The Islanders

by Christopher Priest

  After the delivery men had departed I turned on some of the stage lights and inspected the glass.

  In the Lord’s specification he had noted the minimum distortion that he would accept, and I checked this with a special gauge – the glass was well within that spec. It was also exactly the right size, and the four bevelled slots where the glass was going to be attached were again absolutely correct. I checked and re-checked all the measurements, pleased at having made sure this was right. However, the bright lights revealed that the haulage of the glass, and our manhandling of it, had left several hand and finger prints, so I thoroughly cleaned and polished the sheet on both sides.

  Jayr helped me move it on to the fly lines, and we slowly raised it into the rigging loft. I knew it would be secure up there, but it was discomfiting to know that the sheet of plate-glass was being held directly above the stage. It looked like a huge transparent guillotine blade, sharp, heavy and deadly.

  * * *

  In the town the thaw was continuing and I realized that in these early weeks of the spring the fjord became a place of great beauty and tranquillity. The mountains, which looked so barren when covered by snow, now brought forth grasses, flowers and bushes. White-water falls continued to course down the steep mountainsides, splashing into the dark blue waters of the fjord. The houses and shops, which looked so grim in the cold, broke out their seasonal colours: the people removed the wooden and metal shutters from windows, let their curtains blow in the breezes, hung flower baskets on the walls in the street, left their doors ajar. They painted and cleaned their houses, and tidied their gardens.

  Visitors arrived, some in cars, many in buses. Shops and restaurants opened. During the days the streets of Omhuuv were crowded with pedestrians wandering around the newly re-opened boutiques and galleries, while the wharves continued their noisy work and the pungent odour of curing smoke drifted across the quays. More boats appeared on the fjord, but now they were pleasure boats, some bringing in more visitors, others simply sailing around. Two herons nested on the roof of the house I was staying in.

  Inside the theatre also the seasons were changing. Our work was increasing daily, partly because bookings were now pouring in every day, and many members of the public called at the theatre with enquiries, but also because the tech crew still had not arrived. The ice cleared from the sea almost as soon as the thaw arrived, but there was some kind of visa anomaly that prevented so many people exiting the mainland at once. Because I had always lived in the calm neutrality of the islands it was too easy to forget that Faiand, the mainland country in the north closest to our part of the Archipelago, was a nation embroiled in war.

  One day, shortly before our season opened I had to go to the trap room, the substage area, where one of the traps had proved to jam when I tested it. Jayr said I should try to find out what had happened – he was thinking of Lord, who was due to appear in the second week. Illusionists often needed to use a stage trapdoor, Jayr said.

  The trap room in a theatre is sometimes used to store unwanted items, so out of season it can become cluttered. One of my first tasks at the Sjøkaptein had been to tidy up down there. By this time it was fairly easy to move around. There was little or no lighting when the theatre was not working, so I had to check the mechanism in darkness, leaning over the drive housing with a torch. The place was unheated, and cold draughts wafted against me.

  My arm was down inside the housing, checking the clasps of the drive cover were tight, when I suddenly became aware of a silent presence. Somewhere near to me. It was as if something or someone had moved, dislodging air but making no sound.

  I froze in position, my arm inside the machine, my shoulder and head pressing against the outer housing. I was surrounded by darkness, because I had placed the torch on the floor, the beam pointing through an access hatch close to the floor. I listened, not daring to turn my head.

  The silence was complete, but the sensation of a presence was overwhelming. It was close to me, very close indeed.

  Slowly, I began to slide my hand out from inside the machine, so that I could straighten and turn, look around, shine the torch about, make certain no one was there. The silence endured, but as I turned my head I became aware, on the periphery of my vision, of something white and circular, seeming to hover.

  I sucked in a breath in surprise, turned fully towards it. The shape was a mask, a face, but it was horribly stylized, almost a child’s cartoon of a face. It was frozen, immobile, but in some way I cannot describe I knew it was alive.

