by Eoin Colfer
“What matter?” said Malarkey. “My hair will shine bright enough for a Piccadilly stroll.”
Conor shook the water from his own hair. He must, he thought, with the shaking and the caked dirt, bear more than a passing resemblance to a vagabond mutt. It was time to look to his appearance. Perhaps Otto Malarkey was the man to quiz on hygiene.
Malarkey finished with his hair and threw his head back. “Now,” he said in a more serious tone, “we have unfinished business.”
Conor tensed. Was it time for another row? Some students needed more than one pass at a lesson before the information took hold. He placed a hand on the butt of the Devil’s Fork in his belt. “What business is that? More paid beatings?”
“No, soldier boy, no!” said Malarkey hurriedly. “Your solution to that affair is a sound one. We fake the entire thing for a fortnight. You keep mum, and that is that. Saves my knuckles and your head, best all ’round. A pity I didn’t think of it before now. I could have saved myself the pain of arthritis. Between the aching joints and brittle hair, this place will be the death of me.”
Conor relaxed somewhat, but left his hand on the fork. “I knew a cook on Great Saltee who suffered from arthritis. She always swore that willow bark is good for joint pain, if you can get it.”
Malarkey nodded. “Willow bark?”
“Grind it into your stew, or simply suck on a piece. Though it is hard on the stomach.”
“No worries on that score. I could digest a live bear with barely a twinge.”
Conor frowned. “So then, what is this business?”
“I talked to Pike,” said Malarkey, hiking a thumb at the bell porthole. “We decided that it would be best to do a little work before I knock you senseless. So, I thought we might dig around a bit, find a few stones, then take our ease for a while. Following that, I drag you on out of here, and no one is any the wiser. How does that sound for a plan?”
Conor was about to agree, but then thought on his new identity. Conor Finn was a young devil, and would not be satisfied without profit. “It’s a passable plan. Most of the elements are there, but what of the three pounds you were paid to beat me?”
Malarkey was ready for this line. “One for you, two for me.”
“I prefer the other way around.”
“I have a proposition,” said Malarkey. “We go straight down the middle, if you teach me how to use that fork the way you do. Proper fencing is a powerful tool. I could earn some real money, nail me a few officers.” It was clear in Malarkey’s face that he was eager for this arrangement.
“And can you keep the Battering Rams from slipping a blade between my ribs?” asked Conor.
Otto Malarkey shrugged back his long hair. “There’s only one way to guarantee that.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the horned ram tattoo. “You must take the ink. Only members of the brotherhood are safe. I’ll stand for you, if you teach me fencing. I could say you took the beatings and have Irish blood in you, though your accent is well-bred Saltee. A Kilmore mum, maybe? I think that you’re below army age, but that don’t matter to the Battering Rams. If you’re big enough to hold a pistol, you’re big enough to fire one.”
Joining the Rams was a sticking point. Conor Broekhart would never take up with a criminal gang; but then again, Conor Finn would. “I’ll take your ink, but I won’t pay any dues nor swear an oath.”
Malarkey laughed. “Oath! The only oaths we have in the Rams are foul ones. As for dues, the fencing lessons will do enough.”
Conor rubbed his bicep where the tattoo would sit. “Very well, Otto Malarkey: we have an agreement. I expect the money tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” said Malarkey. “From now on, you will be searched every day. Wait until you carry the ram on your arm, then certain guards have hazy allegiances. Their search will be less thorough, for the right price, of course.”
Already Malarkey was proving useful. It could well be that the man’s idle chatter would be a fair trade for a few fencing lessons. “Very well, Malarkey, after the tattoo is dry. Until then, we fence and dig. First fencing, while the mind is sharp.” Conor extended his trident, flicking his left arm up behind him.
Malarkey mimicked the stance. “So, Conor Finn, you’ll teach me everything you know?”
“Not everything,” said Conor, smiling tightly. “If I did that, then you could kill me.”
Billtoe waited until Conor supposedly regained consciousness before leading him back to his cell through the subterranean hallways of Little Saltee. For the first time since his arrival, Conor took careful account of his surroundings, counting each step, noting each door and window.
