Devil's Rock (2 page)

‘You coming down, or do you want your sandwich out there?’

‘Should we rig the legs yet?’ Zaki asked.

Zaki’s father climbed a little higher out of the hatchway.

‘Plenty of water still and we’re in the deepest bit. We’ll do it after lunch.’

At low tide, Dragon Pool would empty to become a wide expanse of hillocked sand, pockmarked with the little blowholes and curling casts of lugworms that had burrowed to safety. At the lowest tides, only sun-warmed pools trapped between humps of sand and the narrow channel created by the flow of the Orme remained.

Any boat wishing to stay at low tide needed to be able to stand upright on the sand.
Morveren
, with her deep keel, would lie on her side if she weren’t held up by her ‘legs’. Grandad had taken this into account when he built her. Two lengths of timber with iron feet lived in a cradle on the cabin-top. When needed, they were bolted to the sides of the boat, the bottoms pivoting down to rest on the sand. Each leg was held rigid by ropes that ran from the feet up to the bow and stern of the boat. When the water drained away,
Morveren
would stand on her keel and legs looking like a small-scale Noah’s Ark waiting for the animals to troop two by two across the beach.

It was Grandad who learnt the trick of entering the Orme when, as a boy, he worked on the local fishing boats that occasionally used the estuary for over-night shelter. He taught Zaki’s father, who, in turn, was passing the knowledge on to Zaki and Michael. These days the fishing had moved further offshore and the boats were bigger. Fishermen no longer bothered with the little Orme.

There were stories, Grandad said, that in the old days wreckers used the Orme, luring ships on to Devil’s Rock to plunder their cargoes. The river got a bad reputation. Even in his youth all honest people avoided it – all apart from that woman who lived alone in the old cottage. And Zaki remembered his grandad adding, ‘Who could say if she were honest? Never spoke to nobody.’

Like a relative who had fallen from favour and was shunned by the family, the little Orme became ostracised, the world had turned its back and crept away. No road came within miles of the river-mouth; even the coastal footpath looped inland to cross the river at a little-used ford four miles upstream. The hills around the river were no longer farmed, but left to woodland, and there was no mention of its picture-postcard beauty in the tourist guides.

Zaki climbed down into the cabin to join the others.

‘What were you doing?’ asked Michael.

‘You know . . . just looking,’ said Zaki, taking a mouthful of sandwich.

‘Tide’s not out till six. You want to take the dinghy out?’ Asked their father. ‘You could sail up the river, or around the pool. Got a few hours.’

‘Not really,’ said Michael.

‘I want to,’ said Zaki.

He looked at his brother who was stretched out on the bunk opposite. Headphones on, he was sliding into his own world, into himself, into a Michael-shaped chrysalis where he could dissolve the old Michael and become someone else, someone Zaki didn’t know.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Zaki.

‘Dunno. Read a book . . . Dunno.’

‘Come on, Michael,’ said their father. ‘This may be the only time we’ll come to Dragon Pool this season. Big tide, you might get the dinghy past the ford.’

‘I wish you’d stop calling it that,’ said Michael.

‘Calling what, what?’

‘Dragon Pool – it’s not its proper name.’

‘It’s what we’ve always called it,’ said their father.

‘It’s what Mum always calls it!’ said Zaki.

‘Well, she’s not here, is she?!’ And Michael rolled on to his other side, facing away from them.

‘When you’ve finished your lunch, Zaki, I’ll give you a hand with the dinghy,’ said their father. ‘And, Michael, I’ll need help with the legs later.’

The chrysalis rocked slightly to show that the thing inside had heard.

The sandwich in Zaki’s mouth refused to be swallowed.

It had always been Michael who had led the expeditions up the Amazon. It was Michael who had the idea to make bows and arrows in case the fierce tribes lurking in the woods launched an attack on the brave explorers. It was Michael who engineered the dams to hold back the incoming tide, urging on the frantic shovelling of sand until the crumbling walls were finally breached and their castles overrun by the sea. Hours, days, lifetimes had been spent with Michael crouched over rock pools, or floating, heads back, arms out, spreadeagled in the water, the blue sky flooding into them, as they drifted on the current from the Jumping-off-Stone to Sand Island.

But that Michael was inside his chrysalis, being transformed by the music that pulsed through little wires into his ears.

g

Zaki spent the afternoon alone in the dinghy, the boat’s little red sails zigzagging across an estuary that looked utterly familiar but today felt utterly different.

He sailed imaginary races, beating his way through a fleet of invisible competitors to streak first across the finishing line.

