11
The Chase
Moments later the Newfoundlander and his henchmen saw something startling. Up on the bell tower of the church, with his fingers in his mouth whistling at the top of his lungs, was the boy for whom they were all so desperately searching. For an instant every one of them stood stock-still, staring up at the sight. Then they started to move. And they all moved at once. Up the hill came the man with the gun and behind him scrambled the old Newfoundlander, rushing past my mom and dad, whose eyes were bulging in their heads as they mumbled frenzied warnings to me through the gags on their mouths. Down from the woods came the third man, stumbling and falling and cursing as he came, making a beeline for the church. And lastly, the man at the mayor’s house disappeared from the roof, his binoculars swaying around his neck, almost falling through the hole they had punched through the shingles.
“STAY THERE, YU STUNNED LUG NUT!” screamed the old Newfoundlander at the lookout man. “STAY WITH THE STASH AND KEEP YER DAMN GLASSES TRAINED ON MA AND PA! WE’LL HANDLE THIS!”
The lookout man’s head reappeared in the hole on the roof and then, puffing and groaning, he lifted himself back up and fixed his binoculars on Mom and Dad. (Glancing down, I noticed Mom defiantly holding her face up towards him, as if she were trying to stick out her tongue.)
I wanted to see the whites of their eyes. I wanted them to be so close that they thought they could nab me with ease. Up they came, snarling and wheezing, glancing up at me from time to time as if to confirm what they could hardly believe. Just to really irritate them I gave a little performance.
“Do not go to Ireland’s Eye!” I yelled like a smart aleck in a mock-scary voice that sounded as if it came from an idiot. The old Newfoundlander looked up and cursed.
When they were within fifty metres, right at a point where the hill was very steep and they would have to keep their eyes fixed on the rocks for a few minutes, I left the steeple and raced down the stairs. I knew exactly where I was going.
The day Mom and Dad and I had been in the church and I had stood in the pulpit to give my little speech, I had noticed a door just to the left of the choir loft, on the opposite side from the bell tower door. It made sense to me that it led to the minister’s chambers and that he had his own exit from the building. In fact, I was counting on it. If I was wrong I was a goner. It occurred to me as I turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and came out onto the ground floor that perhaps I should have checked the door before I so bravely made my presence known. Maybe it led to a brick wall!
I raced over to the choir loft, my heart thumping, and opened the door.
There was no brick wall, just a tiny little passageway leading downward. I stepped back from the door and turned towards the church entrance, waiting.
A few seconds later the Newfoundlander and his henchman burst into the church.
“THERE HE IS!” shouted the old man, pointing a meaty finger straight at me. At that instant the third man appeared at a window and slithered indoors. Momentarily we stood there, eyeing each other. I had them exactly where I wanted them, I hoped. I leapt through the doorway and into the passageway.
“SHOOT AT HIM!” I heard the old man scream and then there were gunshots and the far-off sound of my mother shrieking on the wharf.
It’s funny how fast you will move when you’re being shot at. I was the Flash, Superman, and Usain Bolt all wrapped up in one. I flew down the tiny stairway and came to a tight little hallway in the basement. Up above I could hear the men’s boots thundering on the floor and then the sound of them cursing as they tried to force their big bellies through the narrow doorway.
I ran along the passageway, my shoulders almost touching the walls. Soon I came to a fork. One hallway was wide and had a sign on the wall that read “Minister’s Office”; the other continued narrow and headed towards the caretaker’s room. I darted down the second one, anxious to keep my large pursuers in cramped quarters. But in seconds I came to a dead end. Frantic, I searched for a way out and noticed a big wooden door to my left. If I hadn’t been in such terror, I would have noticed it immediately. Calm down, think, I heard a voice say.
I entered the room and slammed the door behind me. It had a lock. I bolted it. But when I turned to look around, my heart sank. There was no way out!
