute.

As much as I want to discuss our plan, I can’t bring myself to wake him. Instead, I stand and watch him for a long time. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I can picture him as a little boy, sleeping in his mother’s lap. Or maybe because he looks so peaceful and I wish I could feel that way myself. I wonder if he’s dreaming, and if so, what about. I remember watching him sleep in our tent in the cove, back when I still thought of him as ten feet tall and nothing but guts. And I remember him waking up and catching me and joking that he was going to start sleeping with his knife. That was the day he taught me to swim. We’ve sure been through a lot since then.

By the time I get back to my room, I’m tired again. I kill the lamp and crawl back into bed and close my eyes. I try to imagine myself sleeping as soundly as Jimmy. It doesn’t work, but I do fall asleep with my thumb in my mouth.