The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  The hand that held her relented, and she pulled back to turn and see Sayid, his face apologetic, the feel of his body still burning into her. “Sorry,” he said, their eyes locking. “Just didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Both Leo and Sayid were in Harris tweed, their feet clad in heavy boots studded with nails and dull with dubbin. Leo carried a bow, one of Ian’s. Sayid had his May Fair folding camera on a strap slung over one shoulder.

  “That wasn’t a fair shot! The poor thing couldn’t see!” Maggie was still shaky and breathless. “It’s ungentlemanly to shoot an animal when he’s blind!”

  “Nature red in tooth and claw, tenderfoot,” declared Leo, gesturing with the bow. “And I’ve never seen you refuse venison for dinner.”

  “Mr. Kingsley,” Sayid began, warning in his tone.

  “I have no issue with hunting or eating animals,” Maggie told Leo. “I’m not a hypocrite—I know meat doesn’t start out wrapped in brown paper at the butcher’s. But I don’t think it’s fair to kill when the beast can’t even see!”

  “Do you really believe Nature is ‘fair’?” Leo challenged.

  “No, but we humans should know better,” she retorted hotly. “And it’s not as if we’re starving.”

  He grinned. “We’re all just animals, when it comes down to it.”

  “Miss Hope, the deer on this island have nowhere to migrate to,” Sayid explained. “They need to be culled. If they’re not, they’ll starve.”

  Leo shook his head. “Don’t bother. She won’t understand.”

  Maggie felt her temper blaze. “Well, it’s not my fault if you can’t hit a moving target and have to take down a stag at a disadvantage.”

  “And you can’t just run into the middle of our hunt and start self-righteous lecturing. Not until you’ve picked up a weapon yourself.”

  She’d shot before. And killed. But a man, not a beast. “I know all too well how to shoot. And I prefer not to.”

  Sayid began:

  “She leaves these objects to a slow decay,

  That what we are, and have been, may be known;

  But at the coming of the milder day,

  These monuments shall all be overgrown.”

  “ ‘Hart-Leap Well,’ ” Maggie said, recognizing the poem. And she finished:

  “One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

  Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals;

  Never to blend our pleasure or our pride

  With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”

  “I always did love Wordsworth. I think that was one of the first we committed to memory when you arrived, wasn’t it?” Sayid asked.

  Maggie nodded, remembering their first time in the library in front of a roaring fire when he’d discovered her reading poetry, their early mistakes, and then the easy and frequent laughter as they memorized more poems and became acquainted.

  “It’s all right,” Leo interrupted. The three began to wade through the rough grass. “You’re scaring the beast away. In case you were feeling hungry, I shot another stag earlier.”

  “Could this one see?”

  Leo bristled. “He could.”

  “Good then. And how did it feel?” she asked.

  “Momentous, actually.” He chose his words with care. “I felt impossibly powerful—but also profoundly sad.” He shook his head. “It happens every time I kill. Death is always like that.”

  Death. Not only stags are dying on Forbidden Island. “Captain Evans…” Maggie began.

  “That was something last night, wasn’t it?” Leo said. “I never had much respect for his military skills, but Evans did seem a good chap.”

  Sayid nodded. “He helped us make the best of a bad situation.”

  “He’ll be missed,” Maggie added.

  Sayid turned to her. “By the way, did you manage to make contact with the mainland?”

  “Yes, I spoke with a woman at Arisaig House. She promised they would send a boat here to collect Captain Evans. If they left at first light, they should arrive by noon or so. Were you able to determine the cause of death?”

  “Unclear,” he stated. “The poor man. And to think he ended his life with us mangy lot—present company excluded, of course. Any news on Mr. Lansbury?”

  “No,” Maggie replied, remembering the figure she saw—or at least thought she saw—in the woods earlier. “You didn’t see him at breakfast? Or run into him in the woods?”

