The Island of Whispers

by Brendan Gisby

  When they reached the level ground, Slayer moved ahead of his companions to approach the Master. Their conversation was brief, but Slayer seemed happy with the outcome. Then the Master departed with all but two of his group. The prisoners he left behind huddled together, their expressions bewildered, frightened.

  The place was not like any other part of the underworld. The walls of the lair were high and steep, descending to the left and right in a series of narrow ledges. Nests, crammed with slaves, occupied every inch of each ledge. The floor stretching out from the entrance tunnel stayed even for several feet and then dipped sharply into a deep pit. The bottom of the pit also teemed with rats, their squirming, jostling bodies almost obliterating sight of the murky pool at the far end of the lair. Gangs of he-slaves roamed the pit; clambering over their neighbours, they searched out the weak and undefended, raping, killing, squabbling over murdered corpses. Shrieks and cries rose up from the pit, combining with the constant chatter on the ledges to produce a single, deafening cacophony.

  The Scavengers numbered more than twice the Inner and Outer Circle rats put together. The prisoners’ senses reeled with the sights and sounds of the multitude. Nothing could have prepared them for this madness, this bedlam. They stared transfixed into the pit. The heaving black mass reminded Twisted Foot of the maggots that he had once seen in the belly of an old, decaying No-Legs which had been washed up on the rocks. There was that same sense of agitation, of mindless hysteria; that same blind frenzy.

  Twitching snouts began to emerge above the mass. Eyes, hungry and violent, found the newcomers, recognised their vulnerability. A cry went up, and the mass surged forward suddenly. Bodies leapt from the crowd and clung to the wall of the pit. Twisted Foot and Long Ears cowered back, but the three Scavengers who had come to greet Broken Tail stood their ground.

  Slayer glared down at those on the wall.

  ‘Get back!’ he commanded. ‘Or the lair will feast on your miserable flesh tonight!’

  There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then the leading slaves slid back into the pit. The crowd resumed its milling and jostling.

  Slayer now approached the prisoners. Like his two companions, he was small and muscular. Old scars striped his coat, the harsh mementos of his struggle to dominate the lair.

  ‘Welcome to my kingdom,’ he said in a voice that was deep and rough.

  Still quivering, the prisoners said nothing.

  ‘Follow me,’ Slayer barked.

  They climbed up to the highest ledge on the lair’s left, Slayer in front, and Slasher and Belcher taking up the rear. Slayer hissed fiercely, and the slaves occupying his nest shot away. Not much remained of the carcass that he had abandoned. He kicked the skeleton and scraps of hide into the pit.

  ‘Settle here,’ he ordered.

  Twisted Foot and Long Ears crouched down in the nest. Slasher crept close to them, examining their wounds, licking the congealing blood.

  ‘Let’s kill them now,’ he growled.

  ‘Yes, let’s kill them,’ Belcher joined in.

  Slayer pushed the eager Scavengers away.

  ‘No,’ he rasped. ‘The Master wants them kept safe. They’re to be executed.’ His tongue curled round his large fangs. ‘Then we’ll have their corpses,’ he added.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty –

  Long Ears had stopped trembling some time ago. His heart no longer thudded wildly, and his breathing was now slow and measured. Warmth radiated from his sleeping body.

  Twisted Foot had felt the tenseness slip away from Long Ears. He, too, had begun to relax, despite the incessant madness below. We’re safe for the moment, he said to himself. A respite. But such a respite! They’ll come for us soon, and then ... We had been waiting anxiously for the Assembly to begin. That was last night ... or is it still the same night? He couldn’t remember. He knew only that the agony of waiting was worse this time.

  He looked sadly at his companion. Poor Long Ears, he thought. He blames himself for the mess we’re in. But it wasn’t his fault. It was me – my mistake. I was wrong to choose Narrow Back. I should have been more cautious. Narrow Back paid dearly for his incaution. Twisted Foot shuddered when he remembered the bloody pulp and the horrific screams. The penalty for my failure will be exacted soon. But the others are all right, thank goodness! They’ve been spared. We kept our heads. We showed courage, at least.

