Isle of Man

by Ryan Winfield

  “Let me take over,” Jimmy says, several hours into my vigil at the screen. “Go take a shower or somethin’.”

  “You saying I stink?”

  “No,” he laughs. “Jus’ that you need to relax a little.”

  Despite my protest, it sounds like a good idea. So I head for the shower and let the hot water wash away my worry. I hadn’t realized how anxious I am until Jimmy noticed it for me. I wonder what else he notices about me that I can’t see? It’s a strange feeling, standing in a small, cramped shower, beneath a stream of steaming water, knowing that just a few feet away is the frigid water of the Irish Sea and above that the snowy Isle of Man shrouded in fog and mystery.

  When I arrive back in the control room refreshed, Jimmy and the professor are pressed up close to the screen.

  “What is it?” I ask, pushing myself in between them.

  “Hard to say,” the professor says. “It’s just now clearing.”

  Sure enough, the fog is thinning. I can make out the waves hitting the shore. But it’s not a rocky shore. Rather, it’s a stone seawall of some kind that runs straight out of the water. Waves crash against the wall, then roll back out and slam into other oncoming waves, creating a turbulent sloshing of white-capped water. The fog clears a bit more, and a set of stone steps comes into view, cut through the seawall and leading into the water. Then a sloping terrace covered in snow. Then another set of steps. Another terrace. Then the wind sweeps in and pulls away the foggy veil, and a sprawling castle appears from the gray.

  “Is that a castle?”

  “It appears so,” the professor says.

  “What’s a castle?” Jimmy asks.

  “Basically, a big fortified residence,” the professor answers, “mostly popular during the Middle Ages.”

  I’m sure Jimmy has never heard of the Middle Ages, but he accepts the professor’s explanation with a polite nod anyway and then asks: “What’s a castle doing here?”

  The professor shakes his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. Although I’d be willing to wager this was an ancient site that’s been reclaimed and restored.”

  “Restored?” Jimmy asks. “Like fixed up? By who?”

  The professor tosses up his hands. “I don’t know. Perhaps King Arthur is immortal after all.”

  “Who’s King Arthur?”

  The professor appears frustrated with Jimmy.

  “Just an old myth from these parts of the world. I was making a poor joke. It’s not important. All right. Enough questions already.”

  “I never heard of King Arthur either, Jimmy,” I say. “But regardless of whose castle it is, what are we going to do?”

  “I say we go on up there,” Jimmy says.

  “You mean sneak up and spy?” I ask.

  “No. Go on up and say hi-dy.”

  “Just knock and introduce ourselves? That’s crazy.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But if we’d of caught people sneakin’ on us, I know for sure we’d treat ’em like enemies. When folks approached us needin’ help, we usually lent ’em a hand.”

  “He actually makes a good point,” the professor says. “As hard as that is to believe. Nothing removes suspicion as well as an honest plea for help.”

  “So you’re saying we should just walk up to the castle and tell whoever lives there why we’re here and then ask for the encryption key? That’s goofy!”

  The professor shakes his head.

  “I’m not saying that. I’m suggesting that you could approach them as a stranger in need. Keep your mission secret. Tell them you’ve shipwrecked and washed ashore. Or tell them you come from another part of the island and are lost. Ask for help. Then, once you’re inside, you can snoop around and discover what you can.”

  “You want us to lie?” Jimmy asks.

  “No,” the professor says, “just bend the truth a little.”

  “The truth dun’ bend, it breaks. That’s what my pa said.”

  The professor looks up as if addressing the ceiling.

  “Great, he’s a philosopher, too.”

  “I think he has a point, Jimmy,” I say, jumping in before they start arguing. “It’s smart to keep our business private.”

  “Fine,” Jimmy says, “I’ll jus’ keep my mouth shut. How’s that sound? You’s better at talkin’ anyhow.”

  The professor checks his charts.

  “Sunset is in four hours,” he says. “It should be dark enough to go in five.”