This section of the prison had a bowed look, as if the entire wing had dropped a floor since its construction. Walls leaned in overhead, and the floor sank like a drain. Stone arches had lost their soffits or keystones and stood crookedly like the efforts of a child’s building blocks. The walls were dotted with pitch patches where water had wormed its way through the cracks. Dozens more rivulets had yet to be filled. A gurgling saltwater stream ran down the center of the collapsed floor.
“Pretty, ain’t it,” said Billtoe, taking note of Conor’s roving eye. “This place could flood at any second, they say. Of course, they have been saying that since long before I put on the uniform. If I was you, I’d try to escape this hellhole. That’s always good for a giggle. You should see what desperate men are willing to try. Jumping off the wall is a favorite. The crabs never go hungry on Little Saltee. Tunneling is another one. Tunneling! I ask you. Where does these turf heads think they are? The middle of a meadow? We got barely a spoonful of clay on this island, and yet we have these gaol-crazed prisoners spending every waking minute sniffing out a vein. I tell you straight, little soldier, if you do find some earth on Little Saltee, then you should plant yourself some vegetables.”
Conor knew not to interrupt. After all, in a previous existence he had learned that information saved lives, and there was a wealth of information to be gathered about this place. Luckily, Guard Billtoe seemed eager to dish it out just as fast as he could get it out of his flapping mouth.
He pushed Conor down a corridor, a full step lower than the rest. The floor ran off at a gentle gradient, water actually flowing under some of the doors.
“Home again, fiddle dee dee,” sang Billtoe. “The lunatic wing. We got all sorts here. Deaf, dumb, blind. One-legged, one-armed. Fellas what have got a bump on the noggin. Every class of lunatic you care to mention. We got one fellow who doesn’t do words. Just numbers. All bloomin’ day, numbers. Tens and hundreds, thousands even. Like a bloomin’ banker he is. Don’t even know his name, so we call him Numbers— clever, eh?”
Conor stored that nugget. A numbers man could be useful if his counting meant something. There were calculations in any plan.
They arrived at Conor’s cell door. Conor noticed the steel hinges and heavy locks. Billtoe turned a key in the lock. “Big door, ain’t it? These doors are about the only thing we keep repaired around here.” He winked at Conor. “Couldn’t have you simpletons running around during the night, spooking each other with your crying for Mummy and counting and such. I like it better when you stay in your cell and howl.” Billtoe wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek. “It sounds like a choir of angels. Helps me sleep during my time on the island.”
The man was an animal. Base and foul. In a just world he would be the prisoner and Conor a free man. The door swung open, helped along by the slant of the wall. “In you go, Salt. Enjoy being on your lonesome.”
Conor was halfway down the ramped floor before the words registered. He turned, but the door was already closing. “On my lonesome? Where is Mr. Wynter?”
Billtoe spoke through a shrinking slice of light between door and frame. “Wynter? That cheeky blind beggar? Why, he’s been released. Solitary for you from here on out, the marshall’s orders.”
Conor felt his weight pulling him to the floor, and was on his knees before he could stop himself. Murder is the most expeditious way to prev
ent overcrowding, Linus had said. I pray that we fortunate two are never released.
“You’ve killed him,” breathed Conor. But he was talking to a closed door.
CHAPTER 9: LIGHT AT THE END
This latest disaster had Conor huddled at the back of the cell, sobbing like a baby. He was alone now. Friendship could have brightened time spent even here. But now there was no one. He crawled as far back as he could into the room, and was dully surprised to find the room extended deeper into the rock than he had believed. Behind Wynter’s cot was a deep alcove with roughly the dimensions of four stacked coffins. This he could tell by touch alone, as not a glimmer of light extended to the black hole.
He lay there for hours, feeling his determination sliding away like water sluiced from a slipway. The new identity he had created for himself dissolved, bringing poor, desperate Conor Broekhart to the surface.
So he stayed, wrapped in nothing but self-pity, all night long wallowing in dreams of family. Useless, futile, dreams. Conor could well have perished in the next few days, dead from a broken heart, if not for one little ray of light.
