by David Logan
Suddenly there was a second voice and then a third all saying the same thing. Junk pulled a chair over to the translucent window and looked out. More birdmen were arriving. The chorus of voices swelled. Four, five, six, seven, eight …
They were all around the cabin. Their chanting increased. Then they started kicking at the doors and walls. The suddenness and the ferocity of their attack startled Junk and he leaped back. He hit the table, upsetting an earthenware jug. It smashed on the floor and silver lines of water spidered outwards.
As sturdy as the cabin was, it wouldn’t take them long to break in. Junk sank to the floor, squirming in under the table, and tried not to cry. His mind was full of images of what would happen to him when they got in. There was no way out. He was trapped. He would surely die. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out his senses. But it was no good. He could hear their incessant droning voices: IwannagetinthereIwannariphimapartIwannagetinthere IwannariphimapartIwannagetinthereIwannariphimapart IwannariphimapartIwannariphimapartIwannariphimapart.
He opened his eyes and saw the water from the broken jug. It had flowed freely across the smooth floor under the table to a point. To a line, near invisible unless one was looking for it, where it collected and then vanished. A door. A trapdoor.
There was a sharp crack as the first window broke. Junk peered up from under the table to see the head of one of the birdmen pushing through the gap. He let out a shrill screech of triumph that reverberated around the cabin, stinging Junk’s hearing. A flood of adrenalin shot Junk up on to his knees and he started feeling around the perimeter of the trapdoor. There were no visible hinges and no handle. From all around him now he could hear more windows breaking, and the screeching and clawing of talons on wood increased. Junk let out a pathetic little whimper.
Then he found it: a small concealed flap. As with the puzzles, the craftsmanship was so masterful that it was almost impossible to detect. The flap slid smoothly to the side to reveal a handle. With no time to lose, Junk wrapped both hands around the handle and pulled. The trapdoor lifted up quietly and efficiently. He found himself looking down a set of steps cut into the rock, leading into darkness. More birdmen were invading the room all around him. He saw their scrawny, plucked legs surrounding him. Junk slithered through the hole in the floor, on to the steps, and pulled the trapdoor closed after him.
Some of the birdmen looked under the table but were a second too late. They were confused. They didn’t understand why no one was there. Then they quickly forgot why they were there and started fighting among themselves.
*
Junk moved cautiously down the steps, keeping one hand on the wall to his right at all times. The sounds of battle from above quickly dwindled, dampened by the thick stone walls. There was no light. In total darkness Junk continued blindly, feeling each successive step with his foot before putting his weight on it. After about a minute, though it felt longer in the dark, Junk realized light was coming up from below. Ten seconds later and the blackness all around him started to take on form. He could make out the steps and only now realized that they were curving slightly. The treads were becoming deeper towards the bottom. Another dozen steps and Junk saw an archway carved into the rock. Bright sunlight was spilling out.
He reached the bottom and stepped through the doorway. He found himself in an expansive cave at sea level. There was a fishing boat moored against a wooden jetty, bobbing gently up and down on the water that slupped in and out of the cave mouth. Junk saw the open sea and sky beyond. The walls of the cave were covered with fishing tackle, nets, sails, oars and other such paraphernalia. At last Junk had found a way off this island.
*
The boat cut through the water. It was big for Junk to man alone, but he was familiar enough around boats to pilot something twice the size. Though to use the oars he had to spread his arms as wide as possible. His muscles screamed. As he rowed, sweat was pouring down his face as much from the pain as from the exertion.
He had only travelled for about a minute out and away from the island when he looked back and spotted Garvan at the top of the cliffs directly above the cave mouth. A dozen birdmen were tightening their circle around him. Garvan was armed only with his bow, though the arrows were long spent so he was using it like a staff, swinging it back and forth in an attempt to keep his attackers at bay. To Junk it seemed that Garvan was on his last reserve of energy. He wouldn’t be able to keep his defences up for much longer. The birdmen were holding off, waiting for their prey to give in and collapse rather than risk taking a blow.