  As soon as I was looking towards it the face backed away smoothly, disappearing into the darkness almost at once. It made no sound, left no trace.

  My heart was racing. I grabbed the torch, swung it around in the general direction of the apparition, but of course there was nothing to see. I stood up fully, clouting my head against the low ceiling, the under-surface of the stage. The shock of it further frightened me, so I backed quickly away, hurried to the steps, rushed up to the wings of the stage. I was trembling.

  A little later, Jayr saw me.

  ‘I heard you making a lot of noise,’ he said. ‘Did you see something down there?’

  ‘Shut up, Jayr,’ I said, embarrassed at my reaction to something I had only half seen. ‘Was that you messing about in the trap room?’

  ‘So you did see something!’ he said. ‘Don’t let it bother you. Happens in every theatre. Sooner or later.’

  * * *

  The tech crew had at last received clearance from the authorities and were on their way to join us. But now the problem they faced was the multitude of ferries they had to board, the circuitous routes, the many ports of call where cargoes and mailbags were loaded and unloaded. We did not expect them to arrive until a day, or at best two days, before our opening performance.

  I continued to work as hard as before, but now I had a background concern. I was worried by the sheer weight of the pane of glass we had lifted into the flies, hanging there, swinging sometimes if there was a draught of air when the scenery bay doors were opened. I quietly checked it periodically to make sure it was still secure in its harness, but other than that there was little I could do about it. Lord of Mystery was due to arrive for the second week’s show.

  Two days after I saw the apparition in the trap room, I had a similar experience. Once again I was alone, and again I was in one of the more inaccessible areas of the theatre. I had climbed up to the higher of the two loges at stage left. Jayr told me there was an intermittent electrical fault. The lights in the box sometimes flickered when turned on. It was probably caused by a simple loose connection, but the loges at the Sjøkaptein were popular, and were booked in advance for most performances. It had to be repaired before any member of the public could be allowed in.

  As usual I worked beneath a dim overhead light from high in the ceiling of the auditorium, which barely shed any illumination and none at all inside the loges. Of course to work on the wiring I had had to isolate the current, so once I was inside the loge it was completely dark.

  I was on my hands and knees, working with the torch between my teeth, peeling back the carpet to expose the wiring beneath, when once again I suddenly sensed there was something close to me that had not been there before.

  My first instinct was to close my mind to it, concentrate on what I was doing, hope that the feeling would pass. But an instant later I changed my mind and moved rapidly. I raised my head, sprang to my feet.

  The white face-like mask was there again! This time it had appeared between the curtains that closed off the loge at the rear. I caught only a fractional glimpse of it, because once again it backed off, vanishing almost immediately.

  I knew that behind the curtain was the access door to the loge, and beyond that was the upper side-corridor used by the audience as they found their way to their seats. I dived across the loge, snatched the curtains back then pushed the door open. I half-fell out into the corridor. This was a windowless part of the theatre building and Jayr and I never
normally switched on lights along the corridor. I swung the torch in both directions, trying to see whatever it was that had intruded on me like that.

  Of course, I saw nothing.

  Shaken, nervous, a little frightened, I went swiftly down to find Jayr, who was working on the computer terminal in the office.

  I said nothing, but collapsed into one of the spare chairs along the wall. I could not suppress a shudder, and I exhaled sharply.

  ‘Was it a silent ghost or a noisy one?’ said Jayr, without looking across at me. ‘Does it moan, dress in ancient gowns, carry its own head, make a breathing noise, clank long chains, or does it just hover?’

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you? There’s something out there. I’ve seen it twice now! It’s really bloody terrifying.’

  I was regarding my forearms, bare because I always worked with my sleeves rolled up. All the hairs were standing on end.

  ‘Remember… this is a theatre. Everything that happens in a theatre is real!’

  With the last word, Jayr turned in his chair, lowered his head like a hunting animal, and made a snarling noise, baring his teeth.