  “No,” Leo replied. “Haven’t seen him at all. Can’t blame the man for wanting to get away, though. Same old faces all the time. Enough to make anyone go mad. And as for the widow Poole-Smythe—well, I don’t think things have been smooth sailing between them.”

  Really, Maggie thought, remembering how close Leo and Helene had seemed at last night’s dinner. And while the cat’s away, will the mouse play?

  “What are you doing this far into the woods?” Sayid asked Maggie. “Usually you stick to the shore—all of that swimming. Don’t know how you force yourself to do it in this cold.”

  Well, there’s not much else to do here and it helps me keep a hold on my sanity. “Actually, I’m meeting Mr. Crane. He’s teaching me to fly-fish at Loch Scresort.”

  Sayid stepped closer, his eyes dark and sincere. “Miss Hope, I’m sorry about grabbing you. I apologize for giving you a fright. I just didn’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I understand, Doctor. And I appreciate the gesture.”

  “Why don’t I walk you to your fishing lesson with Mr. Crane?”

  “Go ahead, Dr. Khan—I’m done here.” Leo gave a halfhearted salute and turned to make his way back into the woods alone.

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting there myself, Dr. Khan,” Maggie told him, but her heart leapt at the chance of spending time alone with him, away from the curious eyes and ears of the other prisoners.

  He smiled. “Yes, I know you are, Miss Hope—but why would you deny me the pleasure of your company?”

  * * *

  —

  Scarra’s fast-running river, the Tobermory, cut the island in two. It had long, shallow rapids, punctuated by rock-edged pools overhung with slender birch trees. As the morning progressed, the sun’s rays were becoming stronger and warmer; Maggie could nearly feel the land sighing in the light, the earth warming in the sun, living things reaching out from their wintry retreat. Above her and Sayid, the sky was the pale blue of an eighteenth-century drawing room’s ceiling.

  Together, they followed the path, their footsteps cushioned by moss and needles. Eventually, they came to a bridge, made of wood with double railings. Maggie snuck a glance at Sayid’s silent profile. “I don’t know if this little bridge has a name,” she said as they approached, “but I’ve always called it Poohsticks Bridge.”

  “What under heaven are Poohsticks?”

  “Winnie-the-Pooh is a bear, of course, and Poohsticks is a sport named in his honor. He played with his friend, a tiny pig named, er, Piglet.”

  The corners of Sayid’s mouth turned up in amusement. “I see.”

  “All you need is a bridge over running water. Each player drops a stick on the upstream side, and the one whose stick first appears downstream is the winner.”

  “Well, then, since we’re here—” Sayid responded, scooping up a few twigs. “Shall we?”

  Both their sticks hit the liquid glass of the stream at the same instant; they turned to the other side to see whose had gone the fastest. “A. A. Milne’s stories are for children, but there’s one quote I always liked: Some people talk to animals. Not many listen though. That’s the problem.”

  Sayid nodded. “That is the problem, isn’t it?”

  Maggie won the first round, Sayid the second, and then both their sticks crossed the finish line at the same time. “That was great fu
n, thank you,” Sayid offered. “Much better than hunting with Leo.”

  They picked their way over the path, now on the opposite side of the stream. “You don’t like hunting?” Maggie asked.

  “I’d rather shoot photographs of deer than literally shoot the animals.” Maggie was aware she was staring. She tore her gaze away. “A lot of the deer and game birds were imported here by Killoch, for his hunting parties,” he mentioned as they passed a cluster of abandoned crofts. Silverweed coated the derelict gardens. A tiny whitewashed church stood at one end. “Do you know why it was called the Forbidden Island? Because anyone trying to come to the island who wasn’t expressly invited by Sir Marcus was met by servants carrying loaded guns. He rid himself of the people who lived here, who worked here for generations, and then kept it all to himself. You wouldn’t believe what was done. It makes my blood run cold. But no one man can own this land, no individual, certainly.”

