The League of Sharks

by David Logan

  He jumped down from the chair and looked around for a weapon. He couldn’t see anything so he riffled through cupboards and drawers. There was a small chest that had been just out of his reach while he was tethered. He opened it up and was puzzled by what he found inside. Clothes. Thing was, they were all far too small for his host and just the right size for him. He pulled out a pair of trousers and a pair of thick boots made from light brown animal hide. Then there was a grey shirt, similar to the one he was wearing but a fraction of the size. Finally there was a jacket, also made from animal hide but a darker brown than the trousers and boots. Junk got dressed. Everything fitted him perfectly. Had Garvan made these for him? He must have done. That caused a dilemma for Junk: should he play to his captor’s game? Should he wear the clothes, which was clearly Garvan’s intention, or cast them aside and refuse to be manipulated like that? It occurred to him that the only alternative was to stay in the massive shirt, which was ridiculous; he could hardly walk in it without tripping up. This one time, he decided, he would do as his jailer wanted, but he wouldn’t like it. Though the jacket did look cool. It looked like the sort of thing Clint Eastwood would wear in a spaghetti western. Junk’s dad was a huge Sergio Leone fan and together they had seen them all.

  Once changed, Junk moved to the door. He reached out and took a hold of the handle and turned it. The door unlocked with a satisfying thunk and Junk pulled it back.

  Sunlight spilled in, blinding him momentarily. He closed his eyes and saw a collection of nebulous shapes floating through his field of vision. One of them was a silhouette that resembled his captor. When he opened them again and blinked half a dozen times until the world outside came into focus, there was no one there. Just a veranda leading to three wide steps down to the green and brown earth.

  Junk moved forward, outside, down the high steps to where the grass started to grow. Another step to where it became thicker, healthier. The scent of the flora around him and the warmth from the sun brought with them a feeling of calm and for a moment he remembered running, barefoot, through the grass behind his house back in Murroughtoohy. Just then, he heard a snort from behind him and he was ripped from his reverie. He turned to see Garvan sitting on a sort of chair-swing back up on the veranda. Junk had walked right past him. How had he missed him?

  Junk and Garvan stared at one another. Garvan made no attempt to get up and come after Junk. He sat and looked from under heavy-lidded eyes, but Junk was still scared. In his head, he was sure Garvan was about to pounce on him, pin him down and then drag him back inside and shackle him up once more. Junk backed away slowly until he was a good distance from the cabin and then he turned and ran as fast as he could.

  Garvan reached over to a beaker of cool water, lifted it to his lips and drank deeply. It was a hot day.

  *

  The boy had passed the tests. He was intelligent and resourceful. It was a good sign. He’d worn the clothes. Garvan was pleased about that. He was proud of his handiwork. He had never made anything so small and fiddly before. For a moment the pit of his stomach twisted as the skeleton of a thought flitted through his mind about what was coming next. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but there was no way to avoid it.

  *

  Junk ran and ran. The terrain was ever-changing. One minute he was running on lush, moist grass that felt like velvet underfoot and the next the grass vanished, replaced by dusty, dry brown earth, pitted with small, sharp stones.

  The further he moved from the cabin, the heavier the foliage became. The cabin was in the middle of a dense forest of impossibly tall trees. It reminded Junk of the redwood forests of northern California. His parents had taken him on holiday to America when he was very young, barely three years old. The only thing he could recall from that whole seven weeks was one solitary moment when he was all alone in a forest, surrounded by giant trees. It was like being in prehistoric times. Junk wasn’t sure if he had made that connection at three. That might have come later, at around six, when his fixation on dinosaurs kicked in.

  And now, as he ran, he made that same connection. He stopped to catch his breath. He listened for sounds of Garvan pursuing him but heard nothing. In fact, he realized, he heard nothing at all. No wind rustling through the leaves. No animals scurrying in the undergrowth. Nothing. Then somewhere, a long way away, he heard the screech of some sort of bird and it startled him into running again.

