Scar Island(33)

“I’m, um, still reading the first one,” Jonathan said, shaking his head. “I don’t need another one just yet.”

The librarian stooped down and Ninety-Nine crawled down his arm and onto a shelf. The old man looked back at Jonathan and shook his head and smiled a crooked smile.

“No. You can’t leave a library. Without a book.” He scanned the nearest shelf with a finger and one sideways eye. Jonathan stood where he was and watched the hunched old man creak along the shelf, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

“Ah. Yes. This one. Is appropriate.” He pulled a thick volume off the shelf. “Another island story. About a boy. And a crazy sea captain. And treasure found.” He held the book to his nose and closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then handed it to Jonathan.

Treasure Island, the cover said in plain black letters on red leather. By Robert Louis Stevenson.

“Thanks. I better get back.”

“Yes,” the librarian said, walking with Jonathan to the door. “You should. Thank the Admiral. For letting you come. It has been so long.” Jonathan stepped out into the dark corridor, holding the candle before him. The librarian closed the door nearly all the way, so that only his mouth and one eye were visible in the crack. “And say hello. To the ocean. For me. When you go past. The Hatch.”

The door closed, leaving Jonathan with his feeble flame and the sound of rats and, in the darkness ahead of him, a rattling door to a watery dungeon.





“You know the drill,” Sebastian decreed from where he sat on the table, his shoes on the Admiral’s great chair. “No dinner until we have your letter. Get it done.” He was bent over, focused on the tip of the sword he was holding. He was using it to carve something into the surface of the table.

The boys each filed by to grab a pen and sheet of paper from where Benny sat frowning officiously at them, coiled up in a chair. Already out the windows the sun had set on their second day alone on the island. The room and its long tables were lit here and there by flickering candles.

Jonathan sat and looked at his paper. He remembered his mother’s words from the letter that still waited under his pillow. So much needs to be said, she’d written. But we don’t know what it is yet. His fingers balled into fists. His tongue was pinched between tight teeth. He looked up and saw Colin watching him from across the table. His flitting, hummingbird smile came and went and he looked down at his own paper. All around was the sound of pen points on paper. A thin mile of ink, measured in words. I love yous and I miss yous and can’t wait to see yous. Messages from naughty boys, sent home to worried mothers. Jonathan blew a breath out through his nose and picked up his pen and began to write.

He scratched out a message, writing quick without thinking too much. He signed his name in a hasty scrawl and walked over to where Benny sat waiting to check their letters.

Benny looked his letter over with his usual sneer and then snorted.

“You really think that’ll make them feel any better?” he asked. Jonathan looked down and didn’t answer. “Fine,” Benny said and handed the letter back. “Now the envelope.”

Jonathan addressed the envelope and sealed his letter inside and slipped it into the mailbag.

He saw, lost in the shadows along the far wall, the Sinner’s Sorrow standing in darkness. He looked at the rest of the boys. Their heads were down, their eyes away, the dim candlelight glinting off the shiny moving metal of their pens. With a last glance at the group, Jonathan ducked away and over to the Sinner’s Sorrow.

In the darkness, the wood was black. He ran his fingers along the top rail, worn smooth by countless sweaty, tortured hands. He bent to touch the biting edge of the sharp kneeling ridge. Outside, rain tapped on the windows. His throat tightened, and his eyes watered. His words would never make his parents feel better, he knew. Benny was right. With trembling fingertips he felt the burns on his arms through his sleeves.

Then he bent down and knelt on the punishing edge.

The pain was immediate, and familiar. He remembered the Admiral’s words from that first night: You have done terrible things, haven’t you, Jonathan Grisby? Jonathan clenched his teeth and nodded and let the growing pain sharpen and fill his brain. His breaths were tight and jerky.

The letter had brought back memories. Memories that Jonathan kept quiet and locked away, down where they couldn’t drown him. He let the pain push them back down, let it flood them away. His breathing eased. His jaw clenched even harder. His eyes closed.

“What are you doing?” The whisper snapped his eyes open. Colin was standing beside him, his eyes concerned, one hand fluttering at his neck, the other holding a half-folded paper crane.

“Leave me alone,” Jonathan whispered back in a shaky voice. He closed his eyes again.

“Thith ith crazy. Why are you on that?”

“Go away, Colin.”

“You thouldn’t let the otherth thee you. You thouldn’t let Thebathtian thee you.” A nervous hand tugged softly on Jonathan’s shoulder.

“What are you tho thad about?”

Jonathan screwed his eyes shut tighter and bit his lip until it hurt as much as his screaming knees.

“Jonathan! Come on, get off it! You’re gonna hurt yourthelf!”

“I know.”

“What? What do you—” Their hissed conversation was interrupted by a commotion behind them, at the tables.