I could hear the men shouting at the fork in the passageway. Please God, let them choose the wrong one! But in seconds I knew they hadn’t: they were running along the narrow hallway towards me, their voices getting closer. They steamed up to the door.
“OPEN IT!” growled the Newfoundlander.
The door bulged back and forth as they pushed their weight against it.
“USE YER DAMN GUN!”
For an instant there was silence and then the sound of gunfire directed at the lock. As I looked towards it I noticed a little door down low on the far side of the room, half-size as if meant for children. Just as the big door came crashing in, I made for it. When the men entered the office all they saw was the little door closing behind me.
I scrambled along the tunnel. It had a slight upward slant and then turned straight upward after a few metres. I had to inch my way up from there, using my arms and legs pressed against the sides. I wondered what the heck this chute was used for. In an instant I got my answer.
“HE’S GONE UP THE FIREWOOD CHUTE!” shouted the Newfoundlander from below. “I’ll stay here and you two dolts get yer butts up to the woodpile! It’s on the woods side of the church! Go! Go! Go!”
I heard them scurry away. As I desperately inched up the old Newfoundlander taunted me.
“I’ve got yu now, yu little mole! I told yu to stay away from Ireland’s Eye, messin’ in people’s business! Yu’ll see where it gets yu!”
Stay calm!
I kept my concentration and worked my way upward. Quickly the shaft became lighter and soon I was near the top. As my head inched out of the chute above ground I turned and saw the two henchmen, barrelling around the far side of the church. Below me the Newfoundlander ran from the caretaker’s room, slamming the door. I pulled myself out and ran breathlessly towards the woods. But I wasn’t sure I had enough time. I heard one of the henchmen yell at the other, “WING HIM!” and then the sound of the gun.
I leapt into the bush and did a roll. When I stood up I checked myself over. No blood. No holes. I darted off towards the cemetery.
“DID YU WING HIM?” screamed the Newfound-lander, panting as he puffed up to where the others were.
“I don’t know, boss,” said one dolt.
“Let’s find out,” said the other.
It wouldn’t be long before they would know they had missed, so I kept running, planting my feet firmly with each step so they would chase me towards the cemetery. Before long they were on their way. I heard them crash over the picket fence and then trip over one tombstone after another. The man with the gun was screaming about how awful it was to be running around in a graveyard.
“AW, BOSS, YU TOLD ME I DIDN’T HAVE TO COME IN HERE WITH ALL THE DEAD PEOPLE! DIS WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE ME JOB!”
What? Wasn’t supposed to be his job? What did he mean by that? Within seconds I caught a glimpse of that metallic glint again. This time I was close enough to recognize what was causing it. It was a shovel. A brand-new gleaming shovel lying on the grounds of the cemetery.
When I got to the top of the hill in the woods on the far side of the graveyard, I turned sharply left, ran a few hundred metres and then turned left again, doubling back towards the village, this time on a course that would take me out of the woods near the schoolhouse. When I arrived, I was able to sneak around the near side of it, so it was between me and the lookout man in the mayor’s house up on the far hill. There was no way he could see me. Then I dropped down low and ran through the long grass that grew in a gully between the schoolhouse and the wharf. Soon I came to the end of the grass. Here the
land sloped down for about two hundred metres to the water. Lying there I could see my mother and father, their heads hanging down, as if crying.
I had about a thirty-second run down to the kayaks. I wouldn’t have time to untie Mom and Dad but if I went with everything I had, I could get the flare gun and the granola bars! I was hoping the lookout man didn’t have a gun, and if he did I prayed he was a poor shot. Behind me the goons were still a long distance in the woods, groping around in pursuit.
I stood up and barrelled down the hill.
About halfway down I heard the lookout man shout.
“HEY!” he cried. “HEY! BOY! STOP! OR…OR I’LL SHOOT!” But no shot came. Mom and Dad looked up. Immediately they began jumping up and down, overjoyed to see me alive. But I tried not to spend any energy looking their way. Stay calm, think!
