Isle of Man

CHAPTER 15

The Guests Arrive



In the morning, I can hardly walk.

My shark-scraped calf has begun to heal, but my legs are as stiff as boards from riding that mad horse all over the highlands yesterday. I hobble to the window and look out.

I must have slept late because the sun is up over the hills, shining on a caravan of horse-drawn wagons stretching as far down the road as my high window will let me see. Most of the snow has melted away, and the road is a muddy mess. Men walk beside the wagons, their boots covered in mud, while women huddle together in the seats, staying dry. I can see other wagons already in front of the castle. Men are busy unloading supplies and setting up tents in a grove of trees while their wives chase down children and direct the men with impatient gestures clear enough even to me.

I stop by Jimmy’s room, but he isn’t there. He isn’t in the breakfast room either, although several of last night’s dinner guests are. Riley pushes me into a seat and proceeds to fill me up with hot tea and leftovers from the feast. The guests make light conversation about what a splendid evening it was and about the upcoming games, but I get no better sense of things from eavesdropping on them. When they address me, it’s all I can do to sit and nod without wincing from the pain in my ass. I’ll be happy if I never ride another horse ever again.

When I’ve had all the food and company I can stand, I politely excuse myself and head outside to look for Jimmy.

The drive is alive with excitement. Wagons are backed up waiting to unload, sweaty horses stamp and blow, people shout directions, kids scramble about, playing at wooden swords. Tents under construction fall and are pulled up again. One catches a draft of wind and goes cartwheeling through the trees while men scramble after it. And through the center of it all, Finn walks as fresh and as calm as could be, stopping to lend a hand wherever one’s needed, answering questions, and greeting everyone with his charming smile. I get the impression he loves having company.

Jimmy doesn’t appear to be anywhere amidst the madness of the camp construction, so I head toward the backside of the castle, hoping to find him there. But I don’t get far when I’m stopped by Finn and asked to lend a hand offloading heavy sacks of grain for the horses, which I begrudgingly agree to do. Fortunately, the heavy lifting seems to loosen my stiff legs.

As I walk back from dropping a load at the stables, I see Jimmy beneath an oak tree with a raven-haired girl about our own age. She’s tutoring him as he practices a swatting motion, squatting and whipping his open hand through the air, then looking at his palm. He says something. She laughs. He smiles. If a female version of Jimmy were possible, she’d be it. Tall and athletic, her outfit as rugged as the proud features of her olive-skinned face. I immediately dislike her. My heart quickens. My jaw clenches. My eyes narrow. And I don’t enjoy the feeling at all. I wonder if this is how Jimmy felt when he saw me together with Hannah. I drop my gaze to the ground and head back up to the wagon for another load.

When I heft the bag of grain onto my shoulder, someone behind me strips it away. I turn and see Jimmy grinning at me, the bag cradled in his arm.

“One at a time’ll take us all day,” he says. “Give me another’n.”

I throw another bag at him.

“Thought you were busy.”

“Busy? I’ve been up since dawn waitin’ on you.”

“Who was that?” I nod toward the tree.

“Oh, that’s Bree. The one the lady was tellin’ us about at dinner last night. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I say, shouldering another bag. “The girl who carries goats. I’m still confused about these games.”

“Ain’t you seen the court?”

“What court?”

“The ball court,” he says. “Bree already showed me ever-thin’. Let’s finish loadin’ these sacks, and then I’ll show you.”

By the time the wagon is emptied, another one is waiting to be offloaded behind it, so we spend the next hour humping grain and hay to the stables, where the resident horses are none too pleased with all their new companions. We’re both dripping with sweat when we finally sneak away.

Jimmy takes me to the south side of the castle where an expansive, open courtyard is enclosed by rock walls. In the center of the courtyard are tiers of stone bleachers surrounding a sunken, four-walled rectangular court, shaped like an enclosed alley. The court’s walls are smooth concrete, and it looks like I’d imagine a deep swimming pool might look, except clever drains in the bottom carry away what little water remains from the melting snow. There appears to be no way in or out of the sunken court, except by being lowered from above. Of course, my mind races with crazy and horrific possibilities.

“What’s it for?” I ask.

“It’s a ball court,” Jimmy says.

“Ball court?”

“Yeah. Handball. Bree says they call it hero’s alley.”

“Why hero?”

“I dunno. But she also said they’s usin’ a new ball this year. Somethin’ called a goat-skinned alley cracker. ’Cause of the sound it makes against the wall.”

“She sure told you a lot, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. She’s pretty smart.”

“Really?”

“She said they mixed deer blood in with the concrete—is that what it’s called, concrete?—to make it bounce better. See how it’s kinda reddish?”

“I doubt that would help provide any bounce,” I toss out.

“I dunno,” he says. “But she said I’d make a good player ’cause of my long arms.”

“You’re not actually planning to play, are you?”

“Sure. Aren’t you?”

“We didn’t come here to play games, Jimmy.”

“But that’s why we told ’em we was here ...”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what?”

“You can’t possibly think you’d be any good. I mean, we don’t even know how they play it, and we haven’t practiced.”

“Bree says practice is forbidden. There ain’t even any other courts than this one. That lady was lyin’ about her having a ball on a stake, too. And Bree says that goat is jus’ a skin filled with water that she runs with sometimes.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, then.”

