Дэвид Уоллес - Island of Fog and Death

The chain ferry set off with Chen as the sole passenger. While he had read about these ferries, he had never experienced travelling on one. The vessel was basically a flat platform, big enough to carry a single vehicle and a small number of foot passengers, mounted on three floats, and secured by chains to a point on the Arwensmouth side. The combined pressure of the river’s current and the tidal flow made it swing out and across the channel, coming to rest after a few minutes on the Anifail side where Chen disembarked onto a ramp leading up to the road. He dropped some coins into an ostentatiously labelled ‘tip box’, thanked the crewman that he assumed was ‘skipper Bill’, and made his way to the road with a flourish of his camera.

It took Chen the best part of an hour to amble half way round the Circle. He had made a point of admiring flower beds and taking pictures of some of the cottages, as well as stopping frequently, pretending to study the horizon through his binoculars. The road stayed close to the seashore, and steadily but gradually rose and curved with coastline until it arrived at the ‘scenic picnic area’ – a tiny car park adjacent to a grassy meadow with half a dozen wooden benches dotted about. He paused there, taking a seat at a bench with a view down the length of the island, all the way to the ferry and Arwensmouth.

He was about to stand and move on, when movement caught his eye. Chen focussed the binoculars, and a goat sprang into view, a nanny with a sleek, mostly black, coat and white patches on the sides of its head. He reduced the magnification and observed a dozen of the animals, dispersed about a field. One of them seemed to be struggling to walk, with what looked like a pink, slimy tube dangling between its legs forcing it to limp and stumble. Chen frowned at that, and resolved to take a closer look on his way back down to the ferry. First things first: take a look at the cliffs.

He stood and walked in the direction indicated by a weathered wooden sign that pointed northwards and read, ‘Public footpath and cliff path’. He slowed his pace as the air grew increasingly misty, until he could see no more than a few metres ahead. He pondered the wisdom of continuing in such poor visibility, but resolved to go on. This was, after all, one of the phenomena that had caught his interest and brought him to Anifail. He noted that the air was still and silent, with neither sight nor sound of any sea birds, yet the ground all around was spotted with their droppings. He smiled and nodded to himself in satisfaction.

A wooden fence ran along the side of the path, warning walkers of their proximity to the cliff edge. Chen quickly climbed over and walked along the narrow strip beyond, keeping one hand close to the fence and a careful watch on where he was putting his feet. After a few minutes of cautious progress, he reached a length of yellow and black plastic ribbon. It ran across the path and was twined along the fence by the path. The black was lettering: ‘DANGER’. This marked the area where the cliff face had sheared away a couple of weeks earlier.

Chen shed his backpack and extracted a climbing rope. He secured one end to the fence, the other to his waist. Carefully he moved to the cliff edge, lying flat to spread his weight, and peered over. He could see a patch of unweathered rock, ten metres or so over to his right and down. He eased his way back to the fence, moved across to the right, and re-secured the rope. This time, when he peered over, he smiled in contentment at seeing that he was now directly above the unweathered area. The mist appeared densest here. He manoeuvred himself round and descended into the mist.

The cliff face was sloping, but nowhere near vertical, making it an easy climb down. Chen worked his way across the exposed rock, studying it carefully as he went. It took only a few minutes to find what he had more than half expected – an anomaly. It took the form of a corroded metal plate.

The plate was behind the rock, and only partly exposed. It must have been fixed in placed from the other side, meaning, he concluded, that there was a void behind the cliff face. He began pulling away loose rocks and stones, exposing more of the rusted metal. He stopped when one of the rocks refused to move, and leant closer to see it better. Strange, he thought. It appeared to be cemented in place. Shuffling to his left, he worked at removing more of the debris until he found more rocks apparently cemented into the cliff face. Then he smiled, as he realised that behind the rocks must be a cave entrance, covered over with an iron plate, and disguised by a man-made wall. With some hard work, it should be possible to chip away the rocks, fully expose the plate, and remove it to gain access to the void beyond. He was tempted – very, very tempted. But he decided to take it cautiously.

Chen turned his attention back to the iron plate. From this angle he could see markings on it. He started wiping at the surface, and grew certain that there was some kind of inscription on it. The rough and rusty surface would tear his hands to pieces, so he slipped off the rope so he could remove his coat, and used that as an improvised cleaning cloth. Some vigorous rubbing of the weathered surface allowed him to discern lettering in two different alphabets: one inscription was clearly visible in western European lettering, probably Latin; beneath it were scratched a series of symbols composed from lines and sharp angles that Chen recognised as runes. He knew neither Latin nor whatever the language of the runes might be.

He pondered the wisdom of continuing to clear the rock face to uncover the cave, or whether it was time to call in the British. Reluctantly, he decided it would be difficult to defend any course other than the latter. Seeing an inscription but proceeding without knowing what it said would be judged to be just too risky, and he was sure the Brits would make a fuss about his interference in their jurisdiction anyway. He fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He found the contact number he needed, and dialled. It rang only once, and was answered by a bored-sounding male voice.

“Yeah? What is it?”

Chen smiled, because he knew the unwelcoming, indifferent tone was a deliberate attempt to make this sound very, very unofficial.

“Code word buckthorn,” said Chen, firmly. “Status green.”

The voice on the other end suddenly sounded more professional. “Identity?”

“Uniform, November, Tango, India, Echo, zero, zero, niner, six.”

“Thank you. Please stand by for a call-back,” said the operator.

The line went dead.

Then Chen heard a noise.

It was the slightest of sounds, little more than a scrape, and it came from his right. He shuffled towards it. It came again. Curiosity drove him to move a little further to his right. This time when he heard the odd sound, he also saw a rock give a tiny tremor and slip a fraction backwards, tighter to the rock wall. He slipped a finger behind the rock and tugged gently. The rock moved slightly, and a puff of mist came out from behind it. Then it resisted, and then it snapped back into place.

Chen took a tighter grip on the rock and yanked sharply. It popped out and fell away down the cliff, revealing a black hole behind it. He leant closer to see into the hole, and jerked his head back again with a little cry of surprise – he thought he had glimpsed a movement. He took a deep breath, and then chuckled to himself at his vivid imagination. He had a flashlight, but it was up on the clifftop. He debated going back up for it, but only for a moment. He chided himself for his thoughtlessness in leaving it behind, and leant back in to peer into the hole.

This time, he was sure something moved: he dimly perceived a serpentine coiling motion inside the hole. He tried to remember whether there were any venomous snakes in this region, or whether the climate was too cold. He vaguely recalled something about Britain having no snakes. Or was that some other country? He poked a finger in to see if he could reach whatever was moving. Suddenly, pain flared in his finger and across his hand, and with a yell he pulled his finger back. Something resisted, but he tugged harder until – with a fresh stab of pain – his finger came free.