Junk stared, confused by his feelings. Garvan had been his jailer for weeks. Why should he care what happened to him? But then he’d be dead now if it hadn’t been for Garvan rescuing him from that first birdman assault. He knew he should put his head down and just keep rowing but that also meant that he was taking Garvan’s only means of escape from the island. Which of course he wouldn’t need when he was ripped to shreds. That thought settled it. He couldn’t do it. He pulled back on the starboard oar and started to turn the nose of the boat back to the island. Chances were that Garvan would be gone by the time he got there, and even if he got there, what the hell was he supposed to do? But he knew he had to try.
*
By the time he reached the cliffs, his head was throbbing from overexertion. He kicked out at the anchor and it rattled over the side. The boat floated to the edge of the rocks. He took a moment to catch his breath and then, with difficulty, drew the oars in. He stood. The boat was big enough that his movements had little impact on its stability. Only the gently lapping waves jostled it. He put one foot on the side of the boat and jumped off on to the rocks. He hurried to the cliff-face and launched himself up on to a small ledge. The cliff was ragged, covered with nodules and outcroppings. He was spoiled for hand- and footholds and scampered up to the top quickly.
Junk pulled himself over the lip of the cliff silently and slid into the undergrowth. Barbed bushes scratched at him and he gritted his teeth, desperate not to make a sound.
He peered out of the bushes to see one of the birdmen pecking at Garvan. The attack drew blood. Garvan roared in pain and swung the bow. It hit the birdman hard, sending him staggering back, but in the process the bow snapped in two. His weapon was gone. The birdmen sensed that the end was near. Dinnertime was upon them. They jostled one another for prime position, each wanting to lead the feeding frenzy that seemed inevitable.
Junk stayed low and circled around so that he was inland of Garvan and the birdmen. He waited for the right moment. He didn’t have to wait long. Garvan, breathing hard, looked at the broken bow in his hands. He knew it was over. He cast the two halves of the bow to the ground and stood, arms spread, eyes closed, resigned to his imminent death. Junk shot out of his hiding place and ran as fast as he could. He bellowed at the top of his lungs to drown out any second thoughts as he flung himself at Garvan’s considerable midriff. Garvan’s eyes snapped open and he had but a split second to register Junk’s approach. Junk collided with him and the momentum took both of them over the edge of the cliff. The squabbling birdmen had taken their collective eye off their prize and it had suddenly vanished. They glanced around, confused.
Garvan and Junk fell, missing the rocks by the slimmest of margins, and plunged into the foaming sea, where they were sucked down in a maelstrom of frenzied bubbles. The rock shelf sliced and hacked at their skin, their blood mixing with the water and swirling around them in a cloak of red mist. After a few moments, gravity took a hold and they started to rise.
Exploding to the surface, Junk choked out the salty water, coughing and spluttering. He twisted about to get his bearings, looking for Garvan, but there was no sign of him. Junk started to gulp in air, ready to submerge again to go and find him, when suddenly Garvan rose up like a surfacing submarine. He came down with a thunderous splash and then floated, not moving, out cold.
Junk grabbed hold of Garvan’s gargantuan arm and looked tow
ards the boat, a few metres away. He was going to have to get him there, but moving him was like trying to manoeuvre a shed. Garvan’s dead weight and waterlogged clothes kept dragging him under. Junk reached the boat and scrambled in. He turned instantly for Garvan, but he was already sinking. He latched on to him.
‘Help me, Frank,’ he shouted through gritted teeth as he pulled at Garvan. ‘Wake up, you stupid great lump, and help me!’ But Garvan continued to slip away. Junk headbutted the side of Garvan’s head in an attempt to rouse him. Hitting Garvan’s head was similar to beating one’s head against a lump of granite. A welt opened up on Junk’s forehead and blood flowed down his face. A surge of strength rippled through him and Junk roared as he put everything he had left into pulling Garvan into the boat. Just at that moment, a wave tucked under the stern and tossed the boat up. It came down hard and the momentum caused Garvan’s dead weight to move with it and like a calf being spat out of the birth canal Garvan and Junk slithered fully into the boat. Junk hauled the anchor in and pushed away from the rocks.
