by K. W. Jeter
One of the wings – if such they were – grated harshly through its layers of rust as Scape waggled it back and forth. "Far out," he said admiringly. "What a find."
I surveyed the thing dubiously. The fragility of its construction, in combination with the disrepair into which it had fallen, gave the impression of imminent collapse. "What is it?"
He patted in tenderly, flakes of rust drifting from under his hand. "Remember how ol' Bendray told you that line about how he came to believe that there were people – I mean, like aliens – zooming around in outer space? From other planets? Did he say he'd seen them himself, zipping around in the sky out here at Groughay?"
I cast my mind back to Lord Bendray's monologue in his cellar laboratory at his Hall. "Um… yes. He did, as a matter of fact."
"Figured he did. He goes rabbiting on about that crap to everybody he meets, given half a chance. Well, the funny thing is, he really did see 'em zooming around." He worked the metal strut harder, so that the entire device squeaked and groaned, wobbling where it stood. "This is it, man – visitors from outer space. This is what ol' Bendray saw."
My gaze went from him to the device. "This… whatever it is? He saw this?"
Scape nodded. "It's a flying machine. Great, huh? I told you your old man was running a few numbers on Bendray. The way I figure it, your father had to convince him that there were guys from other planets, flying around checking out things here on earth, so Bendray would go for that bullshit pile-driver he's got in his basement. You know, the one he thinks he can blow up the whole planet with. Your father already had a workshop out here, from the work he'd already done for Bendray; all he had to do was come out here, build this contraption, then let Bendray see it flying around and tell him it's aliens from outer space. He'd probably already got a pretty good idea by then of how much guff he could get Bendray to swallow."
I let these aspersions on my father's moral character pass by, finding it preferable to believe that he had engaged in a fraudulent manipulation of Lord Bendray, rather than actually having built a machine capable of destroying the earth. "I find it difficult to credit that this… device could actually go up in the air."
"Well, when it was in better condition, it could. All these spaces here were covered with some kind of fabric, so it was like real wings." The rotting canvas fell apart at the slightest pressure from his exploring finger. "Then the gears and stuff ran off the master-spring there, and off it'd go, flapping away."
"Hm." I was still not convinced, though I could envision no other purpose the ungainly contraption could have served. "Interesting enough, I suppose. I don't see any great cause for excitement in it, though."
"Don't you get it, man?" Scape's voice rose with excitement. "This is how we can get off this flippin' island. We can fix this sucker up, and just fly off."
"What! With this? Don't be absurd. The thing's nothing more than a… a mechanical kite."
"Your ass." He pointed into the device's spindly framework. "Right there – look. See? Those are the steering controls; those lines run out to the wings. And right there's where you sit. Christ, maybe your own father flew this thing around."
The notion brought a scoffing laugh from me. "Really… how gullible do you think I am? A flying machine! Capable of bearing a person's weight aloft – the idea is patently ridiculous. Completely beyond the realm of possibility."
"A lot you know," said Scape with some irritation. "Hey, I've been there – in the Future. All the flying machines you could want. The sky's gonna be just full of 'em some day. Huge goddamn things – carry hundreds of people. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."
I didn't care to dispute the point with him; his visions of the Future – I retained a healthy scepticism about their origin – were a matter of some conviction with him. "Yes, well," I said in an attempt to mollify. "It might be diverting to… muck about with it a bit."
"Muck about, my ass. We gotta get this thing working. Up, up, and away, and off this stupid island. And fast."
"Why such urgency?" His eyebrows arched above the rims of his spectacles. "Hey – have you forgotten about those Godly Army characters? It's not gonna take 'em long to get their courage back up, and come around here to hand our butts to us. Those kinda guys – they're fanatics – they don't give up. And they wanted to kill us before – what kinda mood do you think they're gonna be in, the next time?"
In truth, I had forgotten about our former captors, so great had been my relief at finding myself still alive and in one piece on this island.