The rock pools remained unvisited, the Amazon unexplored.

Every now and then he would send the dinghy scudding across the water to spin around
Morveren
but Michael only emerged on deck to help his father rig the legs and then descended out of sight without even acknowledging the victorious wave from the winner of the Dragon Pool Regatta.

g

That night, in the fore cabin, there was no whispered rehashing of the day’s exploits and no plans were laid for the next day’s adventures.

g

Chapter 2

Low tide; the boat standing as still and solid on its keel and legs as a house on its foundations. Was it the lack of movement that woke Zaki? Even in the calmest weather a boat at anchor moves slightly, swings with the fluctuations in the current, turns to find where the wind blows from. Cradled inside, the crew sleeps, secure in the knowledge that their ship, like a mother, is awake, watching over them.

Zaki lay, his sleeping bag drawn up to his chin, listening. He had been whispered to sleep by the little ripples that jostled against the hull of the boat, now all was silent.

The V-shaped fore cabin that Zaki shared with his brother contained two raised bunks with lockers underneath and a narrow shelf above for books and other personal odds and ends. As the lockers were mostly given over to spare sails, storage space was at a premium and Zaki had to fight to keep Michael’s ‘junk’ from invading his shelf. Michael claimed that eleven-year-olds did not need as much space as fifteen-year-olds.

What time was it?

Above Zaki’s head the hatch cover was propped slightly open. A little light entered through the gap. Must be nearly morning.

Zaki wriggled his shoulders and arms free and tilted his watch to catch the light. Quarter to five.

All that was visible of Michael in the other bunk was an untidy tuft of hair protruding from the mouth of his sleeping bag.

The air in the cabin was cold. Zaki felt along the narrow shelf for clothes, found a fleece and his shorts, freed his legs from the sleeping bag and dressed quickly.

What now?

Wake Michael?

Last year he would have.

Better let him sleep.

Standing on his bunk, Zaki eased the hatch cover back and put his head out. A few faded stars were visible in a pale sky. A little colour was creeping across the very tops of the hills. The estuary valley was still in darkness.

He quietly closed the hatch, got down off the bunk and opened the door to the larger, rear cabin that doubled as the saloon and their parents’ sleeping quarters. In the centre of the cabin was a table flanked by two settees that served for seating and lounging during the day and sleeping at night. His father was fast asleep on one of them.

At nine metres over all,
Morveren
was not a large yacht by modern standards. Below decks she was cosy, as Zaki’s grandad liked to say, or a little cramped, depending on your point of view. On the starboard side of the companionway, the steep steps that led to the main hatch, was the galley with its sink and spirit stove, opposite which, on the port side, was the chart table. No space in the saloon was wasted; there were shelves beside the chart table to hold tide atlases and coastal pilots, the logbook, books on seamanship and ocean-lore and a selection of Grandad’s favourite whodunnits. Around the galley were more shelves for mugs and glasses, bowls and plates, all cleverly designed with fiddles and pegs so that nothing could fall out no matter how
Morveren
pitched or rocked. Although the woodwork had darkened with repeated varnishings down through the years, there was an elegance about the yacht’s interior that bore witness to Grandad’s skill as a boatbuilder and cabinetmaker.

Aft of the chart table a narrow gap gave access to Grandad’s bunk, which ran back under the cockpit. When Michael and Zaki were little, Grandad had come on holidays with them, but he had now declared himself too old for long passages and only came out for the occasional day’s sailing.

Zaki crept past his sleeping father and lifted the sloping top of the chart table, revealing folded charts, parallel rules, a hand-bearing compass, binoculars and a spare spark plug for the dinghy’s outboard motor. He found what he was looking for, a slim, silver torch, and slipped it into the pocket of his fleece.

Quietly, he climbed up the companionway steps. The deck was wet and slippery. Peering over the side, he saw that a thin mist surrounded the boat.

He made his way to the back of the boat; climbed down the boarding ladder and dropped the last few feet on to the sand, into the mist. He looked up at the boat’s stern, where a painted mermaid swam under its name – ‘Morveren’ – maid of the sea.

How strange to be standing where the sea has so recently been; knowing that in a few hours this place would, once again, be deep underwater. Through the mist, Zaki could make out the anchor chain looping down from
Morveren
’s bow. He followed it along the ground until he came to the half-buried anchor.

He had a clear two hours before the tide began edging back across the sand. He set off for the rock ledge.