After all the exertion, Junk was spent. Unconsciousness overcame him and he collapsed. The boat drifted.
8
When Junk woke next, he was disorientated. It was still bright. His mind and body felt as if he had been asleep for hours, but the sun was pretty much in the same position in the sky so clearly not much time had passed. He rubbed a hand over his face and felt the caked-on blood from the cut on his forehead. He looked at his hands and his arms. All his wounds were at least a day old, maybe two. He realized he must have been unconscious for at least twenty-four hours. He pushed himself up and saw that he was still lying on top of Garvan. The big man’s chest was rising and falling gently as he breathed. He was alive.
Junk slid off him. Every inch of his body ached. His mouth was dry and felt gritty. He looked around and discovered that they had run aground on a wide, sandy beach that stretched both ways as far as he could see. Straight ahead was the open sea. No landmarks. No islands. Nothing but water. He turned and saw that behind them, the beach reached inland for about another hundred metres or so and then became forest. Dense and not particularly inviting.
The sun beat down on them. They were completely exposed. They needed shelter, Junk knew that, but his options were limited. He leaned over and shook Garvan vigorously.
‘Frank! Wake up. Frank. Frank. Frank.’ He kept shaking him for the best part of a minute, but Garvan didn’t react at all. Not so much as a grunt or a murmur. Junk knew he wouldn’t be able to move Garvan any distance, so his only option was to build them a shelter where they were.
He searched the boat and found several concealed compartments secreted in the hull. He found five animal-hide water butts, which he filled from a nearby spring, and an expansive sail with which he was able to rig a sun canopy using half a dozen of the longest branches he could scavenge from the edge of the forest. The sail was so big that it could enclose them if the wind got up or be hiked up like the sides of a bell tent if they wanted a breeze.
Once the shelter was erected, Junk’s thoughts turned to food. He found one of Garvan’s fishing nets in another of the compartments. He could see that there was a shelf that stretched out a good two hundred metres from the beach before dropping off dramatically. Junk waded out as far as he could before trying to cast the net. However, it was too big or he was too small to launch it properly and it just plopped into the sea three metres in front of him and sank.
So Junk gathered the net up and dived into the sea. He swam down for several metres and then let the net unfurl naturally. The weights around the edge dragged it down and Junk swam back to the surface with the net leash around his wrist. He started to haul it in, wrapping the trailing rope around his arm, from his elbow to his thumb. When he retrieved the net it was teeming with fish, nothing too big but lots of smaller fish about the size of sardines.
He built a fire close to the boat and cooked the fish on sticks, which he sharpened with a hefty knife he had also found in the boat.
As night scuttled in, he looked up at the sky and frowned. The moon looked like the moon, but he figured his was the only one he had ever seen and maybe moons all look the same. What was different were the stars. There wasn’t a single constellation he recognized and there were very few places on Earth where he hadn’t at some point in the last three plus years sat and looked up at the night sky. Wherever he was, it wasn’t Earth.
Junk slept in the boat, which moved with the current and the tide, but he had had the forethought to anchor it securely so all it did was bob about a bit and was pretty much in the same spot the next morning.
He cooked more fish for breakfast and sat and looked at Garvan as he ate.
‘Look, Frank, we need to talk,’ he said to the unconscious giant. ‘I need to go. I don’t know how long I was tied up in your place. Seemed a long time, I can tell ya. You know I’m looking for someone. I’ve told you. Person who killed my little sister. I haven’t got the first clue where to find him, other than he’s not on this beach or your island. I can’t stay here with you. You understand, right? I need to find out where I am and where he might be, and to do that I need someone who speaks. You weren’t the chattiest person I ever met before, but now you’re taking being the strong, silent type to a whole new level. I don’t know how long you’re going to be like this. You do understand, right? I mean it could be another day, another week, another month. I can’t just wait around for another month. Ambeline’s killer might be on the other side of the world by now. Whatever world this is.’