In the early hours, Conor woke to see a red line flickering on the opposite wall. For a long, sleepy moment, this line puzzled him, resembling nothing more than a ghostly number one, wavering gently. Was this a message of some kind? Could his cell be haunted? Then he awakened fully and realized that the line was, of course, a shaft of sunlight. But from where?
For distraction’s sake, Conor decided to investigate. It took no more than a moment for him to realize that a narrow fissure along the seam between two blocks extended to the outside world and was allowing weakened light to filter through. Conor tapped the left block with a fingernail and was surprised to find that it budged, scraping against its neighbors. He prodded more forcefully, and the block wobbled on its base, dislodging caked muck. The block itself cracked, for it was not a true block, merely a husk of dried mud. Conor wiggled one finger along the side of the false block and popped it from its hole. A wedge of sunlight blasted him in the eyes, blinding him for several seconds. Not that it was light of any great brightness, but it was the first direct light Conor had seen in many hours.
Conor closed his eyes, but did not turn away. The heat on his face was wonderful, like a gift straight from the hand of God. He thumped at adjoining blocks, checking for more counterfeits. But there were none. The rest of the wall was solid as a mountain. One hole only, the size of his two fists.
He squatted there for a while, feeling the light warm his skin, watching it trace the veins in his eyelids, until at last he felt prepared enough to open his eyes. He was not disappointed with what he saw, because he had not allowed himself to feel any hope. This hole was a devilish small one, and deep, too, encased by four feet of solid rock, with barely a napkin’s-worth of sky at its end. Only a rat could escape through this tunnel; perhaps a largish one would struggle. And even if by some miracle he managed to mimic Dr. Redmond, the famous escape artist, and wiggle through this narrow pipe, where would he go? The ocean would swallow him up quicker than a whale swallowing a minnow. If he managed to steal a boat, the sharpshooters on the walls would pick him off for sport. No one had ever escaped from Little Saltee. Not one single person in hundreds of years.
So, accept this light as a small secret gift and nothing more, Conor told himself. Allow it to heat your face and wipe your mind clean of pain, if even for a moment.
Conor sagged back against the compartment wall, relishing the meager warmth. Who had made this fake block? he wondered. And what had caused the hole? There were any number of answers to both questions, and no way of confirming one of them.
The prison walls had possibly sagged an inch, concentrating vectors of force at this point, pulverizing the block. Or perhaps successive generations of inmates had scraped away with primitive tools. Saltwater erosion, or rainwater. Though that was unlikely in less than a millennium. A combination of all these factors, most likely, and a dozen more besides.
Conor studied the clay block that had hidden this treasure of light. It was chipped but intact. It would certainly serve to hide the hole for his tenancy. But he would not hide the opening just yet. Billtoe would not arrive for a short time. Until then, he would enjoy the dawn like scores of convicts before him. The devil take his troubles. Water. A mug of water would be nice.
Conor closed his eyes, but images of his parents tormented him so he opened them again, and for a long moment thought he was dreaming or insane. What was happening, should not, could not be happening. The wall of this hidden alcove was lit, and not just with sunlight, with a strange ghostly green glow. Not the entire wall, just lines and dots. Familiar characters. Conor realized that he was staring at music. The walls and roof of this tiny alcove were covered in music.
Mr. Wynter had said: “I keep an opera on the broiler inside my head and in other places.” The other place was back here in a secret alcove. He would have shared that fact, had they not killed him.
Conor ran his fingers along a series of notes: up and down they went like a mountain range. What was this glow? How was it possible? Victor’s ghost tormented him. Come on, dimwit. We studied this. Basic geology. And you call yourself a man for the new century.
Of course. It was luminous coral. It only grew in certain specific conditions, which must have been freakishly mimicked by this damp, close environment. Conor scraped away a thin layer of mud to reveal the rough plates of luminous coral below. This part of the cell was living coral, fed by the constant drip of salt water. It must have grown up through the rock over the centuries and was activated by the sunlight. What a marvel. He had not expected to find marvels here.
