The Island of Whispers by Brendan Gisby Page A

buffeting his little boat.
    Charlie lit a
cigarette with one hand and steered the boat with the other. As it
plunged under the first giant arch of the bridge and moved out into
the estuary, the vessel began to lurch more violently. The two
passengers clung, white-knuckled, to the rail under the windscreen.
Their faces were even greyer now. Charlie puffed the cigarette and
smiled a thin, malicious smile.
    Digger hunched
down and closed his eyes again as yet another blast of icy rain
swept over the island. He felt cold and wet and exceptionally
tired. He was an old Watcher, well past his prime, probably in his
last Cycle. One day soon, he knew, he wouldn’t wake up, and they
would drag his corpse into the Scavengers’ lair. It seemed to him
that he had spent forever out here among the rocks, trying to
shield himself from the worst of the storm. Darkness was an awful
long time in coming. He alone kept guard over the outside world.
The members of the daylight watch had been told to return to the
underworld for a special Assembly. He came in their place. He was
old and useless; he could forego the ranting of the Chamberlain on
this occasion – and suffer the fury of the storm instead. He had
been forbidden from seeking shelter under the debris at the
entrance tunnel. He had to stay in the open, on the lookout for the
arrival of Two-Legs. He had wedged himself below some large rocks
close to the monastery wall, but the spot that he had chosen
offered scant protection from the biting east wind and the driving
rain.
    Altogether,
Digger decided, he was having a thoroughly miserable time. He felt
very, very tired. He had already spent all night above ground. It
was he who had been forced to report Narrow Back’s disappearance
from the watch. Poor Narrow Back. He saw later what they had done
to him. Now, it seemed, Twisted Foot and Long Ears would get the
same treatment. Well, that was one compensation: at least he
wouldn’t have to witness their demise. They were so foolish, the
young Watchers. To rebel against the society. It was unthinkable.
He had learned that a long time ago. So foolish and futile.
    Digger
shivered. He had to keep his mind on his duty. Duty must always
come first. He tried to peer out from the rocks. The rain stung his
eyes. He could barely discern the jetty down below and the frothing
waves which threatened to engulf it. He closed his eyes. He was so
tired. Sleep came like a stealthy predator, claiming his mind.
     
    – o –

– Chapter Twenty-Five –
     
    Jagged Fangs
stumbled into the Common lair. There were bloody gashes across his
muzzle and down his chest and forelegs. Broken Tail came limping
behind him, his back and flanks lacerated and bleeding, the bone
from one of his hindlegs gleaming white where the fur and flesh had
been ripped away. The mangled corpses of the two guards lay back in
the tunnel.
    The first of
the Scavengers appeared only moments later. The little warrior
darted from the tunnel, paused, blinked, selected a victim and then
flew at the target’s throat. The others followed, one by one, snout
to tail, often scrambling over each other in their eagerness for
blood; an unending black torrent of bristling, sinewy avengers. The
pattern each time was the same: a momentary pause to seek out a
target, followed by a ferocious attack.
    Shrieking and
screeching, the Chamberlain’s audience scattered in all directions.
Protectors broke from their ring round the platform and raced to
stem the flow at the tunnel. With amazing presence of mind, One
Eye, the Chief Hunter, herded the members of his lair into the
space by the pool and then set up a barricade of warriors to
protect the she-rats and young. Sharp Claws also showed his
calmness and quick thinking; pushing and prodding his charges, he
began to move them back to the safety of the Watchers’ lair.
    There was
great panic among the Rulers on the platform. Up on his
hindquarters, Long Snout struggled to make himself heard over the
mews and