“Well, I was thinkin’ maybe I’d play, and while everyone’s distracted by the games, you could figure out what’s goin’ on with the encrypto key.”

“Encryption key.”

“Yeah.”

“What makes you think I’m not going to play?” I ask.

“I dunno. Are you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s it matter.”

“What’s what matter?”

“Why I figured it?”

“You don’t make any sense,” I say, turning to walk away.

For the rest of the morning, I avoid Jimmy and keep myself busy by helping with the wagons. By afternoon a full on camp has taken shape outside the castle. Tents everywhere, lanterns hanging overhead from ropes strung between trees, several outhouses patched together from gray-weathered wood over deep holes dug in the ground. The people who were here last night are clearly Finn’s closest relatives, all bearing a striking resemblance to him, but the people setting up in the camp look to be from different parts of the island. Many with red hair and fair skin; others, like Bree, with dark hair and dark skin. An atmosphere of celebration hangs in the air.

It’s clear who will be participating in the games and who will be spectating. Groups of athletic young men and woman gather together and eye one another with contempt. Flexing or spitting or just swinging at invisible balls. Bree is the loner in the bunch, and I notice that she stays clear of the others. Except from Jimmy, who I spot introducing her to Junior. Ugh.

The adults, on the other hand, sneak glances at the young athletes, their longing looks filled with curious appreciation. I spot them nudging one another and appearing to comment on players’ appearances. Several of them scratch notes on wrinkled parchments as if setting odds. They seem to pay a great deal of attention to Bree. I, however, do my best to ignore her.

By evening fall, the camp has settled down as everyone rests from their long journeys, and I head inside to find a bath. Riley, despite looking exhausted, brings me to a bathing room and fills an old oak barrel with steaming water. As I soak away several days’ worth of grime, along with the aches and pains from my scabbed-over, shark-scraped calf and horse-bruised thighs, Riley busies himself with draining barrels and preparing them for other guests. He hums while he works.

“Riley, may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“How come you call me sir when I’m so much younger than you are?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me. I’m afraid that I come from a long line of proud housemen, and the habit has been bred into me. Was that your question?”

“No. My question is about Finn.”

“I’ll be happy to answer anything Lord Finn wouldn’t mind obliging you with an answer to himself.”

“Well, it’s just that last night he referred to—well, to the deceased woman—he said she was his daughter.”

Riley nods. “Yes. I’m afraid she was the last of them, too, since he hasn’t taken a new wife since Marta. Despite all my encouragements for him to find one. A solitary life is a sad life, I say. But he assures me he’s seen off all the children and wives he can bear to part with. Although I can’t imagine it’s any easier seeing off your grandchildren and great grandchild.”

“Well, that’s my real question. Just how old is Finn?”

“How old? Well, I’m afraid you’ll need to ask Lord Finn that yourself. And be sure to catch him in good spirits when you do. He sometimes doesn’t like to talk about his condition.” Riley lifts my pile of clothes to his nose and sniffs them. “Dear Lord. How can you stand to smell yourself in these? I’ll fetch you a fresh outfit straight away, sir. Straight away.”

Alone now in my bath, I sink beneath the water and hold my breath, listening to my heartbeats. They come at about one beat per second. That’s sixty a minute, or 3,600 beats per hour. That makes 86,000-and-something beats per day. I wonder if a heart gets only a certain amount of beats. I wonder how many beats my heart will have now that I’ve been injected with Dr. Radcliffe’s serum. I try willing it to stop. Or even to slow down. But it won’t. It just keeps on beating with a rhythm of its own.

I skip dinner and stay in my room, alone. Nobody seems to notice I’m gone, anyway. I crack the window and lie on the bed, listening to the festivities outside in the camp. People sing songs and laugh at jokes. Someone plays a set of pipes. But exhaustion overwhelms me, and the chatter and music outside carries me away to a restless sleep filled with strange dreams.

I dream I’m flying over the ocean, my speed drawing up a wake of mist as I race across the moonlit waves. I can turn on a dime with just the twitch of a toe. I can rise and fall by simply moving my head. Soon, I come upon a massive ship silhouetted against the night sky, a ship like the one that slaughtered Jimmy’s family in the cove. As I approach the ship, in the strange, inexplicable illogic of dreams, I can suddenly see clearly, as if it were midday and not midnight. The ship’s decks drip with blood and dead people hang like fileted dear from its riggings, their entrails spilling out and swaying beneath them as the ship rocks on the waves. I circle the ship closer and see the Park Service crest on its side. And I know before I even look that all the dead people wear Jimmy’s face.

My pillow is soaked with sweat when I wake. The room is dark; outside the window is quiet. It’s cold. I search for a match and strike the lamp lit, carrying it with me into the secret passageway and down to Jimmy’s room. I need to talk to him, to apologize for being a jerk, to make sure he’s all right. I open the panel and step inside, expecting to find him sleeping as I did before. But his bed is empty and the covers undisturbed.

I walk to his window and look out. The camp is sleeping, the shadows of tents glowing in the dying light of abandoned fires. I know Jimmy must be out there somewhere, probably with Bree. But I can’t understand why that makes me worry.