Junk put down the fish he was picking at as a shudder of sadness pushed through him. A palpable throb of loneliness. It was homesickness. He had felt the same thing many times over the last three years. He was now further from home than ever, but at the same time a little closer. Closer than he’d ever been to Ambeline’s killer, which meant closer to being able to prove to his mother what really happened. He thought about his parents then. Something he tried not to do. He tried not to imagine what they were doing at that very moment. He wasn’t sure of the time wherever he was now, and he didn’t know the time difference between here and Murroughtoohy so had no idea what time it was back home. It might be morning; it might be last thing at night. That’s even if they were still at home. It had been more than three years. One thousand, one hundred and nineteen days, plus however long he had been here. For all he knew, they might have moved. Too many ghosts in the house to stay. He pushed those thoughts away. Nothing he could do about that. He concentrated on the pulsating surge of homesickness and forced it to retreat. He locked it in the deep, dark coal cellar of his mind and looked back at Garvan.
‘I have to go. You understand. I can’t move you. You’re too big. I could maybe make some sort of stretcher. Plenty of wood. Wheels would be harder. But I’ve got no tools apart from your big ol’ knife. And even if I could, I’d never be able to move it. Not unless it was downhill all the way. No, it’s best if you stay in the boat. I think you just need rest. I’ve dressed all your wounds. Nothing’s infected. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re still out. Can’t see any reason why you should be, but I’m no expert. Only know what I’ve picked up along the way. I know how to cure dysentery, but I’d need a kapok tree, and luckily for us you don’t have that. That’d be awful messy.’ Junk actually shuddered at the thought.
‘So we’re agreed then. I need to go. I can’t stay and I can’t take you with me. So the only option is for me to go and leave you here.’ He looked at Garvan as if expecting a reply. None came, but Junk nodded in agreement anyway. ‘So that’s settled then. Good.’ Junk looked at his fish again but it had gone cold by now and its opaque little eye was staring up at him accusingly. He tossed it aside.
*
Junk spent the rest of the day preparing for his onward journey. He caught more fish, fashioned a smokehouse out of several large flat stones he found a little further along the shoreline and hung the majority of his catch up to smoke. It was a technique he had learned in Ru
ssia a little over a year before. The process would keep the catch edible for longer. He had no way of knowing what was to come, so couldn’t rely on finding more fresh food.
He debated with himself whether or not to take the knife with him. Garvan’s knife. It felt wrong to steal a man’s only knife. And it would very much be stealing. It wasn’t borrowing. He didn’t think he’d ever see Garvan again after he left, so he didn’t think he would have the opportunity to return it. However, he decided that if Garvan remained comatose he wouldn’t have need of the knife, and if he gained consciousness, he was bigger, stronger and better able to defend himself than Junk was, so the only sensible option was for him to take the knife. He knew it was the wrong decision, so he stopped thinking about it.
He topped up the water butts and decided, because he was still feeling guilty about the knife, to leave three for Garvan and take two himself.
He went to sleep as soon as the sky started to darken, planning on setting off at first light.
*
Junk found himself sitting at an unfamiliar table in an unfamiliar room surrounded by unfamiliar figures bathed in shadow. The room was vast. Cavernous even. So large that the walls and ceiling disappeared into blackness. It reminded him of somewhere else, but he couldn’t remember where exactly.
The table stretched away from him. He was seated at the head. There were people sitting on either side of the length of the table but they had no detail to them. They were just eyes glinting in the dark. They were all talking at once, speaking over one another, but Junk couldn’t make out any of the words.
He looked down and in front of him was a box. One of Garvan’s puzzle boxes. He picked it up and knew instinctively what to do, how to manipulate it to make it open. As his fingers twisted, pushed and pulled at the panels, he became aware that the garbled conversations of his companions were dying away. All eyes turned to look at him. Junk stopped and looked around, not comfortable with the scrutiny. Then his gaze settled on a single yellow eye at the opposite end of the table. The one eye was looking back at him, glaring. It was a malevolent eye – if such a thing was possible. He caught his breath.