  At the end of that day, walking back to my room along the usual streets, I caught sight of my bearded assailant. His tense, hunched way of walking was distinctive, and the moment I noticed him I was on my guard. I held back, watched him for a few moments until I was certain he could not see me.

  He was ahead of me, striding along in the same direction and did not turn back to look. It was certainly him but because the weather had improved so much he was of course no longer wrapped up against the cold. On the contrary, he was wearing rather large and loose beach shorts, bright blue, and a yellow shirt that flapped behind him as he walked.

  Just the sight of him made me nervous, so I stood quietly by the side of the road, half concealed by a shop canopy, until the man had turned off the main drag, entering a side street at the other end.

  * * *

  The tech crew finally turned up. As soon as they had settled in their lodgings, and familiarized themselves with the facilities in the theatre, my working life changed. All the routine chores around the theatre – cleaning, checking, aligning and repairing – were taken over by others. I was impressed by the professionalism of the crew: four men and three women, who in just two days had the theatre prepared and technically rehearsed in time for the opening night.

  That first week’s bill was one of mixed variety turns. As the acts started to arrive at the theatre, roughly at the same time as the tech people, I was eager and curious to see them. The Teater Sjøkaptein was quickly being transformed from a cold, ill-lit and above all empty building into a place where a large number of people worked, bringing all the noise, companionship, squabbles, minor emergencies and sense of purpose that surrounds any group of people existing closely together.

  Backstage, the building echoed with the noise of last-minute scenery building, lights being focused and calibrated, of tabs being raised and lowered, instructions shouted down from the balcony, and so on. Three musicians appeared, to provide the accompaniment. Meanwhile the front-of-house manager was hiring a temporary assistant to help with cleaning and preparing the auditorium, selling tickets and refreshments, and organized emergency medical cover for each performance. I was entranced by the sense of busy purpose, but my own working role was almost eliminated by these new people.

  On our opening night I watched much of the show from the wings, but I soon wished I had not. The acts were of the most basic and unimaginative kind, the sort of live entertainment I had no idea was still being performed in theatres. The show was compered by a middle-aged comedian who specialized in off-colour jokes, which were offensive mainly for being so unoriginal and therefore unfunny. The acts he introduced included a juggler, an operetta duo, a ventriloquist, a trick cyclist, a soprano, and a troupe of dancing girls. By the end of the show I realized I was staying on only because of these dancers. I thought one of them was rather pretty and seemed to be encouraging me with several smiles flashed in my direction, although when I tried to speak to her she cut me dead.

  After that first evening I wasted no more time watching these acts, and was puzzled but rather relieved by how much the audiences seemed to enjoy them.

  * * *

  We were expecting the Lord to arrive halfway through this first week. The morning of the day we were expecting him – we had had to make a space for him in our already crowded vehicle park behind the building – I was sitting with Jayr in the office. He was entering the week’s takings and expenses into the computer, while I sat idly by, rather enjoying the quietness.

  A matinée performance was due that afternoon, but for the time being our temporary solitude was almost like those last days of winter.

  ‘Have you been seeing your ghost again, Hike?’ Jayr suddenly said, without turning away from the computer monitor.

  ‘Not since the last time.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I had long wished I had concealed my earlier reactions from Jayr, as he had been teasing me repeatedly about my sightings of the ghost.

  I stayed silent.

  ‘I thought you might have noticed what’s behind you,’ Jayr said. ‘That’s all.’

  Of course I turned to see, and to my surprise and (for an instant) horror, that impassive mask-like face was right beside me, lurking behind my shoulder. I could not help it: I leapt to my feet, startled, turning to get a better look.

  ‘Hike, this is Mr Commis, our star turn the week after next.’