  He looked up, startled, from his thoughts. Slayer was prodding him roughly.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Why does the Master want to execute you? What have you done?’

  The three Scavengers had crowded into the nest. Long Ears woke with a jolt. Twisted Foot found it difficult to concentrate, to form the words. He had to shout over the eternal din.

  ‘It was because –’ he croaked, ‘because we wanted to leave this world to form a new society.’

  ‘Leave this world? Go where?’ Slayer looked amused.

  Twisted Foot hesitated. I don’t suppose it matters anymore, he decided.

  ‘To the land across the water,’ he replied defiantly.

  ‘Land? Water?’ Slayer was incredulous now.

  Belcher pressed closer to Twisted Foot and belched loudly.

  ‘He’s a dung-head, King-rat!’ he cried. ‘He’s mad!’

  Twisted Foot began to understand. He took a deep breath. Then he spoke clearly and deliberately.

  ‘Above this world, there is another world. A world with light as well as darkness. It has a sun and a moon, clouds and rain. It is surrounded by vast waters. Across the waters, there are other worlds. Lands with trees and grass and many strange creatures – creatures not like us. We had planned to go to one of those lands.’

  ‘Dung-head!’ Belcher shouted again.

  ‘It’s a trick,’ growled Slasher. ‘He lies. There is only one world. This one. We all know that. Kill him, King-rat!’

  ‘Sh!’ commanded Slayer. He stared at Twisted Foot for some time and then said, ‘We know nothing of these strange words you speak. Perhaps you are mad, I don’t know. But tell me, why – why you wanted to leave, why you wanted to go to this ... this so-called other world.’

  ‘Because of the cruelty in our society,’ Long Ears piped up.

  ‘Yes,’ Twisted Foot continued. ‘We are Watchers, you see –’

  ‘Watchers?’

  ‘We watch over the outside world. There are also Hunters. They kill the white birds on the world above –’

  ‘Yes,’ Slayer nodded, ‘we have seen these white creatures. The Master brings them to us from time to time. Go on.’

  Twisted Foot was more confident now.

  ‘There are also Protectors ... guards. They guard over your lair. They are led by Broken Tail ... the one you call Master. They serve the Inner Circle ... the Rulers –’

  ‘Rulers?’

  ‘The large brown ones. The Rulers ... our Masters.’

  ‘Yes,’ Slayer nodded again. ‘The fat brown corpses. The Master brings them to us.’

  Twisted Foot went on quickly.

  ‘The Rulers eat our young. The Protectors molest our mates, and kill and maim us. We are treated no better than ... slaves. Slaves ... like you.’

  ‘Slaves!’ It was Slayer who was angry now. ‘Explain yourself!’ he demanded.

  Twisted Foot gulped. He glanced furtively at Long Ears. His companion nodded, as if to say: Better to die quickly here, comrade, than slowly out there.

  ‘They call you Scavengers,’ Twisted Foot said carefully. ‘But you are kept here as a food supply. The many warriors who are taken from your lair are killed ... and devoured –’

  ‘The cripple lies!’ Belcher screamed.

  ‘No, it’s true! All true!’ Long Ears cried.

  ‘Kill them now!’ Slasher hissed.

  Slayer moved swiftly, placing himself between the Watchers and his angry cohorts.

  ‘Shut up!’ he commanded. He stared again at Twisted Foot. The look was thoughtful, pensive.

  ‘All r
ight,’ he said eventually, ‘we are scavengers, that’s true. The Master gives us your dead to eat. In return, we give him our strongest warriors. It is a great honour for the warriors. They are needed for the ranks of the Master’s underlings. That is what he says, anyway. You may be mad, I don’t know. We haven’t spoken to your kind before. I must think about these ... these stories you tell.’ He paused, slowly bearing his teeth. ‘But if you’re lying,’ he growled, ‘I’ll make sure both of you regret it!’

  A sudden spark of hope fired Twisted Foot. He sensed that Long Ears was also roused. They shrank back from the threat nevertheless.

  Slayer rose up.

  ‘Come,’ he said to Slasher. ‘We have work to do.’

  ‘Keep our visitors safe,’ he ordered Belcher.

  Twisted Foot knew that he had to be quick. He searched desperately for the right words.