Aroused from slumber by our voices, Miss McThane picked her way through the rubble to join us. "What's all the shouting about?"
Scape's thumb indicated the device. "We're gonna fly off the island. In this."
"Neat-o." With no sign of trepidation, she grasped one of the struts and waggled it through its groaning motions.
"But surely," I protested, "there must be some other means of leaving this place."
"Like what? You can't swim to the mainland – it's too far. And the currents around here are murder; I looked at the captain's charts back when we were on the ship. And there's no wood on this flippin' rock, so we can't build a boat. No, man; this is the only way." Scape patted the rusty metal. "Up into the wild blue yonder."
The more confident he sounded, the more my heart filled with dread. "But – the wings… the fabric has all rotted away. What do you propose covering them with?"
Scape dismissed my objections with a wave of his hand. "No problem. We're surrounded by the woolly bastards, aren't we? Sheepskin, man; we just skin 'em and pop it on to the frame here."
Miss McThane laughed. "This oughta be good. You're really hot with a knife and a sheep."
He glared at her for a moment, then turned back to me. "Nothing to worry about," he said reassuringly. "You'll see."
The awful premonition mounted in my breast that I would indeed.
I left Scape to his work upon the supposed flying device my fear of it having reached the point where I could not bear to lay a hand upon it – and wandered down to the shoreline where I had awoken after the wreck of the Virtuous Persistence. Perhaps some article of value, a portion of the ship's stores undamaged by the saltwater, had washed up on the rocks and could be used to supplement our bleak diet of mutton.
A few scraps of wood lay on the sands – the bulk of the ship, holed by the violent action of the seaweed gathering apparatus, had apparently gone to the bottom, beyond our reach. I poked among these until I heard a familiar voice call my name.
The Brown Leather Man stepped out from behind a sheltering line of stones. He grasped my arm in both his hands, this gesture of good will transcending any gulf of nature between our races. "Much gratitude I owe you," he said. His voice thickened with emotion, though the stitched covering over his face remained impassive.
"For what?" I said, puzzled. After all, it had been he who had saved me, and the others, from execution at the hands of the Godly Army.
"The children. Of my blood. Safe they are, and growing." He stretched his arm out towards the ocean, where the beds of seaweed lay.
"Oh. Yes, indeed. Yes, I imagine you must find that most gratifying." He seemed to overestimate any responsibility I might have had for this happy event; I could see no reason to correct him on the point. "Um… a, uh, certain concern has sprung up among my companions and myself. I was wondering if… perhaps… you could be of some assistance regarding the matter."
"Hm?" He made a slight noise, more from courtesy than any attention to me. His gaze remained focussed on the sea, his thoughts obviously far away.
"Yes, we were concerned about the wisdom of staying for very long here on this island. After all, there are some people about who seem to bear a marked hostility towards us, and we thought-"
"Do not with thoughts of those others disturb yourself." His chin sank on to his chest. "It is my undertaking – in gratitude – to protect you from them."
"Oh. Well; very good of you, I'm sure." I mu
lled over how best to broach my suggestions. "Perhaps – it struck me, you understand – perhaps that might best be accomplished if we were to… find a way off the island. Over to the mainland, that is. Perhaps if you could bring us a boat, or alert someone on the mainland as to our presence here, and they could come for us-"
He was deep in his contemplations, barely conscious of me standing beside him. "All in good time," he said abstractedly. "These things will be done."
Our brief conversation at an end, he returned to the sea.