  He ran as fast as he could for as long as he could. After several weeks of incarceration that wasn’t very far. The muscles in his legs soon started to burn and his chest grew tighter. Breathing became increasingly difficult and he started to feel dizzy. He slowed down until he had to stop, slumping against a tree. He listened again for any indication that he was being followed, but still he heard nothing. Gradually he realized that wasn’t quite true. He could hear something. Not the screech of that far-off bird this time but water crashing against rocks. The sea. The sea was his domain. The sea meant ships, and ships meant escape.

  He pushed on, having to kick his way through wide leaves and thick bracken that hampered his progress, but the sound of the sea grew louder with every step and this spurred him on.

  Finally he pushed through a clump of tall ferns and found himself at the top of a high cliff, looking out at an expanse of ocean. The cliff-face beneath him was almost vertical and impassable. Black volcanic rocks reached down sixty metres or more to where waves crashed angrily against them. He looked left and right and the cliffs continued in both directions for as far as he could make out. He couldn’t see any way down.

  He looked out to sea, hoping for some sort of landmark so he could figure out where he was, but there was nothing. Just miles and miles of open water in every direction.

  Every direction? A flash of inspiration raced through him and he started back the way he had come. He stopped at the first of the impossibly tall trees he reached and started to climb. The tree was old and gnarled and therefore covered in thick protruding knots and welts. To begin with, it was easy to climb. However, as he got higher the bark started to smooth out and there were fewer handholds. Fortunately for Junk, in the last few years, he had crewed many a sailing ship, replica topsail schooners with masts forty metres high and brigantines and barques converted into luxury cruise ships. He had become a bona fide rigging monkey, able to scamper to the top of the highest mast faster than anyone else. This tree was no different to Junk than a mast on a ship.

  Within minutes he made it to the very top. Admittedly it was more than three times as high as any mast he’d ever climbed, and when he emerged through the canopy the view took his breath away. He felt light-headed from the altitude and the exertion of the climb and took a moment to steady himself. He looked around, turning to his left and then swivelling to his right to take in as much of a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view as was possible. His heart sank. Two things were readily apparent. One, he was on an island, and two, there was almost nothing but ocean in every direction. The only other land he could see was a smaller island about two kilometres away. It had high black cliffs on the side facing him and tall trees much like the one he was at the top of right now. There were some curious-looking large birds circling it. Maybe if he could find a way down to the sea, he could swim to it. It wouldn’t be easy. The water was choppy. And even if he got there, then what? It didn’t look inhabited. No more than this island. Maybe there was just another Garvan over there.

  Junk hooked his leg around the branch he was on and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Garvan must have a boat somewhere. He must. He couldn’t just stay on this island forever. Junk decided his only hope was to find it.

  7

  Junk followed a path that took him to the edge of the cliff, looking out to sea. In the distance he saw the black rock thronged with birds. He noticed one of the birds out on its own, circling high in the sky. It turned and started gliding towards him. As it drew closer he saw how big it actually was. He had thought it was the size of an eagle, but now he knew it was m
uch bigger. The size of a man.

  At first Junk couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. The bird was a man. Half a man at least. Its torso looked almost human. Its legs were thin but muscular and tucked up beneath him as he flew. Its wingspan was easily four metres, maybe more. The lower half of its body was covered in dark brown feathers. The upper part of its chest, neck and head were bare and pink, like a plucked chicken. Where its wings joined its body they were thick and muscular, almost like human arms, and they ended in hands. Much like human hands but with only three digits. Two of these ended in long, sharp talons. Its face was owl-like: flat and round with bulbous, lucent orange eyes and a fierce scowl etched on it. Its beak looked like a hard, shiny nose, half-buried in the mottled flesh of its face, sharp and pointed at the end.

  By the time he realized that the birdman was coming straight for him, it was too late to react. The birdman swooped. His long, sinewy legs uncurled from beneath him and his vice-like talons latched violently on to Junk’s shoulder. Junk howled as the birdman pumped his massive wings and started to rise.