“BOSS! BOSS! HE’S AT THE BOATS! HE’S AT THE DAMN BOATS!” I heard the lookout man shout. Glancing up I noticed him scrambling down through his hole in the roof, anxious to get after me.
In seconds I was at the kayaks. I darted over to the secret compartment and unzipped it.
NO FLARE GUN! NO GRANOLA BARS!
I looked up at Dad. He was screaming at me, motioning with his head. I turned around and saw the lookout man scurrying down the hill, shouting at the top of his lungs. I noticed that his hands were empty and realized that he was unarmed. In the distance I heard the sound of the other men coming out of the woods. It seemed like the one with the gun was in the lead.
“OH-ER KAY-A! OH-ER KAY-A!” Dad screamed.
“Oh-er kay-a?!” I yelled back.
“OH-ER KAY-A!” shrieked Mom.
Oh-er? I thought. Kay-a?…Oth-er!…Kay-ak!
I threw myself at Mom’s kayak, dug into her compartment, and tore out the flare gun and a fistful of granola bars. Leaping to my feet, I ran past Mom and Dad and up onto the wharf. When I jumped down on the other side, my pursuers couldn’t see me. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the wharf getting smaller behind me. I knew the crooks were coming down the hill towards the kayaks, all of them at full gallop.
Dad had yelled something at me as I went past him. It sounded like: “UH-I! UH-I! RE-EH-ER! UH-I!”
Flying along the stony beach and then up the hill into the woods on the far side of the village, I knew I had left the thugs in my dust. If need be I’d take another jog through the cemetery and trip them up again. But the tough part of my plan was next. How could I use what I knew about Ireland’s Eye to save us? I had to think and act fast. The granola bars would only keep me alive for so long and the flare gun was only valuable if I found a way to use it. Just firing it off would do nothing. We were out in the middle of nowhere. How could I get anyone to see it?
I kept wondering what Dad was trying to tell me.
12
A Race Against Time
It wasn’t too long before I figured it out. In fact, I knew what he was saying by the time I took cover. I was back in my hiding spot under the fallen trees in the woods a long way from the village, munching hungrily on the granola bars.
“The Eye! Remember the Eye!” That’s what he was saying!
But what could he possibly mean by that? We were on the Eye, how could I not remember it?
Think!
Well, what was the Eye, really? Was it the island? Or was it something else?
Then, I remembered the Eye.
Before we left, as part of the history lesson the three of us had put ourselves through, we had read about how the island got its name. There had been several villages out here at one time and the largest had the church; that village and the island were known by the same name. But the real Ireland’s Eye was an extraordinary chunk of rock, sitting on a cliff on the eastern side of the island, staring out across the ocean towards the old countries. It was almost circular and at its centre was a hole. Through it, the old folks claimed, in just the right light and on the right sort of day, you could see all the way to Ireland. It was Ireland’s Eye.
Goosebumps began to grow on my skin as I remembered something else that Dad once mentioned about the Eye. He told me, with a laugh as I recall, that there were still a great many superstitions about the Eye. He said that the people of Newfoundland respected the memory of those who had lived here and believed that the Eye itself had always been good luck to the island’s inhabitants. Of course, over the years they had suffered tragedies, many at sea. He told me about one old man, for example, who sliced off part of his arm while working alone in the village sawmill and had to be hauled fifty kilometres to a hospital on the mainland, rowed by housewives because the men were away fishing. But despite such incidents, the people of Ireland’s Eye had never suffered the sort of monumental losses experienced by many other towns, tragedies where men went down by the boatload to icy deaths. The Eye, everyone believed, was good luck. Old folks said that taking the people away from the island had not helped the luck of Newfoundland, but if respect for the Eye and its power was maintained, tragedies at sea might still be minimized. No Newfoundland sailor worth a bucket of cod, Dad had said, would ever sail past the Eye without turning to look upon it and to salute it.