  “You want us to swim to shore after dark? In this cold?”

  “We have to be sure they don’t see the submarine,” he says. “Plus, it will help your story, won’t it?”

  “Well, how will we get back?”

  “Let’s triangulate some landmarks with the periscope now, while it’s light. After nightfall, we’ll surface long enough for you two to get on deck, then I’ll submerge again and re-anchor. I’ll wait here for you.”

  “For how long?” I ask.

  “For as long as it takes.”

  “What if we never come back?”

  “That’s a good question. Okay, I’ll wait for a week.”

  “And what then?”

  “Ah—ah—ah,” he stammers. “I don’t know what then.”

  “How about you wait two weeks then head back without us and take care of Hannah and Red?”

  “All right then,” he says. “I’ll wait two weeks.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll be back in a day or so, though. Right?”

  “Wait a minute,” Jimmy says. “How we gonna get back in the submarine when we swim out?”

  “Another good question. What’s wrong with me? Stupid, I tell you. Just stupid.” The professor paces the control room for a minute, pulling at his hair. “I’ve got it. Stones. Three stones.”

  “Stones?” Jimmy asks. “What for?”

  “There’s bound to be no shortage of stones on the island. Or right off shore for that matter.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “You just swim out here with three stones and drop them on the roof of the sub, and I’ll surface and pick you up.”

  “Submarine,” I say.

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “No,” I correct him. “You said sub.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did so.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. Three stones and I’ll surface.”

  “What if yer sleepin’?” Jimmy asks.

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Try not to sleep?” I question. “For fourteen days?”

  “I’ll sleep light. I’ll stay at five meters. You can easily dive that depth and pound on the walls if you have to.”

  “Okay,” I say, more nervous than relieved. “We’ve got a plan then. We’ll leave an hour after sunset. But let’s make sure we get some good landmarks before that fog comes back.”

  After identifying landmarks and then committing them to memory, I pace the submarine, playing potential scenarios out in my head. Who might answer the door? What might they ask us? How will we answer? As the hours creep past, fear creeps in. Jimmy disappears into the bunkroom, and I know he’s there saying goodbye to Junior. The professor keeps coming out from the supply room and checking on me, looking me over in a strange way before leaving again. I finally figure out why when he comes out carrying homemade pants and shirt stitched together from fabric scraps.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “You look entirely too civilized in those clothes.”

  “What about Jimmy?”

  “Have you seen what he wears? Ha! He’ll fit right in, no doubt. He could eat his outfit in a pinch.”

  “Good point,” I say, chuckling.

  When I enter the bunkroom to change, I find Jimmy lying on his bunk, petting Junior. He turns and props his head on his elbow, watching me change.

  “Where’d ya get those ugly clothes?”

  “The professor patched them together. Said I looked too civilized, if you can believe that.”

  “What�
��s he gonna do about yer attitude?”

  “You think my attitude’s too civilized?”

  Jimmy laughs.

  “Not the exact word I’d use, but I ain’t too good with words anyhow. Hey. Are you worried? I mean, do ya think we’ll make it back safe and all?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer, not wanting to lie. “But I’m not coming back without that encryption key.”

  “I’m not even sure what an encryption key is.”

  “It’s just a set of numbers, I guess. A password, basically.”

  “And you expect to find that in the castle?”

  “All we have is that clue to go on.”

  “‘In the hand of David’ or whatever?”

  “Yep. ‘Where man rises from the sea, so in the right hand of David you shall find your key.’”

  CHAPTER 11

  Waiting on Death

  “He dun’ like algaecrisps, but he’ll eat the bars.”

  “I got it,” the professor says, getting annoyed with Jimmy’s never ending list of instructions about caring for Junior.

  “And he gets restless, so ya gotta run ’em with the rabbit.”

  “Roger that,”

  “Huh?”

  “It means I understand. Run him with the rabbit. We need to hurry, in case someone sees the boat.”