  As Junk’s feet lifted off the ground, something flashed past him. Something big, moving fast. Garvan. He must have been following him since he escaped the cabin. Junk had never been free at all.

  Garvan jumped into the air and wrapped one of his great hands around Junk’s ankle. The birdman let out a wail that was pitched somewhere between a squawk and a furious roar as Garvan’s immense weight pulled Junk downwards. Snorting with exertion, the birdman flapped his wings even harder and rose a little. Garvan strained, his back expanded as his muscles tensed. Junk cried out in pain as the birdman’s claws sank further into the flesh of his shoulder.

  They were getting dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. If they went over, Garvan would have to let go of Junk or risk snapping him in two. His feet just touching the ground, Garvan started to pull back. He got a hand on to the birdman’s leg. Bellowing from the depths of his throat, the birdman let go of Junk instantly, deciding escape was the better option at this point, but Garvan reached up further still, burying his hand in the feathers around the creature’s abdomen, and brought him crashing to the ground. Junk was thrown aside and went skidding across the loose dry soil. He noticed Garvan’s bow and a quiver full of arrows nearby. The thought occurred to him that he could try shooting the creature, but he dismissed that idea almost immediately. The bow was designed to Garvan’s proportions, not his. He looked up to see Garvan and the birdman wrestling, rolling over and over. The birdman emitted a furious hiss and its razor-sharp beak snapped at the dusty air around Garvan’s face. They were getting closer to the cliff edge.

  ‘Frank!’ Junk called. It wasn’t clear if Garvan had heard him, but he suddenly twisted his body savagely around, away from the drop. In one swift movement, Garvan was on his feet and, holding the birdman by the ankles, he slammed him down on the ground repeatedly until the creature didn’t move any more. Its human-looking mouth was twisted open and a long, rasping gurgle dribbled out. Garvan kicked the dead birdman over the edge of the cliff and looked out to sea.

  Junk lay on the ground and stared up at the sky. He was shaking with fear and pain. His shoulder was throbbing and bleeding, but he saw that the jacket Garvan had made for him had taken the brunt of the birdman’s grip and only the very tip of one claw had got through. He knew he should probably be running right now, putting distance between himself and Garvan before the latter could take him captive again, but that just didn’t seem important any more. The thought occupying the forefront of his mind was that he quite clearly was not on Earth any more. Maybe he should have realized earlier when confronted with a four-metre-tall behemoth like Garvan, but he had honestly just thought he was some sort of freak of human nature. Human being the pivotal word. He couldn’t think that about the birdman. There was no way that was human. That was most definitely alien, and alien meant another planet. Junk was on another planet.

  The only thing was, he would have expected an alien world to be, well, more alien. OK, flying birdmen is pretty alien, but the sky was blue, the sea was wet, the ground was dusty, the trees looked like trees. Part of him would have been less surprised to see green clouds and purple grass.

  Junk was ripped from his thoughts by Garvan pulling him sharply to his feet by his collar.

  ‘Hey! Take it easy, will ya?’ Junk snapped without thinking. He regretted it immediately. ‘I just mean I could’ve done with sitting a while longer. It’s …’

  He noticed that Garvan wasn’t paying any attention to him but was staring over his shoulder with a disconcerting little nervous tic playing havoc with his left eye. Junk turned to see what had the giant’s attention.

  ‘Oh,’ was all he could think to say. Other than that his mind was a total blank. Or possibly so active that all the different synapses that were firing off simultaneously had just merged every thought into one huge jumbled featureless whole. More birdmen had taken to the skies from the black rock. Thirty or more. Probably drawn by their recently deceased brother’s dying shrieks. They were flying this way and at speed. In the few scant seconds that Junk was looking at them, the sky darkened as they became all he could see.

  Garvan stabbed his toe under his bow and propelled it into his waiting hand, nocked an arrow in one smooth and fluid movement, aimed as he turned and fired. The arrow snatched one of the advancing birdmen out of the sky. Garvan nocked and fired again and again and again. Every arrow hit its target true, but too quickly the quiver was empty and there were too many birdmen still coming.