  ‘There’s something else you should know,’ he blurted. ‘Your – your numbers here in the lair. They far exceed my own society. You – you don’t have to stay here, you know. You don’t have to remain as ... slaves.’

  The small King-rat stayed quite still. His fur bristled. He glared coldly at the wide-eyed Watchers.

  ‘We have work to do,’ he said brusquely. Then he leapt from the nest to join the melee down below.

  – o –

  Part Three:

  The Revolt

  – Chapter Twenty-One –

  Like a great army, the storm clouds had assembled by stealth under the cover of darkness. When dawn came, they hung low and menacing in the sky, a vast grey pall above the landscape. The wind rose in angry, impatient gusts, signalling the start of the day-long barrage. Unleashed by their lofty grey marshals, eager battalions of stinging rain pellets darted in slants through the sky. The assault was fierce and relentless. The rain hordes swept down on the towns and countryside, rushing in torrents from roofs and along gutters, and gathering in muddy pools in the furrows and depressions of the land. Urged on by the wrathful wind, they drove into the heaving grey sea, creating myriad tiny eddies on its surface. Wounded and enraged by this incursion, the sea boiled and frothed round the forlorn little island in the middle of the estuary. Alone, exposed, the ancient rock seemed to hunch down, to prepare itself for another long siege.

  It was Saturday, the eve of the finale. All through the morning and into the early afternoon, the storm battle in the Forth valley raged on unabated, unrelenting. The organisers were nervous. They had been promised fine weather for the big event: a bright, fresh day, followed by a crisp, clear night lit by a full moon. That was what they prayed for. Right now, though, the torrential rain was spoiling their preparations. On the outskirts of the towns, the fields which they had zoned for car and bus parking had rapidly become waterlogged. Even if much of the surface water drained away by the following morning, the prospect of a squelching, muddy trek into the towns was bound to deter many potential spectators. Of more immediate concern, however, was the fireworks display. There was no telling what damage the wind and rain were inflicting on the sophisticated display platform. The whole project could be ruined. The display was the highlight, the pièce de résistance, probably the biggest and most expensive ever staged in Europe. There was no choice: despite the treacherous conditions, a boat would have to go to Inchgarvie.

  Deep below Inchgarvie, in the quiet of the Inner Circle’s lair, the sounds of the storm came like distant whispers. Rainwater trickled more freely down the wall to seep silently into the lair’s pool, but the rising level of the pool went unobserved by Long Snout. Irate, fretful, the old Chamberlain paced the ground, his thoughts taken up with more weighty matters. Throughout his many Cycles, he had encountered nothing like it: this sense of doom, of imminent disaster. The escaping slaves; the glowing giant; the Two-Legs creature on the world above: the events had accumulated with frightening rapidity. Now, intensifying the foreboding, there was this act of treachery by the brainless Watchers. Their plot had been foiled, of course, but the stench of their disloyalty lingered on in the underworld. Every trace of it had to be eradicated, swiftly and forcefully. A new, harder discipline had to be enforced; a new sense of loyalty forged.

  Long Snout halted close to the spot where the blood had gushed from Narrow Back’s wounds. The blood was dark and viscous now. He looked towards the rows of nests. White Muzzle slept soundly. In adjoining nests, Red Coat and Fire Eyes were also curled up with their mates. Unconcerned, as usual, he muttered to himself. The King-rat and his princes seem so ignorant of the lurking danger, as if they are no longer capable of using their instincts. Perhaps they are too well protected. They – and the rest of the Inner Circle – must be shaken from their complacency. They must learn to fear again, to be watchful and cautious.

  This coming Assembly will be an important one, he decided. It must have two purposes. First, there must be stern words to rouse the Inner Circle; to spell out the mounting threat to their favoured existence. Then, for the Outer Circle, there must be action – firm action – to banish any further thoughts of disloyalty or insurrection. The public execution of the wretched Watchers will be slow and agonising; I will make sure of that. The whole of the Outer Circle, she-rats and young included, must be there to witness the torment, to comprehend and remember the penalty for treachery. Yes, he nodded, it must be a very special Assembly: stern words to rouse and unite the Inner Circle; harsh action to intimidate the Outer Circle; and then a great feast of slave-flesh to fill our bellies.