The next few weeks settled into a pattern. Our island captivity continued; I scanned the horizons from the highest Groughay cliffs, anxiously awaiting the return of the Godly Army to finish their interrupted task; Scape, with Miss McThane as his assistant, laboured on the purported flying machine. He had unearthed a cache of tools and auxiliary parts, wrapped in oilsoaked cloth to protect them from the weather, which greatly facilitated the project: chains worked around the teeth of what were determined to be the appropriate gears, and the metal armatures no longer grated through the years' accumulations of rust. The taste of mutton became sickeningly familiar to all of us, but there was at least a plenitude of it. A growing section of the castle ruins began to resemble a charnel house, with the bloody skins of sheep draped about on the stones. Only the chillness of the northern air prevented rapid decomposition; Scape's methods of preparing the hides were marked by a crude haste and a complete lack of any appropriate knowledge; many of the poor animals' heads lolled, still attached to their skins, the dumb eyes seeming to wonder how such indignities had been visited upon them. The living sheep divined Scape's cruel attentions towards them, and became increasingly difficult to catch; the dog Abel, with his terrier cleverness, soon became expert at turning back the fleeing herds and driving them into Scape's clutches.
My vigil upon the cliffs was ended the morning after a particularly severe storm. All night long, the stone walls of the castle ruins were lashed by driving rain; a section of the remaining roof was torn away by the gale. As Scape inspected the machine to see what damage had been done to it, I went to see if the storm had brought anything of value to land.
From my vantage point, I could see the waves rolling in, thick with tangled seaweed; the tempest had raged through the offshore beds. As I looked over the churning rocks, an unearthly cry of despair sounded up to me, the wail inarticulate in its anguish. I knew whose voice it was, though I had never heard it torn by any such emotion. The loose stones grated under my boots as I scrambled down the path to the point from which it had come.
I found the Brown Leather Man upon his knees at the edge of the lapping water. The sand was covered with the thick drapings of seaweed. His hands were thrust deep Into the dark foliage, lifting it to his gaze, the salt-water running from his arms.
He made no response as I touched his shoulder stepped closer to him, to see what spectacle bound him in such fierce regard.
Dead things twined in the seaweed.
A sob broke from the Brown Leather Man's throat as he tilted his head back to face the blank sky. I could see the tiny forms, monstrously misshapen, idiot piscine skulls, innards everted and exposed. The storm had not killed them, but only brought their twisted corpses to view. The blood with which he had mixed his own had degenerated too far; the seed he bore could father only such abortions as these, when mated with the crossbreeds' wretched line.
I could think of nothing to say; a race's final progeny was mired in the dark mass, the infants' miserable flesh pallid with decay. "I'm sorry." That was all that was possible.
His fearsome gaze turned slowly around towards me. One hand pulled from the mass of seaweed; from where he knelt, his arm swept into my chest, knocking me backwards.
He towered above me, where I lay gasping to regain my breath. His finger jabbed towards me as though it were some dark lightning-stroke of judgment. "You-" His voice was tortured into a choking rasp. "Your kind see what you have done. While yet there was hope – hope that again my blood could live – then I could forgive you. I could all of your kind forgive. But now… now that your folly has murdered my blood, and hope is no more-" His hand raised above his head, gathering its force for a blow.
I shrank back into the sand, unable to flee. For a moment he remained, his arm trembling in air. Then, with another wordless cry, he turned and plunged back into the ocean's depths.
When I had managed to regain my feet, I looked out across the empty sea. There was no sign of him. With a piece of driftwood, I dug a shallow trench in the sand, and buried as much of the seaweed, and its rotting burden, as I could gather.
Scape greeted me cheerfully when I returned to the castle ruins. His shirt was spattered with sheep's blood as he announced, "Just about ready, Dower! Maybe give it the first test flight tomorrow." He returned to his work, rubbing his hands with anticipation.
I was still somewhat dazed from the events out on the shore. It took a few moments before I realised a hand was caressing the back of my neck. I turned and looked into Miss McThane's smiling face.
"He's going to be busy for a long time," she said. "And I get so bored…"
"No-" I shook my head; a violent tremor seized my limbs. I backed away from her, then turned and ran towards the empty fields.
15
Mr Dower Sees it Through
A hand shook me awake; I opened my eyes to a silhouetted figure, dark, against the stars, bending over me. At first I took it to be Miss McThane; then the voice spoke, and I knew what entity had stealthily entered the castle ruins.
