Scar Island(8)

Walter looked over and saw Jonathan fumbling with his onion. “It’s easier if you pull your sleeves up, man.” He reached over toward Jonathan’s arms. “Here, let me show—”

“No,” Jonathan snapped, pulling his arms away. “I mean, no, thanks. I’m still cold. It was a wet night.”

Walter looked at him, then shrugged. “Yeah. Mongley got you good. I swear that guy can see in the dark.”

“You guyth need help with the onionth?”

Jonathan looked up at a new kid who’d joined them at the cutting board. Or rather, down at him. He was a good foot shorter than Jonathan. He had blond hair trimmed in a bowl cut, green eyes, and skin as pale white as paper. His chin and his nose were kind of pointy.

“Hey, Colin. This here’s Jonathan. First day.”

“Of courth. I heard the thplath latht night.”

“The what?” Jonathan asked.

“The thplath. From the bucket. Almotht everyone geth the bucket on their firtht night.”

Walter looked up at Jonathan. “Colin and I got here on the same day. He talkth funny.” Walter exaggerated the lisp, but he gave Colin a friendly dig with his elbow when he said it.

Colin nodded. He smiled, a fleeting little smile at the corners of his mouth that flashed like a bird and then vanished, but his eyes stayed down on the onion he was cutting. “Yeth,” he said quietly. “I’m thure he notithed.”

“It’s all right,” Jonathan said quickly, his voice as soft as Colin’s. “My—I have—I used to know someone who talked different, too.” Colin looked up, for just a second, at Jonathan and smiled. Then his eyes dropped back down.

“Well, welcome to Thlabhenge,” he said softly.

All around them, savory smells grew stronger. Sizzling onion, greasy bacon, frying eggs, boiling potatoes. Across the kitchen the chubby kid who Walter had said was named Tony was flipping golden, round pancakes on a griddle. Jonathan almost had to lean on the cutting board to not collapse.

“At least the food here is good,” he said. “I’m gonna eat ’til I puke.”

Colin and Walter exchanged a glance.

“Thith food ithn’t for uth,” Colin whispered.

“What? Who’s it for?”

“Them,” Walter answered with a meaningful look over Jonathan’s shoulder. Jonathan risked a backward glance. Behind him was a long, glassless window that looked out into a big room with two long tables. Sitting at the closest table were five or six adults, including two he recognized: Mr. Vander, the tall zombie who’d met his boat, and the hunched-over form of Mr. Mongley. As he watched, the Admiral came marching in the door, still wearing his blue navy jacket. A sword hung in a scabbard on his hip. He was wearing baggy blue pants that met his shiny black boots at his knees. A huge, old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat was held under one arm, the triangular kind you see in history books, being worn by ship captains or Napoleon Bonaparte. The Admiral flopped down in a heavy wooden high-backed chair at the empty table.

“They get all this?” Jonathan asked.

Colin and Walter nodded.

“What do we get?”

“Oatmeal, usually,” Walter replied.

“Thometimth toatht.”

Jonathan bit his lip and nodded.

“Great.”

Eventually, all the food was ready on platters and in bowls lined up on the counter by the kitchen door. Jonathan licked his lips and watched the steam rising off the hash browns, pancakes, scrambled eggs. He saw the gooey cheese oozing out of the omelets, the salty grease pooling on the platter under the bacon, the butter melting on the flaky biscuits.

“When do we eat?”

“When we tell ye to!” a voice barked in his ear. Jonathan jumped and turned to see Mr. Warwick’s one eye glistening at him. “If we tell ye to. Now grab a bowl, boy.”

One by one the boys filed by and picked up a serving dish and carried it out through the door. Jonathan grabbed a butter dish and a little pitcher of syrup and followed. The table was already full when he got there, but he found a tight spot for his items. The men were all slurping and reaching and smacking their lips, piling their plates high with food and shoveling it by the forkload into their mouths.

The boys, once the food was delivered, stood back against the stone wall with their hands behind their backs.

“More coffee,” the Admiral said through a mouthful of sausage, and a boy darted back to the kitchen.

“And salt!” a bearded man with gold earrings shouted after him.

When the boy returned with the salt and coffee, the Admiral swallowed his mouthful and glowered up at the boys against the wall.

“All right,” he said, wiping some grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “Go clean and eat. That kitchen better be spotless or it’ll be no lunch for the lot of you!”

The boys turned and filed toward the kitchen. Jonathan followed with them but was stopped in his tracks by the Admiral’s foul voice.

“Jonathan Grisby! A word with ye.”

Jonathan gulped and stepped out of line and walked over to where the Admiral sat.

The Admiral stabbed a piece of roasted potato. He slid the silver blade of the knife into his mouth and leaned back to look Jonathan in the face. Jonathan waited with downcast eyes as the Admiral chewed and swallowed.