  Jimmy opens the hatch and disappears out into the dark. I follow on. A cold wind whips across the water, driving sea spray into my face, and the surfaced submarine heaves up and down on the swells, unsteady beneath our feet.

  “I cain’t see nothin’!” Jimmy shouts.

  “We just swim straight head, and we should make it to those steps no problem. Don’t you think?”

  The professor remains just inside the open hatch, shielded from the weather.

  “Remember the clue,” he calls out, his voice quickly carried away on the wind. “‘In the right hand of David you shall find your key.’ Take your time. I’ll be waiting for you right here until you find it.”

  I see his face in the glow coming from the open hatch and could almost swear his eyes are wet with worry beneath his bushy brows. Or maybe it’s just the wind. He forces a smile and then pulls the hatch shut.

  We stand on the dark deck and listen to the waves rolling past. It’s much colder and much wilder here than our swim to fell that coconut tree. Neither of us moves to dive in.

  “Ah, crud! How’d you get out here?”

  I turn to Jimmy.

  “What?”

  “I’ll bet he put him out on purpose.”

  Jimmy bends and lifts Junior from the deck and carries him toward the hatch. But he never makes it. Waves rush onto the deck as the submarine dives, and in mere seconds we’re all three floating in the freezing water.

  No going back now, I guess.

  With no time to waste, we paddle toward shore. My feet go numb almost instantly. The frigid water constricts my chest, making it hard to breath. My instincts want me to race for dry ground, but I steel myself against panic and maintain a steady pace. It’s nearly pitch black. I can hear Junior paddling between us, breathing hard and blowing water out his nose.

  Then something rough brushes against my leg. At first, I’m relieved, thinking it must be a rock, signaling that we’re close to shore. But my feet are nowhere near touching, and I can just make out the shadow of the seawall looming above, still many meters away. Again, something hits me. Harder this time. Like something passing by and woodenly knocking against my thigh.

  I look over at Jimmy. I can barely see him in the dark, but I can see the fear in his eyes. Without a word between us, we each reach out a hand and grip Junior’s fur and kick furiously, paddling with our free arms and dragging Junior along between us as he struggles to keep his head above water.

  A primal fear erases every other thought in my brain, and I think only of reaching dry land. A furious thrashing follows us in the dark as we kick like mad for the seawall and the steps. If I’m hit again I can’t feel it in my frenzy, but I’m consumed with the feeling of being pursued. Then my hand strikes something, and I recoil with fear. But Jimmy paddles by me, and a moment later he’s reaching his hand down and pulling me onto the step.

  We scamper, slipping and sliding, several steps up from the water and slump down on the cold concrete and look back—nothing but blackness and the sound of waves rolling in. I’m trembling with so much adrenalin, I don’t even feel cold. But poor Junior sits between us, soaked and shivering, so tired he’s not even bothering to shake dry.

  “We better get on ’fore we freeze,” Jimmy says.

  Junior is too weak to walk by himself, and he looks like a dead seal draped limply over Jimmy’s arms as we follow the steps up and across the various snow-covered terraces toward the dark castle. Neither of us mentions what happened in the water just now, and I begin to wonder if it wasn’t a lone piece of driftwood tossed by the waves. Or maybe my imagination.

  The path ends at a massive door. Even in the dark of night it looks ancient and rough compared to the refined materials we manufactured down in Holocene II. My teeth have begun to chatter, and my fear of the castle is quickly overcome by my fear of freezing to death. I lift the iron knocker and pause. I look over at Jimmy, soaking wet with his hair hanging in his face and Junior in his arms. Even in the dark I can see his smile that seems to say: “Too late to turn back now.”

  I pound three good whacks on the door.

  We stand on the stoop for a long time, listening to the wind whip at our backs and the distant waves crashing against the seawall. My legs ache. My teeth chatter. My arms shake. I’m reaching for the knocker again when the door swings open and a triangle of light washes over us.