  Standing next to my chair was the slight figure of a man dressed in a mime costume. He was clad from head to foot in some kind of soft, black, non-reflective fabric, hugging his skin. Only his face was clearly visible, and that was because it had been painted a brilliant, almost dazzling white. Every facial feature had been covered into blended invisibility, with stylized cartoons drawn in their places: he wore quizzically inverted eyebrows, a down-turned mouth, two painted black spots for his nose. Even his eyelids had been painted, so that when he blinked two stylized bright-blue eyes seemed to replace his real ones.

  ‘Commis, this is my deputy Hike Tommas.’

  The mime leapt into action. With an exaggerated motion he swept a non-existent hat from his head, swirled it elaborately, then crossed it in front of his chest as he bowed. When he straightened he momentarily spun the invisible hat on an extended forefinger, then threw it up in the air, waggled his head from side to side as the hat curled through the air, and with a sudden diving motion managed to get it to land on the crown of his head. Smiling, he bowed again.

  ‘Er, good morning,’ I said inadequately. Commis the mime smiled briefly, then turned away and with an agile motion jumped backwards on to the surface of a spare desk, and crossed his legs.

  A moment later he began to eat an imaginary banana, peeling it slowly with precise movements, then pulling away the pithy strings that attached to the side of the fruity flesh. He ate it with great attention, chewing thoughtfully. When he had finished he licked each of his fingers, then tossed the peel away so that it landed somewhere on the office floor.

  He raised a buttock, mimed a long fart, then wafted away the smell with an apologetic look on his face.

  A little later he sharpened an invisible pencil, puffed on the loose shavings from the pointed end to blow them away, then used it to evacuate wax from his ear.

  When Jayr and I took some drinks from the coffee machine, Commis rejected our offer of a real one but suddenly produced an imaginary large cup and saucer, clearly full to the brim with a scalding liquid. He fussed over this, holding it gingerly, blowing gently across the surface, stirring it with an invisible spoon, tipping some of the liquid into the saucer so he could sip from that. He continued this performance until Jayr and I had finished our cups of coffee, then he put away his own cup.

  When I tried speaking to him he made no answer (but cupped a hand behind his ear, pretending, I think, to be deaf). Jayr shook his head at me, discouraging me fro
m what I was doing.

  Later, Commis developed an itchy rash that appeared to travel all over his body.

  He sat there and sat there, perpetually performing his imaginary feats.

  Finally, not at all entertained by this self-centred behaviour, I decided to leave. As I crossed the office floor. Commis mimed intense fear and warning, shrinking back across the desktop in horror, pointing at the floor and imploring me with his eyes.

  I could not help myself. I stepped carefully over the banana skin as I went into the corridor outside.

  * * *

  After that, Commis’s presence around the theatre was a constant. He was due to headline the third week of our season, so his early arrival meant that he was underfoot practically all of the time. I found his endless pantomimes aggravating but harmless, and did what I could to ignore him. However, he was always there, sometimes mimicking me, sometimes leaping out in front of me to show me a cat he was pretending to hold or a photograph of me he had just taken, or trying to involve me in his fantasy world by throwing balls to me, or trotting in front of me, pretending to open and close non-existent doors. He never once spoke, never emitted any kind of sound. I kept expecting that I might one day see him out of character, but as far as I could tell he appeared to be staying and sleeping somewhere in the theatre building itself. He was always there when I arrived and was still there after I left at the end of the day. I never did find out what Jayr knew of him, what their relationship was, if any. It was obviously more than Jayr said, perhaps even close or intimate, but I was not that interested and did not enquire.

  I realized that my work at the Sjøkaptein was now only marginal, and by agreement with Jayr it was to finish soon – in fact I was due to leave at the end of the following week, before Commis started his run of performances, when I would be paid off.

  My final task before I left was to lend whatever assistance the Lord would need when he arrived. I was nervous about this: my weeks at the Teater Sjøkaptein had shown me that a professional interest in stagecraft was one thing, but a sympathy with the people who trod the boards was another.