by K. W. Jeter
"But – when…"
He looked back at me before clambering down the side. "Soon. You will see."
No sound came of him entering the water. I was alone again. The brass cylinder, cold from the sea, weighed against my breast; avoiding the posted watch, I scurried below deck to my cabin.
Throughout the balance of the Virtuous Persistence's voyage, I had a single focus to my attention. Not a day passed but that I withdrew to my cabin and took the brass cylinder from beneath the clothing in my trunk. This was the tangible evidence of the fantastic narration that had been related to me; somewhere below me, submerged but attached to the ship, was the man-like figure who had entrusted me with this, his progeny. For some time, I hoped that the brass flower, by which he had communicated to me, would reappear, rising through the floor of the cabin. It did not; the aperture it had bored in the ship's hull remained sealed from beneath.
Over the next few days, my constant: study of the cylinder was rewarded. Straining at the limit of my vision, I first spied small specks swimming in the fluid. They developed rapidly, each day growing in size, until I could discern them as minute sprats, wiggling shapes with paired black dots evidently serving as eyes. These signs of animation spurred me to even greater care with the cylinder; I bedded it as carefully as a newborn infant.
Growing apace with these developments was my own anxiety. The Brown Leather Man's promise of rescue had renewed my attachment to the world of the living the complacency with which I had viewed the prospect of my own demise was now evaporated. While yet there is a chance, the slightest spark is enough to warm our blood.
From the railing of the ship, I viewed with dismay our approach towards the southernmost of the Scottish islands, rounded shapes on the horizon, labelled on the charts with coarse monosyllables such as Muck and Rhum and Eigg. The end of the voyage – and my life – was fast nearing, with yet no sign of the Brown Leather Man's intervention.
At last, the dreaded time came. A knock sounded on the door of my cabin; I hastily shoved the brass cylinder, with its minute living cargo inside, under the covers of my bed, as one of the Godly Army pushed open the door and informed me that my presence was required on deck.
I was greeted by Lieutenant Brattle when I emerged from the hatchway. "Mr Dower," he said with a formal nod. "I hope you have used your time wisely, and commended your soul to the Lord."
Scape and Miss McThane stood together at the rail. Beyond them, I could see the rocky coast of a small island. "Hey – we're here!" said Scape with a mock gaiety. As I was led to my position beside them, the dog Abel sat himself at my feet, gazing up at me with trusting eyes.
"We have indeed arrived at our destination," said the lieutenant solemnly. "That is Groughay you see before you. Soon, a landing party will make for its shore. You and your companions – will be numbered in that party. But not, however, among the living."
I scanned the ocean's rolling surface for any sign of the Brown Leather Man. I saw nothing but the empty expanse of water; my heart might just as well have been sinking beneath. Perhaps the Brown Leather Man's schemes, whatever they had been, had come to naught; perhaps he had been washed free of his attachment to the ship, and lost in the dark night sea, or lost his own life to the teeth of some fearsome creature. Hopes are raised most often, only to be cruelly dashed.
"You would have been wise, Dower, to have used your time in prayer, and not found your soul unprepared for the moment of its parting from the mortal shell." Lieutenant Brattle shook his head. "But I sadly fear you have not done so."
His words brought my attention back from studying the ocean. "I don't know what you mean."
He signalled to one of the crew, who stepped forward and – with evident distaste on his part, and dismay on mine – handed him the brass cylinder that I had left in my cabin. The lieutenant looked from the object to me. "What is this thing, Dower?"
"It would be – rather difficult to explain."
The lieutenant tapped the thick glass set into its side. "No explanation is necessary. It's obviously the evidence of further deviltry on your part. Even at the moment of your death, when your immortal soul stands in full peril of eternal damnation, your degradation is such that you dabble in these filthy practices. What demons these are inside this flask, and to what purposes you intended to put them, we thank the Lord we shall remain ignorant." He handed the cylinder back to the crew member. "Dispose of this."