  Maggie gazed at the deserted village, which now lay in desolation. What had happened to all the people who had once inhabited it, the ones Sir Marcus drove from their homes? The forsaken buildings looked raw and cold and empty, the windows like the eye sockets of a skull. “The crofters probably went to Glasgow—”

  “And then Canada. Or the United States. And not willingly. They had no choice.”

  “Most of Scotland’s and England’s great houses—the estates—are fast becoming anachronisms,” Maggie said. “Taken over by the government. Who knows what will happen to them after the war?”

  Sayid didn’t reply.

  They had arrived at the lake, Loch Scresort, surrounded by dense holly bushes and fed by a roaring waterfall. Maggie spotted Teddy in waders, thigh-deep in cold, peaty water, chewing on his unlit pipe. With his bristly hair and protruding stomach, he really did seem bearish, almost like Pooh. She watched him for a moment as he reeled in his fly and then cast again, the line making a graceful arc.

  “I’ll say goodbye here, then.” Sayid stopped and she did as well.

  Maggie tried for nonchalance. “Why don’t you stay? Fish with us?”

  He smiled and leaned closer. “Another time, perhaps.” Maggie didn’t know if she should shake his hand, embrace him, or kiss him.

  At that moment, Teddy caught sight of them on the shore. “Miss Hope! Dr. Khan! How long have you been here?” He smiled, his homely face lighting up.

  Sayid waved to the fisherman, then stuffed his hands hastily into his jacket pockets. “Enjoy.” He smiled at Maggie, before turning and sauntering off.

  Maggie forced herself not to watch Sayid walk away and instead focused her attention on Teddy. “Hello, Mr. Crane!” she called, trying not to sound disappointed Sayid had left. “And how long have you been here?”

  “Well before sunrise—although that’s not saying much in the Scottish winter.” He waded back to reach her, splashing through the shallows. He used his walking stick. “There are apples and oatcakes in the sack, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Unlike the river, the lake was calm, dark and somber, reflecting the pine trees and purple-black hills. “Although Mr. Kingsley set his sights on a deer blinded by bracken—and I’m afraid I ruined his shot.”

  “Accidentally?” He grinned. “Or on purpose?”

  “Accidentally—but I can’t say I’m sorry. I don’t have any issues with hunting per se, just want it to be a fair fight.”

  “A funny way to feel in the spy trade, isn’t it? There’s no such thing as a fair fight, is there really? However, fly-fishing’s quite a different sport from stalking. Angling’s a humble pursuit. There’s nothing exclusive, nothing class-conscious about it. It’s pastoral and democratic. Which is why, when the foxes are finally reprieved, fish will still be squirming on hooks.”

  As dead birch leaves spun down into the ghostly green water, she spotted a dappled, fat, brown shadow. “Mr. Crane, there’s a fish!”

  He chortled. “It’s a brown trout, a ‘broonie,’ as they’re called here. I’ve heard stories of the American Indians being able to reach into the waters and tickle the trout’s belly to catch it, but I prefer the rod myself.”

  Maggie caught a falling dead leaf and twirled it between her fingers. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Mr. Lansbury?”

  “He didn’t show up at breakfast?”

  “I left without having any—but Mr. Kingsley and Dr. Khan said they haven’t seen him either.”

  “I’m sure he just wanted some fresh air and time to think,” he assured her. “I take it you made contact with the ‘Powers That Be’ on the mainland last evening? About poor Captain Evans? What an awful night.”

  “It really was. And, yes, I was able to reach Arisaig House. They’re sending a team of men by boat today. Most likely they’ll send another commanding officer as well.”

  “Someone pulling the short straw, I’m sure.” He scowled into the water.

  “Considering our training, we’re a fairly well-behaved lot.” As she took off her own boots and drew on the extra pair of waders Teddy had brought for her, Maggie caught a glimpse of a flash of white in the mud. It was the porcelain head of a doll, the hair long gone, the paint faded by weather and water. She shuddered. Next to it were the broken pieces of a Dundee marmalade jar. Long-ago picnics from ages past, Maggie mused. What had happened to the little girl who’d brought the doll? Was she in Canada now? Did she ever think of her lost doll?