There were other marks too, fainter than the musical notes, in older hands and quainter language. Conor found the diary of Zachary Cord, a confessed poisoner. And also a rambling curse scratched by one Tom Burly, damning the seventeenth-century warden as a hater of justice. Conor had no trouble accepting that as truth.
So this was how Linus had kept himself sane during his hours of solitude. He had recorded his music on the only surface available to him: a mud-covered crypt, without ever knowing his parchment was luminous. It brought tears to Conor’s eyes when he reached the final notes and the word Fin, engraved with considerable flourish. Linus Wynter had managed to finish his life’s work before being “released.”
It was a noble tradition, this recording, and one that Conor suddenly knew he intended to continue. He would commit his own ideas to the walls of this tiny alcove. In fact, the mere notion set his heart beating faster. To have a canvas on which to diagram his designs was more than he had hoped for.
He scrabbled around Linus Wynter’s bunk until he found what he had known must be there. His most recent stylus. It was hidden under a leg of his cot. The chicken bone Billtoe had tossed earlier, one end ground to a point. Perfect.
Conor scrambled into the alcove, lying flat on his back. He would begin on the ceiling, and he would sketch only until the cannon fired.
With confident strokes, Conor Finn etched his first model into the damp mud, allowing the luminous green coral to shine through a moment later. It was something he had been working on with Victor. A glider with a rudder and adjustable wings for lateral balance.
On the wall the diagram was static, but in Conor’s mind it soared like a bird. A free bird.
CHAPTER 10: UNLUCKY 14th
1894, two years later
Arthur Billtoe took one last chew on a wad of tobacco, then spat a mouthful of juice toward the hole in the floor. The stringy wad missed its target, landing square on the toe of his own boot.
“Sorry,” said the guard; then realizing he had apologized only to himself, cast an eye around in the hope that no one had overheard, or they might think him simple and lock him away with the scatterfools. No one had overheard except Pike, and that hardly mattered, as Pike was only a half step removed from idiocy himself. In any case, Billtoe decided to cover up his blurted apology. “Sorry,” he repeated, but loud
er this time. “It’s sorry I am for the poor lunatic Salts inside Flora this night.”
The prison guards stood in the subterranean pantry overlooking the dive hole. Below them, Flora was submerged ten fathoms in dark Saltee waters. The seas outside were rough, and the tunnel to open water had become something of a blowhole, rattling the diving bell with each bellow of bubbles from its spout. With every impact, a flurry of peals rose through the chamber. “Sorry, indeed,” continued Billtoe. “They’d best move sharpish, or Flora will remove a limb or two.”
Pike did not believe for a second that Billtoe was actually concerned for a prisoner, any more than he would be concerned for a blade of grass. But it didn’t do to contradict Arthur Billtoe if you were farther down the prison ladder than he was, or he would set you working Christmas Eve on the mad wing. “Don’t you waste your legendary compassion, Arthur,” said Pike, rubbing his hairless head.
Billtoe glanced sharply at his comrade. Was that wit? No, surely not from a man who thought that electricity was a gift from the fairies.
“No, worry not. It’s Finn and Malarkey on the night shift.”
Billtoe nodded. Finn and Malarkey. Those two were the best pair of miners ever to work the bell. Young Finn was the brains of the pair, no doubt; but whatever he pointed to, Malarkey would dig up with the strength of a giant. And to think, two years ago when Conor Finn had arrived on Little Saltee, he’d been little more than a scrap of a boy destined for a stitched-up canvas bag and a burial at sea. Now he was a force in the Battering Rams and one of the main sources of income for Billtoe himself.
Billtoe cleared his throat. “I’ll be searching Finn and Malarkey myself, Pike.”
Pike winked slyly. “As is your habit, Arthur.”
Billtoe ignored the insolence. It wouldn’t do to get into an argument about private diamond stashes, but he silently resolved to mark Pike down for supervision of the sewage works. It was bad enough that Pike’s comments were bordering on insolent, but Billtoe had also heard whispers that Pike was selling information to the Kilmore arm of the Battering Rams without cutting in his old friend Arthur Billtoe.