I heard the weight of metal splash into the ocean; the crew member rejoined the rest of the Godly Army lined up on the deck before us. All had their rifles; there was a rustle of activity as they loaded and raised their weapons. From the rail, Miss McThane glared fiercely at them, as if daring them to shoot; Scape leaned across her and shook my hand.
"It's been a gas," said Scape. "See ya in the funny pages."
Even though a product of dementia, his brashness under the circumstances provoked my admiration. "Maybe sometime in the future," I answered, biting my lower lip to suppress its trembling.
The soldiers of the Godly Army raised their weapons at Lieutenant Brattle's command. The salt tang of the ocean filled my nostrils, and a gull cried overhead; all I could see were the dark holes of the rifle barrels trained upon us. The argument about poor Abel's complicity in the evil acts of which we stood accused, had been apparently resolved against him: a pair of the soldiers lowered their sights towards the dog. He thought it a game, and barked cheerfully at them.
Before Lieutenant Brattle could order them to fire, however, the line of soldiers was knocked askew by a sudden lurch of the ship beneath their feet. Scape, Miss McThane, and myself were likewise thrown, forced to grab the rail behind ourselves to maintain our balance.
With a grinding howl, the ship rocked again, seeming to rise nearly out of the water. Several of the Godly Army panicked, shouting and breaking ranks; they ran to the opposite rail and peered over. From where I stood, I could see great shapes moving beneath the waves, tangled with dark wreaths of seaweed.
"Demons!" shouted one of the soldiers, pointing a quavering finger at us. "They've called 'em – come to rescue 'em!"
This hypothesis met with a hurried acceptance among their number, as the ship wallowed about, the grating noises sounding even louder through the hull. They had convinced themselves of our being in league with satanic forces; the consequence of this was the sudden upsurge of unreasoning fear in their own breasts. Even their commanding officer, Lieutenant Brattle, lost his self-control; he joined his men in their flight towards the pair of small boats on the ship's deck.
They were soon launched, some of the men being forced to leap from the railing into the churning ocean; they swam to the side of the boats and fought their way aboard. In their panic, no thought – other than the brief accusation – had been given to the three of us. Gripping the rail, I watched as the boats' oars splashed and drove our captors as quickly away as was possible.
"Jesus jumping Christ," said Scape. The ship lurched again, knocking him heavily into me. "Now what?"
He was answered by a furious volley of barking from Abel. He had stood up with his paws on the opposite rail, and was yapping at the island of Groughay as though it were some particularly noxious pest.
"Good God," I said. I could see what had captured the dog's attention; the island's coast was clearly discernible, the sound of the waves battering it even louder. "We're going into the rocks."
Scape and Miss McThane scrabbled across the sloping deck to where I stood. "Hey – you're right." The ship gave another lurch, and was drawn several yards closer to the shore; whatever was grating against the hull was also responsible for our motion landwards.
"This doesn't look too good," said Miss McThane. "Maybe we'd better abandon ship."
"With what?" Scape pointed over his shoulder to the receding figures of the Godly Army. "Those chickenshits took the boats."
We could only watch helplessly as the jagged rocks loomed nearer. Our approach accelerated, a crest of water surging up
the hull towards the rail. The grating noise of the objects below the surface was drowned by the sharper noise of the timbers splintering into pieces.
Billowing canvas and slack lines came tangling about us as the masts swayed and toppled. The deck split open, casting Scape and Miss McThane away from me. I grabbed for Abel, but missed as my own feet were yanked out from under me by the buckling wood. For a moment, I heard the clog's barking somewhere above me as my back struck the rail; it splintered in two, and I was falling towards the white lace dashing against the rocks. The great bulk of the Virtuous Persistence lifted into the sky, the hull gouged and broken by the rocks. Then I struck the furious water.
All was dark; as my mouth filled with salt, I thought I saw the even darker shapes of giant chains strung through the depths. A wave lifted me into air; a shattered timber crashed against my brow, and I saw no more.