Last year, at low tide, they had found the rock pools full of pulsating jellyfish, the small ones pink and transparent, the centres of the largest purple and dangerous. They had dared each other to touch them. Perhaps he would discover some other remarkable stranded sea creatures. Then Michael would have to come and see for himself.

He stamped his bare feet into the soft, wet sand, leaving deep, dark footprints that quickly filled with water.

As he crossed the empty inlet, the sky brightened and colour crept down from the hilltops. A thin mist still clung to the estuary floor and, looking back, Zaki saw that
Morveren
appeared to float on a ghostly sea. There was no sign of life on deck.

He continued on his way. Then stopped, bewildered. Where was the sandbank you climbed to reach the rock ledge? Gone. Swept away. In its place a four-metre drop from the ledge to a bed of shingle.

He set off along the bottom of the little cliff to find a way of climbing up. He was a good climber but could see no obvious hand or footholds. The boulder up ahead might offer some possibilities. The nearside of the boulder was smooth and slippery with weed. He walked around it to inspect the other side. Behind the boulder was a dark, low hole in the cliff. A cave. Cave-mouth and boulder were so similar in size and shape that the boulder might have served as a door for the cave, if you had a handy giant to roll it into place. This side of the boulder was almost entirely free of weeds and shells but still too smooth to climb.

Zaki ran his hand over the surface of the stone and wondered why it had remained so clean. Perhaps it had been buried in the sand that used to be banked up against the cliff, and only recently exposed.

He could see that a little sand had collected in the cave entrance, making a small mound. Beyond the mound was impenetrable darkness. Zaki remembered the torch in his fleece pocket, took it out and turned it on. The entrance was little more than his own height but when he shone the torch in and up he could see that the ceiling sloped upwards. The walls of the cave were surprisingly smooth and, like the back of the boulder, free of marine life.

Zaki stepped inside. How deep was the cave? He shone his torch into the darkness. There was no back wall that he could see. Like the ceiling, the shingle floor of the cave sloped upwards. If he followed the passage, would he emerge through another hole in the rock ledge above, or did the cave penetrate deep into the hillside? He edged further in, then stopped.

What was the time? He didn’t want to be caught by the returning tide.

Shining the torch on his watch he saw that it was only five thirty. He had plenty of time. Still, it was unsettling to think that in a few hours this tunnel would be full of water. The thought made him hurry forward. Best to have a quick look and get out.

What if he had misread the tide tables? No. It had been high tide when
Morveren
entered the estuary, and low tide around six in the evening. Tides get later each day. The tide should still be falling. Dead low in about an hour. Loads of time.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ he told that bit of himself that remained unconvinced. The primitive animal – that gut instinct that distrusts clocks and calculations.

‘There’s really nothing to worry about.’

The deeper he went, the more the cave sloped upwards. It certainly wasn’t going to come out through the rock ledge; he must already be inside the hill. The air in the cave seemed a little drier now and the shingle floor of the first part of the passage had given way to solid rock. Zaki stretched a hand out to the side but the wall was no longer in reach. Dropping the torch beam he saw that the rock floor ahead had been cut into a flight of rough steps. Someone at some time had gone to a lot of trouble. This was more than just a cave, perhaps it was a secret passage! A smugglers’ den? Wait until he showed this to Michael! This was better than rock pools!

Zaki pressed on quickly.

The first flight of steps led up to a long flat section and then more steps. He must be above the level of the rock ledge – above the high-tide line. This part of the cave would never flood.

Reaching the top step, he shone the torch ahead. A wall! The light reflected back at him off solid stone. Was this the end?

Maybe the passage led off to the left or right?

He shone the torch in both directions. Nothing but stone.

He was in a chamber, and not a particularly large chamber – six or seven metres across and almost circular. The floor, he noticed, was covered in clean, dry sand.

At first he felt disappointment. A smugglers’ passage should have led to a hidden panel in an ancient inn or to a trap door in the crypt of the village church.

But, of course, there were no villages for miles.

He began to explore the walls. Perhaps there was a cleverly pivoted rock that would swing aside when pushed.

Working his way around the walls, searching for cracks, he failed to notice the rock platform that jutted out below knee level until he caught his shin, hard, on the jagged corner. The shock made him let go of his torch, which fell on to the platform, and rolled a short distance before coming to rest against something white.

Zaki reached for the torch, but snatched his hand back in horror. The white object was a bone. He stumbled back never taking his eyes off the object in the torchlight. Laid out on the stone ledge was a complete, human skeleton. His heart slamming against his ribs, Zaki struggled for breath. What else lurked in the darkness that now seemed to press in around him?