  A small man stands before us, dressed in an odd vest-suit made from some type of wool. His eyebrows and hair are black as night, but his neatly trimmed beard is gray. He looks us over without a word. Then he leans out and looks up at the dark sky, as if perhaps to explain our condition by looking for rain.

  At last, he says: “May I be of service?”

  “Um—well—yes,” I stammer, completely forgetting what I had planned to say. “At least I hope so. We’re a little bit wet, and we wondered if you might be able to help us out.”

  “Of course,” he says, as if the request needed no thought at all. “By all means. Come in, come in.” He steps aside to let us enter the foyer then shuts the heavy door behind us. “Let’s get you sorted. You’ll need dry clothes straight away. Straight away. And something hot to drink as well, I would presume.”

  “That would be great,” I say.

  “Yes. Follow me.”

  We follow him across the grand foyer and down a long hall to a cozy room with a roaring fire. The room is sparsely furnished but comfortable, the floors covered in carpets, the walls hung with colorful tapestries. Giant, shaggy hounds lie everywhere, sprawled in front of the fire or draped over chairs. The man shoos one of the hounds off the sofa, and it moans and bellows in protest, stopping to stretch before sliding to the floor and shooting us an annoyed look as it trots off and flops down in front of the fire on a rug. Junior whimpers, and Jimmy protectively pulls him tighter in his arms.

  “Don’t worry,” the man says, closing one eye and peering closely at Junior. “They haven’t been trained to hunt anything but deer for generations. Is she a fox?”

  Jimmy nods.

  “He.”

  “Well, he’s different from the ones we have around here, that’s for certain. I would imagine he’d enjoy some warm milk very much? Perhaps some fresh venison?”

  “I’m sure he’d like that a lot,” Jimmy says.

  “Yes, then. Straight away. You two just make yourselves at home now. Anything you need. I’ll be back momentarily with dry clothing and a service of tea.”

  He retreats from the room with a bow, leaving us alone with the fire and the dogs.

  We sit on the couch and let the fire’s warmth waft over us. It feels nice. Jimmy holds Junior in his lap and pets him, and I notice t
hat his coat is already beginning to dry. The hounds are mostly sleeping, but occasionally one will open its dark eyes, as if checking to be sure we haven’t moved. True to his word, the man is back in almost no time with a tea tray balanced in one hand and his other arm draped in clothing.

  “First things first,” he says, setting the tray on a small table next to the couch. “Let’s get you two into something dry before the cold gets into your bones. Here we are, then. These might be a bit large but should do nicely, I think.”

  He hands us each a pair of pants and a shirt. He doesn’t offer us anywhere private to change, but he turns away and busies himself with the tea. I strip, grateful to be rid of the professor’s soaked and ugly patchwork clothes. Then I slip on the new pants. They’re loose and short, coming just past my knees, almost like a pair of long shorts, but I tie them off at the waist with the attached sash, then slip on the puffy shirt. I feel like a pirate in some old storybook from my lesson slate. Jimmy looks equally ridiculous.

  When I turn around, Junior is already on the floor, lapping milk from a bowl, and the man signals for us to sit and hands us each a cup of steaming tea. It tastes of mint and sweet cream. The man bows and leaves us with our cups. The warm room smells slightly of wet dog. The clothes are soft, and the fire feels nice on my bare legs.

  “What’s that?” Jimmy asks.

  “What?”

  “On your leg?”

  I lean forward and see a nasty scrape on my calf. The skin is rubbed off as if by sandpaper, and the exposed flesh is angry and red. A trickle of blood runs down to my ankle.

  “I don’t know. I guess something did hit me in the water.”

  “I felt it, too,” Jimmy says. “But I got nothin’ on my legs.”

  The man comes back with a platter of food and slides the small table closer and sets the platter in front of us. It’s covered with cheeses, crackers, meats, and pickled vegetables. I’m not sure whether swimming for our life worked up my appetite, or whether it’s just because of weeks with nothing but algaecrisps and canned food on board the submarine, but my mouth fills with saliva at the sight of fresh food, and I rudely dig in without even saying thank you.