Dad had told me that story more than once and each time he added the same interesting fact. Every even day of every month the coast guard motored past the Eye. At exactly twelve noon the skipper turned and solemnly saluted.
* * *
I wear a wristwatch. I know that’s weird. I looked at the date on it. It was an even day. I looked at the time. It was 11:46. I had exactly fourteen minutes to get to the Eye!
I picked up the flare gun and ran.
In five minutes I was at the edge of the woods. I burst out into the sunshine not far from the church and headed overland as if I had wings on my feet. There was no use worrying about whether or not the old Newfoundlander and his crew saw me. There wasn’t any time for that. This was our last gasp. If I didn’t get to the Eye on time we would never leave the island alive. Surely in two days they would find me, my ability to elude them sapped by fatigue and hunger.
I heard them shout shortly after I appeared and I knew they were coming after me. I glanced down at my watch as I ran. Less than ten minutes left. By my calculations the Eye was at least that far away.
Why in the name of Teeder Kennedy hadn’t we visited the Eye yet? We’d been here for nearly forty-eight hours before we ran into trouble and yet we hadn’t so much as glanced at it! Now I had to find it running at warp speed with a posse of goons after me! This was going to be a very quick visit indeed.
I knew approximately where it was—somewhere a little farther along the coast, probably at the top of the hill on the far side of the next natural harbour, ocean-ward, a huge rock with an eye looking straight eastward across the Atlantic. But will I be able to see it when I get close, I thought? Or will I be running around like a chicken with its head cut off, desperately searching for it?
I actually had to run towards the water a few hundred metres in order to get where I was going. It was only down there that I could turn and race along an old rocky pathway that led up a hill to my left, in the direction of the Eye. From the top of that big steep pinnacle I would be able to see the full sweep of the next harbour.
For a few minutes my pursuers and I were running straight at each other. Over the dock and across the stony beach they came, snarling and shouting. In seconds I could see their faces as they flew towards me, almost licking their lips it seemed. I reached the turn about a hundred metres in front of the closest man. It was the guy with the gun. As I turned and scrambled up the rough pathway, he yelled at me. I actually jumped, shocked to hear the sound of his voice so close. Scurrying upward, I stumbled.
When I rose I fell again and for an instant it seemed like a dream, one where someone is chasing you and you can’t move. The gunman was getting so close I could hear him breathing. But the next time I rose I dug my foot in hard, gained a
good grip, and shot up the hill.
At the top, I turned and glanced behind me. The first goon was still close, though the others, too fat to keep up, were fading. Without pausing to look where I was going, I started running again. All my searching would have to be done on the fly. I looked around at my surroundings bouncing up and down in my view, the sounds of the ocean muffled by my heavy breathing. What I saw was stunningly beautiful.
It seemed I could see the whole island, quiet and majestic, no longer touched by human hands. And beyond it the ocean stretched out before me like a vast blanket of blue, dotted by other islands and the coast of Newfoundland winding around on three sides in the distance. The land seemed so silent now and the water so peaceful, as if no one and nothing lived there.
Straight ahead was the other arm of the harbour and then the greatest stretch of water I had ever seen. It was endless. It touched the sky. Somewhere out there in the distance, past the horizon, were the British Isles and France and Germany and Russia beyond; from there you would come to Japan and over the Pacific to Hawaii and more of the Pacific to Vancouver and then overland to Toronto and back out to Newfoundland and this little island.
But the very first country you would see, should you stand out there at the end of the harbour and look through a hole in a rock, was Ireland!
I scanned the whole length of the arm…and there it was! A majestic dark rock, almost circular, sitting up at the very edge of the precipice, pointing out across the Atlantic. Beneath it was a spectacular shale cliff of a most unusual shape. It formed a huge letter C, with its top hanging out over the water like a man dangling off a ledge. The ocean crashed against the treacherous shore underneath.
But something wasn’t right. From here, it looked like the rock had no hole in it!
The Mystery of Ireland's Eye Page 10