  Long Snout grunted loudly. The moment was long overdue. It was time to summon the Chief Protector.

  Narrow Back uttered a last, dying gasp. His torn, racked body became still, his eyes blank and staring. A mournful whine broke from Timid One, his mate. The others who had remained close to the nest began to whimper softly. Fat One and Small Face returned to their own nests in silence. Fear, more than grief, stilled their voices. Where were Twisted Foot and Long Ears? Why had this awful thing happened to Narrow Back? There had been no explanations, but each knew instinctively that the dream of escape lay in ruins. What now of their own safety? Were the mates and youngsters in danger? They could do nothing, but wait and watch and worry.

  Old Sharp Claws looked down sadly at Narrow Back’s stiffening corpse. He shook his head. Such a waste, he thought. Then he, too, returned slowly to his nest. Foolish young Watchers, he cursed. They think they know everything. They think they can run away and form their own society. Young fools! Look at what they’ve brought on themselves – and on the Watchers’ lair. More misery, more ridicule, more scorn. As if things weren’t bad enough.

  He thought of Twisted Foot and Long Ears, defenceless and frightened in the midst of the Scavengers. He thought of his own early Cycles. Yes, it’s true, he remembered, I dreamt of flight when I was young. But that’s all it was: a foolish dream. I knew even then that the power of the underworld couldn’t be broken.

  He climbed wearily into his nest, shook his head again. He thought of the coming ordeal. Such a waste. I try my best to look after the young Watchers, to guide them, to protect them. Poor, foolish creatures. They’ll be gone soon, destroyed like Narrow Back. I’ll miss them. But it won’t end there. Discipline will be increased; punishments more severe. Life for the Watchers will be harder than ever.

  Sharp Claws sighed deeply. He kept his gaze on the entrance tunnel. Broken Tail would come soon, and the ordeal would begin. He had to stay strong, unflinching. The underworld had no place for sentiment.

  Slayer crouched on the flat ground close to the mouth of the tunnel. He, too, waited for Broken Tail. On his left, in an excited huddle, were the ten young warriors whom he and Slasher had selected from the pit. The warriors were all fit and strong, his gift for the Master. On his right, Slasher and Belcher kept guard over the prisoners. The Watchers – or so they called themselves – seemed frightened, but they stayed silent, as if they were resigned to their fate. He hadn’t talked to them again. Their words had been strange and confusing. Their notions had disturbed him. They
had talked of a society ruled not by the Master, but by the fat brown ones; of fantastic worlds above their own; of slaves who were killed for their flesh; and of insurrection ... Was it possible? Could it all be true? He needed to dwell on the things they said. He had but a short time to do so before the Master returned.

  The lair was unusually quiet. The chattering along the ledges had ceased for the moment. Even the multitude of rats in the pit had grown still, as if their constant milling and squabbling had brought them to the point of exhaustion. Twisted Foot kept his gaze fixed on the black mass. That way, he knew, lay escape. One leap, and he would be in the pit. The bodies would boil and froth again, but the disturbance would be momentary. Death would be swift and merciful; the torment ended. One leap, and then salvation. Long Ears recognised it. He, too, stared, mesmerised, into the pit, his body tensed, ready to spring.

  Up on the ledge, in the slave-King’s nest, there had been a glimmer of hope. They had waited for him to return, to signify that he would act on their words. They had followed his movements in the pit. The power that he wielded over his race was brutal and terrifying. Perhaps it was no wonder that he didn’t respond. Outside the lair, the world would be strange and unknown. In here, he controlled life and death. In here, he was the Master.

  When he did return to the nest, there was no acknowledgement, only a cold, hard stare. He had ordered them back down to the level ground. What little hope they had clung to perished with that order. Now, there was nothing left. Just the sea of black fur below. Just one leap. Then relief.

  Without warning, dark shapes began to emerge from the tunnel. Twisted Foot caught the movement. His heart raced. He recognised Broken Tail and Jagged Fangs close behind. Three more Protectors hung back at the tunnel entrance, their forms still blurred.