"Come with me, Dower," the Brown Leather Man said softly. "I have much with you to discuss."
I had shrunk back against the stone wall upon recognising him, but there was no trace in his voice of the rage he had displayed earlier; only an urgency that compelled my hasty obedience to his request. Scape and Miss McThane were still asleep some distance away; the Brown Leather Man gestured for my silence. We picked our way together over the rubble until we were well outside.
"You must forgive me," he said, grasping my arm. The night's darkness seemed to be absorbed and condensed into his form beside me. "My anger today – you will understand. Great had been my hopes. But always I have meant you no harm."
"Yes, of course." I could think of no other words to reassure him. "A very sad occasion." That sounded even more inadequate.
"That is of the past. Other things are to be thought of. You must leave this island. At once."
I breathed a sigh of relief. My earlier entreaties, it seemed, had had the desired effect. "I'm glad you feel that way. Soon as morning comes, I'll tell the others. I imagine a boat would be the most practical-"
He shook his head. "No time is there. You must leave now. You alone – the others are unimportant."
"But why? Surely-"
His grip on my arm tightened. "Things of great urgency – great dangers that only you can avert. You must leave now, and back to England go. To Bendray Hall – when you are there, all will be explained."
A petty annoyance welled up in me. "I cannot calculate the number of times that has been said to me. "Everything will be explained." And every time I do what's asked of me, based on that promise, I end up being chased by packs of bloodthirsty maniacs. I find it tiresome in the extreme."
"My word I give," said the Brown Leather Man. "As we speak further, the precious moments flee. Only this one thing more, this one task, and all mysteries will be dispelled. But if what I bid you is not done – if to Bendray Hall you do not go – then great misfortune to all of us will come. Any harm to you will be the least of the consequences."
The fervour of his speech dispelled my objections. "Very well, then – how do you propose I should leave this island?"
"Come – to the water's edge we must go."
He led me down the rocky path to the shore. The ocean, faintly luminous under the moon's glow, splashed against the rounded stones. "You I will carry," said the Brown Leather Man. "In my arms, through the waves. My native element is the
sea; you will be safe."
I looked dubiously at the ocean, the chill spray dampening my face. "Isn't it quite a ways? And… somewhat cold?"
"Have no fear. In the sea, I have no need of this-" His hands traced the scar-like stitching across his chest. "The outer covering which on the land enables me to walk about. You I will wrap in it; such it is that it will protect you from the harshness of the sea."
"Hmm…"
"No other way is there. Your very life, and much else, on doing this depends."
The life of which he spoke had been in his hands more than once; what trust was possible, if not in one who had already preserved me from death? "Very well," I said, steeling my nerve. "Proceed."
Certain of the stitching eased and opened under his fingers. After a few minutes, the leathery covering wrinkled away from whatever nature of flesh lay beneath. As a snake sheds its skin, only in this instance standing upright, the Brown Leather Man slid the artificial epidermis from his frame.
His own, more pallid skin shone wetly in the moonlight. A slit-like mouth, and eyes of perfect circularity, only marginally comparable to the fish-like denizens of Wetwick and Dampford, were revealed when his head was bared. Released from the confines of the covering, a pinkish frill swelled about his throat. "Hurry," he said. "In the air, as this I may stay only a little while."
I let myself be draped with the garment he had discarded. As I was of considerably smaller stature, the thin "leather" hung loosely about me, with no need to exert any force to slide my limbs into the appropriate places. It hung in overlapping folds over my legs, as though I were a child appropriating his father's trousers for play.
The Brown Leather Man – brown no longer, but rather shining in the manner of a sea creature catching the faint light – gathered the loose cloak tighter about my chest, fastening it into this position by a twisted knot at my shoulder. He led me into the waves; when the water came surging up to my chin, he reached down and easily lifted me from the sea floor, my weight distributed between his own inordinate strength and the buoyancy imparted by the salt ocean.