  “Here.” Teddy held out a rod. “Let’s get you started.”

  Maggie took the rod and gingerly followed him into the water. Even through her rubber waders and layers of wool socks, she could feel the cold.

  “Now, there’s a quiet elegance to fly-fishing,” Teddy explained. “It’s dignified. Precise. A perfect balance between man and nature. Just watch me and do what I do.”

  Maggie observed him cast and then tried herself.

  She failed.

  “Keep practicing,” he encouraged her as she reeled the fly back in.

  She cast again. This time the lure flew out farther.

  “That’s it—you’re getting there.”

  And again.

  “That was better, you’re getting the rhythm of it now,” Teddy said. “It’s all in the arm. Just hold it up for a bit,” he told her. “Hold it like this, then pull up, flick, punch.” He demonstrated: “Up, stop, throw the line out.”

  The next time, Maggie managed to throw the fly in an awkward arc.

  “You’re getting it!” Teddy exclaimed, chewing happily on the end of his pipe. “Although it’s a good thing dinner doesn’t depend on your fishing skills.”

  “Gosh, thanks.”

  “Don’t think too much. And yet, you need to be entirely conscious of what you are doing and why you’re doing it.”

  They fished in silence for a long moment, listening to the music of the waterfall. “I was reading about lures…” Maggie began.

  “Please, Miss Hope—less talking, more fishing.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Hush.”

  The moments turned into minutes and those accumulated. Maggie’s feet were freezing. “So…where are the fish?”

  “You’re scaring them all away with your chatter.”

  Maggie wasn’t so sure. “Maybe we should try another loch? Or a stream? The bay?”

  “You must be quiet, Miss Hope.”

  Maggie couldn’t help herself. “The ocean?”

  Teddy ignored her. Maggie, bored and cold, said, “There’s math in fishing, you know.”

  “Shhhh…”

  Maggie distracted herself from her freezing toes by silently contemplating the mathematics of fishing—casting dynamics and rod static. Propelling a line and attached lure such a great distance requires deft control of the body’s ability to impart momentum—the product of an object’s mass and velocity—to the rod and l
ine. Following the moment of peak energy, the arm’s snapping force passes through the rod to the flexible tip, which then wiggles back and forth. This motion translates the force from the arm to the speed of the line and fly.

  Nothing. No nibble on the line. Maggie sighed.

  Because momentum—created by the arm, absorbed by the rod, and passed into the thin fishing line—must be conserved, the tiny mass of the line achieves tremendous velocity, especially at the end.

  She almost giggled out loud. Who cares about finding a unified theory of the universe, when I can be working on a unified theory of fly-fishing? Although…You’ll still need to factor in how to outsmart the not inconsiderable intellect of a fish.

  Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Nothing’s happening! I’m going to freeze solid just standing here.”

  “Fishing, Miss Hope. Not ‘just standing.’ Never ‘just standing.’ ” Teddy heaved a defeated sigh. “Still, let’s have some breakfast now, shall we?” They splashed their way back to the shore. Teddy lay down his walking stick, then spread an oilcloth and pulled out a few oatcakes. Maggie realized she was ravenous.

  She took a bite. The oatcake was hard and flavorless, as she knew it would be. “As God is my witness,” she declared, raising her fist like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, “when this war is over, I shall never eat oatcakes again!” Oats were plentiful and Mrs. McNaughton made good use of the grain, in biscuits, scones, and bannocks. But they were hardly tasty.

  She munched, flicking crumbs from the front of her coat. “We’re getting older, accomplishing nothing. People are fighting—dying—for freedom all around the world, and we’re stuck here.”

  “Your first assumption, relating to time, is incorrect,” Teddy informed her. “The amount of time spent fishing is not deducted from the span of your life.” He grimaced. “It merely increases the likelihood of your staying single or getting a divorce. As I should know.”

  “We’re all stuck on this island while the war is being fought. I hate it—feeling so useless. I need to do my bit!”