He began laughing. Would Wallace beg for mercy before he killed him? The thought made him laugh all the more. “Run,” he said again, the laugh dying as if cut off by an arrow to the heart. Once more his face was stony. “The key will come to me all the same.”
Beneath him the ground rumbled. He kneeled and placed his hand upon it. “Not long now,” he said quietly. Another rumble and then nothing.
He stood up once more and then disappeared back inside the tower.
8
Wallace knew well enough the tale of Knife Island. It was contained within the only book in the house he had grown up in. The farm itself was little more than a shack on the edge of the village of Cromarty.
Inside was divided into two spaces, one for the people, the other for the livestock. The animals got the better part of the deal.
They were given fresh air in the summer and fresh straw to lie upon during the winter. Wallace got nothing of the kind. His bed was made of old reeds taken from the thatch, laid straight upon the beaten earth floor.
During the dark nights when the wind howled outside, he had been unable to sleep. Taking theone candle that was permitted for the task, he would sit up and reach for the book.
He had no idea how to read but the symbols and drawings that filled the pages helped to spark his imagination and distract him from his fear of the monsters that might lurk out in the winter’s night.
As the years went by his understanding of the story grew. Occasionally his guardians, the old man Farrow and his wife, Mabel, would answer one of his questions.
“What is this word?”
Connecting the dots over the weeks and months he slowly learned to read. His enjoyment of the tale grew. He could connect the text and the images, using the map in the flyleaf to begin to grasp the layout of Knife Island.
He was here for real for the first time. He had no doubt there was some powerful magic in the silver key the woman held. No doubt that was why the barefoot man wanted it. A key that could open any door and lead you through to another location, that was a tool that could be used for great good or great evil.
He wondered if there were rules to the use of the key. Could it lead anywhere? Or only to certainlocations? Was he lucky to have been sent through to Knife Island or did perhaps the key have an agenda of its own?
He looked around him. There was Black Rock, looming up like an angry giant. To one side, the great Long Fell and the escarpment where the climax of the story had taken place. Orientating himself based on Black Rock, he recalled the layout of the island.
“Where are we going?” Natalie asked as he began to walk without looking back.
“To the boats,” he replied. “The hamlet of Osterley should be ahead of us.”
“How far is it?” she asked, jogging to catch up to him.
“No more than a mile.”
“And you know the way?”
“Down this valley and up the other side, then we cross through the marshland and we’re there.”
“We go through a marsh? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“We use stepping stones that have been there a thousand years.”
“All this knowledge of yours comes from a story? What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” The hill started to slope away in front of them. They began the descent. Wallacestrode ahead, Natalie struggling to keep up as she slipped down the rocky slope. Eventually he was forced to pause to wait for her to catch up.
“What’s the plan?” she asked, joining him on the wide grassy floor of the valley. “When we get to the boats I mean?”
“Row to the mainland.”
“And then?”
“Walk back to the castle.”
“And then?”