14
The Hopes of a Race
I dreamt my face was being washed with a soft, damp flannel; I opened my eyes and found Abel standing on my chest, licking my chin. He barked at this sign of my resurrection; I pushed him away and groggily sat up, my palms digging into sand as I did so. The smell of the ocean was strong in my nostrils, owing perhaps to the quantity of seaweed tangled about my limbs.
A jagged piece of flotsam nudged my foot, impelled by the lapping waves. Other debris, splintered fragments of the ill-fated Virtuous Persistence, were strewn about the small, rock-bordered cove.
"Dower," said a voice behind me. I turned around and saw the impassive countenance of the Brown Leather Man gazing down at me. His dark hand reached down and helped me to my feet. "Good it is to see you awake. I had seen no injuries upon your person, but of these matters one cannot be sure."
I shook my head, both to clear my thoughts and to disperse the water lodged inside my ear. "What place is this?" I asked, looking about at the high cliffs that lined the shore.
"You're safe on the island of Groughay." He gestured at the surrounding rocks. "You will forgive, I trust, for the necessary violence of the means employed to bring you here. But you are free from the Godly Army, at least."
"That was all your doing? But how?"
"Your father enabled me thus. The device he created, for the purpose of gathering seaweed, exists still in working order. In the sea, the chains and wooden booms are yet in place – I had only to activate the device to create such havoc as you saw, and to draw you and your companions to safety here."
"My companions? You mean, Scape and Miss McThane? Where are they?"
"No fear," said the Brown Leather Man. "They are but a small distance from here, on another point of the shore. But of you I must ask – where is that which I gave you? The wreckage of the ship I have searched, and not found it in that which was your cabin. You had hidden the object elsewhere, I trust?"
It was the brass cylinder, with his minute progeny inside, of which he spoke. With a heavy heart, I informed him of how Lieutenant Brattle had thrown it overboard. He staggered backwards on learning this, as though struck above the heart. His gaze turned from me towards the ocean, as though contemplating the enormity of searching its depths for the precious item.
The currents of fortune saved him from this impossible task. I heard Abel barking several yards away from us; a gleam of bright metal rolled in the seaweed at the water's edge; some movement inside had caught the dog's attention. "Look there." I grabbed the Brown Leather Man's arm and pointed.
He saw it, ran and gathered it up, cradling the brass cylinder as tenderly as a newborn infant. I could see the dark-eyed sprats swimming about inside.
"I must leave you," he said. "They have reached the age that into their proper bed they must be placed." He turned from me and waded into the sea.
"But what about us?" I shouted after him. "What's to become of us?"
The waves lapped up to his chest, and over the cylinder held there. "Do not worry. You shall see me again soon. All will be taken care of."
I stood gazing at the spot where he had disappeared. With Abel at my heels, I headed in the direction where he had indicated I might find my fellow castaways.
They were alive, and evidently unharmed. I spotted them from the top of the outcropping of rock that separated another small cove from that where I had been washed ashore. Scape was sorting out various bits of debris from the wreck – nothing of any value was arranged on the sand – while Miss McThane watched his labours from her seat on a rounded stone. Her shoulders and arms were bare to the sun, while her tattered dress dried itself on the rocks next to her. They looked up at my shout, and Scape gestured for me to descend and join them.
"Good to see ya, man." He jovially slapped my back, One of the blue lenses had a slight chip on its edge, but he showed no other sign of damage. "We all made it safe and sound."
Miss McThane laughed scornfully. "Yeah, we're doing fine, all right." Her words were heavy with sarcasm. "Stuck on some goddamn pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere. Now what are we gonna do?"
Scape's mood was considerably more buoyant. "Not just any pile of rocks, sweetheart – I think we might find some interesting stuff here. And besides – at least we're not gonna starve." He pointed up to a section of cliffs above our heads.
I followed the direction of his finger and saw the vacuous faces of several sheep gazing down at us. "I wonder how many there are here."
"Who knows? Place has been abandoned for quite a while. They've had nothing else to do except breed. There's probably enough to last us until we figure a way of getting off here."
"Yeah?" Miss McThane remained sceptical. "What do you know about butchering a sheep? They're not just a bunch of cutlets running around in a woolly jacket, you know."
