The Madmans Daughter

by Megan Shepherd

Page 22

  Author: Megan Shepherd

  Except Edward’s trail.

  I tried to tell myself he’d be fine. He was stronger than he looked. He was a survivor.

  I stopped to catch my breath. For what felt like hours I stood, listening, hearing nothing. Whatever had been pursuing us, I’d lost it. I sank into the water, letting it soak me through, and mixed my tears with the stream water of the island.

  LATER, I FOLLOWED THE twists and turns of the stream until my feet were numb. I found a gnarled stick to use as a crutch for my left foot, which bled from a gash on the toe. My thoughts grew more frantic with each hobbling step forward. I listened for the dogs, to find my way back to the compound. It would mean facing Father, swallowing back my disgust and disappointment and fear, but at least I’d be alive. Why hadn’t he told me the truth about the deaths?

  What else might he be lying about?

  One way or another my whole life had led to this moment, to him, and now I had nothing. I couldn’t return to London. I couldn’t even be sure about Montgomery anymore.

  It was useless anyway. I was hopelessly lost and hadn’t heard the dogs for hours.

  The stream turned, and a rotting footbridge with a handrail blocked my progress.

  I stopped, surprised. A bridge meant people. This one clearly hadn’t been used in years, but it was far enough from the compound and old enough that it couldn’t be my father’s doing. I glanced through the woods, wondering who had built it and if they were still alive—and if they were dangerous. All I could hear was the trickle of water and wind in the trees.

  I climbed out of the stream. The ground here was softer, and I followed it cautiously until I broke out of the jungle into a grassy clearing.

  A cabin sat decaying in the middle of the clearing.

  I stopped.

  My feet didn’t dare go any closer, though I knew there might be something useful inside. I tried to remember what Father had said about the island’s previous inhabitants. The Spanish who built the fort. The Anglican missionaries. Father said they’d all gone—what exactly had happened to them he’d neglected to say.

  I circled the cabin cautiously. The soft blades of grass felt like down feathers on my bruised feet. A support beam had collapsed and the roof sagged on one end. The tin roofing was rusted and eaten away in places. No one could live here now, but the previous occupants might have left an old pair of shoes. Maybe a knife. I’d settle for a strong board with a rusty nail—anything I could use as a weapon.

  I hobbled toward the cabin. The wooden steps had long ago rotted and collapsed. I set my stick aside and pulled myself onto the bowed porch. The soles of my feet left bloody prints on the rough old boards, which protested under my weight as I crossed to the doorway. The door hung open a few inches. I only had to push it a little farther.

  The hinges groaned, sending gooseflesh over my skin. I peered inside. The interior was as dilapidated as the outside. It was sparsely furnished—a low table, a wooden bed frame. No sign of inhabitants. I stepped inside but felt a tug at my skirt. With a shriek I ripped it away, but it had only caught on a nail in the doorframe. A snag of dingy fur was also caught on the nail.

  My throat tightened. Just because the cabin had been abandoned by people didn’t mean some wild animal hadn’t taken up occupancy.

  A wild animal . . . maybe one that was killing the islanders by clawing their chests. I glanced around the clearing, looking for signs I was being watched. Not a blade of grass rustled. I slipped in anyway and closed the door behind me, breathless. There was a crude wooden latch attached to the door that I fumbled to twist closed.

  Sunlight poured in from rusted-out patches in the roof, throwing puddles of light on the room. Dust danced in the hazy air.

  My breath began to calm. I was alone, I told myself. I cleaned the cabin’s one dirty window with the edge of my sleeve. Outside there was nothing but empty porch and my walking stick leaning against a post.

  On the table was a nub of tallow candle and a grimy green bottle filled with dust and the petrified husks of flying insects. I spied a cupboard in the corner and twisted open the latch. The door came off in my hand, and a heavy, rusted wrench spilled out at my feet, just missing my toes. I jumped back, my heart in my throat. Several more tools tumbled out with a dull crash of metal. I stooped to look. A claw-headed hammer. A railroad spike. A rusted pair of shears. My hand closed over the shears. Though the blades were dull, they could be used as a weapon. I slipped it into my pocket.

  I turned to the bed and sucked in a quick breath. The remnants of a straw mattress and old quilt were matted with thick yellow fur. Something had made a den out of the bed—some animal. Images jumped to mind of a savage beast with claws big enough to slice a man open.

  I fumbled with my skirt pocket and pulled out the shears. With my other hand I touched the quilt, hesitantly. The fur felt gritty and rough against my fingers. I didn’t belong here. Some creature did.

  And it might return.

  A desperate need to flee pulled at my gut. When I turned, I caught sight of something startlingly white on the mantel above the caved-in fireplace. I stepped closer to see what it was.

  On the mantel was a small glass bottle, broken at the top, filled halfway with water. In the bottle was a single fresh white flower.

  Someone had been here. A human.

  A chill seized me.

  This wasn’t the den of some wild animal—it was the filthy home of some person. I hurled myself at the door. But the wooden latch wouldn’t turn.

  A creak sounded from the porch. I pulled back my hand as though the latch were on fire. My body went still as stone. I closed my eyes.

  I waited.

  I licked some moisture back into my quivering lips.

  Another creak. And another, slow as the shallow breaths I took. Someone was walking on the bowed wooden boards on the other side of the door.

  My eyes flew open. I dared not take a step and make my presence known. From my position I could see out of the window’s corner. The shadow of a tall figure stretched across the porch.