  Junk cried out in surprise as he was lifted off his feet once more but this time by Garvan, who tucked him under his arm as if Junk was a ball in a rugby match. Garvan shielded Junk’s head with one hand and set off into the foliage. Junk screamed, vocalizing the cocktail of adrenalin and panic that was coursing around his whole body. He could feel branches whipping at his legs.

  The trees were dense around them but there were pockets of light that broke in, and as they were running, Junk could see shadows cutting across the sunbeams and he knew the birdmen were overhead now, looking for a way through.

  Garvan skidded to a stop and Junk found himself twisting in the air as Garvan set him down roughly on his feet, positioning him behind his own fortress-like girth. Junk heard throaty calls ahead. He peered slowly out from behind Garvan and shuddered as he saw a dozen of the birdmen were blocking their path. He heard movement from behind. Garvan and Junk turned together and saw more closing in on them. They were surrounded, the birdmen walking on their spindly human legs. Their feet looked vaguely human too, apart from the fact that they were split down the middle, making two wide toes, each tipped with a talon.

  The birdmen were emitting strange, repetitive calls from the back of their throats. En masse, it sounded to Junk’s ears almost as if they were talking to one another. It was rhythmic. Like Australian aborigines playing a didgeridoo. Junk thought he could hear words in their voices: HowyougonnaeatthemImgonnaeatthemHowyougonnaeatthemImgonnaeatthemHowyougonnaeatthemImgonnaeatthemHowyougonnaeatthemImgonnaeatthemHowyougonnaeatthemImgonnaeatthem …

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Junk, so quietly he wasn’t sure if the words had been audible, but Garvan looked at him so he must have made some sort of sound. Garvan moved his eyes, leading Junk’s attention through the birdmen, through the trees, to his cabin fifty metres away. Junk understood. They needed to get there. The cabin was their only chance of survival. Junk nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘On three?’ Garvan didn’t respond, but Junk chose to believe he understood. ‘One …’

  The birdmen were edging closer.

  ‘Two …’

  Their beaks were opening, ready to feast.

  ‘Thr—’ Before Junk could finish the word, Garvan leaped forward and let out an almighty bellow. It was the roar of a lion, the trumpet of an elephant and the fury of a silverback all rolled into one deafening outburst. It made the birdmen hesitate for a moment. A moment was enough. Pushing Junk into a run, Garvan charged at the pre
dators. He was brutal. He grabbed at wings, twisted and snapped bone and cartilage. Always moving, flowing, dipping to scoop a rock from the ground, up again, turning, smashing the rock on the side of one birdman’s head, his arm carrying through, taking out another.

  In the first few moments of the battle Garvan had put down five before Junk even knew what was happening. Then movement out of the corner of his eye made Junk turn. Another of the birdmen was coming directly for him. Junk let himself drop like a dead weight half a second before a mass of feathers and claws shrieked through the air above him. He scrambled to his feet and started running. He had never run so fast in his entire life. The birdman skidded across the dusty ground, twisted, turned and got back to his feet. He took off after Junk. He ran like a man, not like a bird. His legs were long, his strides massive. He gained ground quickly.

  Junk reached the cabin and threw himself through the open door. He turned in time to see the birdman coming for him. He kicked out at the door and it slammed shut in the advancing predator’s path and Junk heard a crunching thud as the birdman smashed into the heavy wooden door. The impact made the whole cabin shudder.

  Junk lay still, listening, feeling every part of his body complaining. Every pain receptor in him was jostling to be at the front of the queue to lodge a strongly worded complaint about their recent treatment.

  Then he heard the birdman on the other side of the door groaning. He could hear the sound of his talons scraping on the wooden porch as he pulled himself upright. Again Junk’s imagination made sense of the didgeridoo-like cadence of its voice: Iwanna getinthereIwannariphimapartIwannagetinthereIwannariphim apartIwannagetinthereIwannariphimapartIwannagetinthere Iwannariphimapart.