He shrugged. "Can't be too hard. You get a knife, rub a coupla sticks together – we'll all be singing around the ol' campfire tonight. You wait and see."
I looked towards the grey clouds mounting over the ocean. "I suggest our first concern should be finding some sort of shelter. The weather in these parts is reputedly severe."
"Good thinking. See, baby – ol' Dower here's getting into the swing of things. Cheer up a bit; think Boy Scouts."
"Screw the Boy Scouts." Grumbling, she stood up and wrapped her dress over her shoulders like a shawl. "What this place needs is a goddamn enchilada stand."
We climbed up through a cleft in the rocks, the loose stones sliding under our feet. As Scape led the way, Miss McThane stopped and laid her hand on my arm. "Actually," she said, smiling, "there are some advantages to being, like, shipwrecked. Out here where there's nobody around, and it's all kinda… wild and primitive. You know?" She brought her face closer to mine. "Sometimes people get… inspired…"
"I assure you," I said, drawing as far away is possible on the narrow path, "my feelings remain unaltered."
"We'll see about that." She turned and resumed climbing after Scape.
Having gained the top of the cliffs, Scape reached down and assisted the rest of the party up beside him. "What'd I tell ya?" He waved his hand about at the rugged, sparsely grassed landscape. Sheep, numerous if thin-shanked from their scanty fare, gazed at us with placid equanimity. "Groceries on the hoof." Abel ran barking at them; they turned their mild faces at his furious noise before shambling slowly away in search of their next meagre mouthful.
I directed Scape's attention to what appeared to be crumbling walls some distance away. "Perhaps we can find shelter there."
"Must be old Bendray's place," he said. "I don't think he'll mind, under the circumstances."
The stones turned out to be the remains of a castle, its rude structure indicating considerable antiquity. Portions of one hallway were still roofed over; the rest had fallen into hollow decay. A crumbling table and chairs were soon reduced to firewood; flint and steel found by a towering chimney brought a welcome blaze, by which Miss McThane and I huddled while a hungry Scape went back into the surrounding fields.
He returned a few hours later, a spectre of spattered blood and exhau
stion, with an excited Abel yapping behind him. "Damn things are more complicated than I thought," he announced, wiping his pocket knife on his trousers leg. The ragged lumps he had carried back were forthwith skewered and held over the fire until sufficiently blackened to hide their grisly origin.
So passed our first day upon the island of Groughay, in no great discomfort, considering how recently we all had been resigned to surrendering our lives. A more cheering discovery was made when a cache of whisky was found underneath a section of rotting floorboards. The skies opened during the night; I awakened to the sound of a storm lashing the stone walls against which we huddled. Close by me, Miss McThane hopefully whispered my name. I feigned sleep, and she gave up for the time being.
Following a breakfast of cold mutton, Scape made further explorations of the ruins. His triumphant shout announced the fruit of his labours. "Get a loada this." He stood in the middle of what had once been a room of considerable size, truncated at one end by the collapse of one of the walls. Around him were various metal constructions, all now sadly lapsing into rust. "It's your father's old workshop – when he was here years ago!"
I came down beside him and gazed about at the scene. The kaleidoscopic variety of my father's genius was rendered even more confusing by the decrepit state of the devices. Some towered above our heads as though they were the skeletons of some species of metal giant; others were mere handfuls of gears and wheels, rusted into lumps. The workbenches had rotted away, spilling the discarded tools and partial assemblages into the puddles on the stone floor.
Scape, undismayed by the decrepitude of the machinery, set about rummaging through the tangled remnants. "Hey, this one's in pretty good shape," he said, tugging at an iron strut. "Gimme a hand."
Between the two of us, we pulled free the device in question. To me it seemed the fleshless carcass of a bat, though on a considerably magnified scale. The thin struts formed umbrella-like ribs, arching out when unfolded to a distance of several yards. They were connected by a system of chains to the gears of a central clockwork apparatus; shreds of rotten canvas hung about the figure.