  The latch rattled.

  I shrank into myself, feeling a silent scream coming from every pore in my skin. There was no other way out of the cabin. The window was on the same side as the door, and the chimney had fallen in. I looked up into the dappled sunlight blinding my eyes. The roof would never take my weight.

  The latch rattled again.

  I fought against consuming fear. Panic would get me nowhere. I needed my head. He’d be bigger than me, no doubt, so I couldn’t overpower him. The shears were an extension of my hand, deadly and ready to strike. I needed to catch him by surprise as soon as the door opened. Strike something essential but soft, easy to damage with the shears. His abdomen. No—his eyes. I could get away easier from a blind attacker.

  The latch rattled again, harder this time. Sweat rolled down the sides of my face. Somewhere beneath the fear, there was a thrill. I could almost taste it, like chimney ash. In the next minute, I might blind a man with my own hands. It made me feel savage and powerful.

  Outside, somewhere in the jungle, one of the bloodhounds howled. A small ripple of hope.

  Suddenly the door went still. The dog howled again, and then several more joined it. They had picked up a scent. I tried to peer out the window but saw nothing. The shears were slick in my sweating palm.

  Then, as sudden as they had come, the footsteps left.

  I waited ten seconds. Twenty. I lost count. Still, the doorknob did not move. I forced my legs to walk to the window. The porch outside was totally empty.

  Had the dogs frightened him off? Or was he just around the corner, waiting for me? I stood still as long as I could before the dust dancing in the air began to choke me like poison. I pounded at the latch with the shears until I could twist it. Slowly, I inched open the door. Sweat rolled off my face and soaked my blouse. I took a step onto th
e porch.

  There was no one there. He’d gone. But he’d left behind wet footprints on the sagging wooden porch, interspersed with my bloody prints. I crouched down to study the print closest to the door. It dwarfed my own. He’d been barefoot, which was strange. Stranger still was the number of toes.

  One, two, three.

  Twenty

  I JERKED UP FROM the porch floor, searching the jungle. An eerie feeling of watching eyes crept over me. The island was full of life, and yet I saw none of it. The living things here had a way of creeping silently, like ghosts, keeping to the shadows, whispering. The spaces between the leaves could hold all kinds of dangers.

  I snatched the walking stick and jumped off the porch, wincing as my tender bare soles connected with the ground. I hurried to the edge of the clearing. Sweat poured down my neck, pooling in the space between my breasts. Ahead, the grass bent from someone recently passing through. An insect trilled behind me. The jungle watched my every move.

  I turned and cut across the clearing, following the direction of the dogs’ barking. Tall blades of grass slashed at my skirt. Through breaks in the trees I could see the volcano plume but there should have been a second column of smoke from the compound’s chimney. Either the fire wasn’t going or I was too far away. I decided to circle the island until I found a road. The terrain flattened gradually as I neared the coast, but I hit a patch of dense brambles. My walking stick became a machete. At least beating back the vines gave me a distraction from not knowing which way to go. And not knowing if Edward was all right.

  He might be wandering the island, lost like me. I know about the scandal, he’d said. But if that was so, why hadn’t he said anything earlier? Why had he agreed to come if he knew my father was a madman?

  I beat back another bramble with my walking stick. Edward Prince was as difficult to figure out as the twists and turns in the jungle labyrinth. Every direction looked the same. Big, woolly vines clung to the trunks of many-armed trees. Brambles tangled like a wild horse’s mane.

  A cry sounded in the distance, and a bolt of fear propelled me forward into a run. The three-toed creature was still out there—man or beast or murderer, I didn’t know. Maybe watching, even now. Waiting for nightfall. Following my steps like a phantom. The faster I ran, the greater the fear swelled. I wiped slick sweat off my forehead but more took its place. I started sprinting, faster and faster, until I crashed into a copse of leafy stalks. When I fought my way through, I found myself next to a small, winding stream.

  I collapsed on the bank. The thump of my pulse was deafening. A bird warbled, and then another. But no phantom pursuer crashed through the jungle behind me. My breath slowed.

  I splashed water on my burning face and lay back on the moss and leaves, letting my lungs fill with air. Nothing about the island was predictable. It was as alive as a person, full of whims and lies and contradictions. I didn’t know what to trust. Each snap sounded like a pursuer. Every half-trampled path led to nothing. How could I even trust my own instincts? They had led me to the island to test some theory—some desperate hope—that the world had been wrong about my father.

  My instincts had been wrong.

  My vision was blurry and my head pounded—I’d missed my injection that morning. I wiped my face and noticed a streak of red on my arm. Blood bubbled from the thorn scratches. I touched my forehead, my cheeks, my neck. Blood stuck to my skin like tar. I’d become prey to the island but, as in my dream, I felt no pain. Only a fascination with the webs of slashes and bloody marks on my body. I was sliding, slipping away from humanity.

  Had my father slid the same way?

  Something fast and damp darted across my hand. I sat up with a shriek. Across the stream, something flashed again, then closer, moving incredibly fast. It was about the size of a rat but of an odd fleshy color. The longer I sat still, the more creatures appeared, slinking around on the other side of the stream. I bent forward slowly to take a drink, cupping the water in my hands, and looked up to find one standing on its hind legs on a rock, head cocked. I gasped. Not afraid, just bewildered. I’d never seen anything like it. It was a little smaller than a rat, furless, with a face like a snapping turtle. The thing squawked and disappeared back into the foliage. For a few moments, not a single leaf rustled.