The Isle of Blood (Monstrumologist)

doctor did not notice—or did not care—and kept walking, but Awaale came back for me, hollering to Warthrop that I needed to rest. The monstrumologist did not hear him—or did not care.

“Here, I will carry you, walaalo,” Awaale shouted over the wind.

I shook my head. I would be no one’s burden.

We did not halt until we’d reached the mountains’ rock-strewn base. We threw down our packs and collapsed against an outcropping, while the wind whined and whistled through the rocks and the setting sun broke through the clouds, painting the plain below us golden, a breathtaking, starkly beautiful sight.

You’ll swear the sun has fallen into the sea, for every tree on that island is a golden tree, and every leaf a golden leaf, and the leaves shine with a radiance all their own, so even in the darkest night the island seems to burn like a lighthouse beacon.

“Night is coming,” Awaale said. “We must find some shelter.”

The doctor did not argue with him. He may have been thinking, like I was, of iris-less eyes. Awaale rose, shouldered his rifle, and hiked farther up the trail, disappearing between two boulders that stood like mute sentries on either side of a narrow pass—the gateway to the lair of the magnificum.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” the monstrumologist said, looking down upon the golden plain. “And I have seen many beautiful things. Did you ever dream of anything so lovely, Will Henry?”

I see it, Father! The Isle of Bliss. It burns like the sun in the black water.

“No, sir.”

He looked at me, and I looked back at him, and his face shone in the golden light.

“Did I show you the telegram I received before we left Aden? I don’t think I did.” He pulled the crumpled form from his pocket and pressed it into my hand.

TERRIBLE NEWS. FOOLS GOT IT

WRONG. WERE LOOKING FOR TWO

BALD MEN, ONE SHORT AND FAT

THE OTHER TALL AND THIN. JUST

NOW LEARNED. STAND GUARD,

MIHOS. MENTHU

He watched my expression carefully. I was careful too. I said, “Rurick and Plesec?”

He nodded. “Apparently they slipped through Fadil’s net.”

He pulled out his revolver and held it loosely in his lap. The barrel glistened in the kiss of the dying sun.

“There are two bullets in this chamber. By my count, Will Henry, there should be five. Three missing bullets. Two missing Russians.”

“I didn’t have a choice, sir.”

“Oh, Will Henry,” he said. “Will Henry! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know—”

“Stop that.”

“I didn’t know how—”

“Stop that.”

“I didn’t want you to be… disappointed in me.”

“Disappointed in you? I don’t understand.”

“I was afraid you’d leave me behind again.”

“Why? Because you defended yourself against two soulless brutes who would have killed us both without batting an eye?”

“No, sir,” I answered. “Because I killed them without batting an eye.”

He nodded; he understood.

“Do you want to know how it happened?” I asked.

He shook his head. “The place may vary and the names may be different, but the crime is the same, Will Henry.”

He scrubbed his hand across his whiskered chin, picked up a stick lying by his foot, and began drawing in the soft ground.

“Born under the same roof,” he said pensively. “Perhaps it is like the mark of Cain.” He lifted his face to the setting sun, tapping the end of the stick against the dirt. “Do you remember when you first came to live with me—how we would keep a bucket beside the necropsy table in the event you became ill? And you always became ill—in the beginning. I can’t remember the last time the work made you sick.”

He tossed the stick away; it tumbled down the decline toward the golden plain and was lost.

“It is a dark and dirty business, Will Henry. And you are well on your way.” He patted my knee, not to congratulate, I think, but to console. His tone was sad and bitter. “You are well on your way.”

Awaale returned and reported he’d found a suitable spot to spend the night. We shouldered our packs and followed him up the narrow trail, a steep, serpentine corridor that wound between two sheer rock walls. A lid of low, gray clouds spun restlessly overhead; and a river of wind funneled through the pass. After traversing a hundred yards or so, we came to a cleft in the cliff face, six feet across at the bottom and about that high, narrowing to a point at the top, a deep gash in the stone that could not be properly called a cave, but it would offer some protection from the elements. The shadows inside the cleft were deep, and the doctor peered anxiously inside.

“It is safe,” Awaale assured him. “A scorpion or two, but I took care of them.” His smile was bright. He was proud of his accomplishment.