Chapter Text
“Which one of you fuckers did it?”
Jack didn’t say it in any sort of tone that would suggest his anger. He kept his voice level. That would have more of an effect.
His hunters flanked him in the trees. Now, they parted from their semi-hiding spots to shift closer, sensing the hunt was compromised. It was done.
No boar tonight, then. The looks of disappointment etched on their faces confused Jack. One of them had done it, so why the hell were they upset by their own actions?
“Which one?” His voice rose of its own accord. Okay. Maybe he did have a hard time controlling his temper. “It was one of you, so which?” He darted his attention from one painted face to the next. “Theo? Maurice?”
“No, Jack.” Maurice gave a deep frown. “We ain’t sure what happened, either.”
“I know exactly what the hell happened.” Jack had a front row seat, after all. He’d been right next to the boar—right bloody next to it, close enough to touch. He’d been readying his strike, his heart light with the exhilaration of victory and the anticipation of meat in his mouth, when—
A rock had seared past him, pelting the boar straight in the cheek. It’d squealed its pig squeal, startling the bejesus out of Jack in turn, and it’d taken off. He’d about gotten bucked in the face.
He’d watched it crash away through the leaves and twigs, his eyes wide with disbelief. One of his hunters had sabotaged the hunt.
Now they all stared back at him. Some were peering past him at the evidence of the boar’s escape.
“I was right on the pig,” Jack said. “Why the fuck would one of you throw a piddly pebble of all things?”
“Why would we, Jack?” Robert ventured.
“Yeah, kind of a lame prank.” Johnny was rubbing his stomach. “We all wanna eat.”
It was Johnny’s first hunt. Jack squinted at him. Was it him? Had he been trying to prove himself or something?
Wait. Henry, too. Henry was thirteen now and he’d been the last littlun to participate in their hunts. Where the hell was he?
That kid was a bit off, so who knew what his motivations were.
“Henry!” Jack snapped.
The boys looked amongst themselves. A display of motion and shifting and checking.
“Where he at?” Maurice muttered.
A twig cracking diverted their attention. Jack stood on his toes, using his spear stuck in the dirt to keep balance, to see over their heads. Well, there was Henry. He’d taken a hesitant step and that had given him away.
Except: he wasn’t hiding.
He looked as if he’d been coming to join the group but something had startled him into stopping. His body was facing them, but he’d turned his head to look over his shoulder, and it was as if he’d gotten frozen in the stance.
“Henry?” Pinpricks assaulted the back of Jack’s neck. What was in the trees that had gotten Henry’s attention like that? Jack slunk through the boys, shouldering past, to stand next to Henry. “Hey?”
Henry’s eyes were wide. At Jack’s appearance, he snapped back into awareness as if waking from a dream.
Jack gave him a quick one-handed shove. “You. Why’d you throw a rock at the pig?”
Henry’s expression flickered. He seemed dazed. He peered back into the trees where he’d been looking before. “Windchimes?”
“Huh?”
Henry cocked his head like a dog listening for a command. “I heard a sound. Like the tinkling of glass.”
Jack looked into the trees with apprehension.
“It was real purdy.” Henry’s voice was strange. “It reminded me. Me mum had a windchime near the front door. I think I subconsciously thought she was calling me home.”
Jack gazed at the top of Henry’s messy-haired head, spooked. His stomach churned. What was he yammering about?
He snatched Henry’s shoulders and tugged him close so their noses were touching.
Henry swallowed. “O-oh. I’m right sorry, I was—”
Jack shoved him away. “Roger, c’mere. The rest of you, go back home.”
The boys murmured amongst themselves. Roger peeled away from them, sauntering over with an idle smile as the others went in the opposite direction. He twirled his spear absently as he came to stand by the two.
“I’m up, eh?” He sounded a little too pleased.
“Why’d you throw the rock, Henry?” Jack said.
Henry glanced back and forth between Jack and Roger. “Wha? I didn’t. I didn’t throw no rock.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose.
“It wasn’t me, honest. But—but I know who did.”
Jack simpered. “Oh, that so?”
“Uh-huh.” Henry half-turned, his feet building up dirt and leaves beneath his heels. “It was Ralph.”
Silence.
“What?” Jack’s voice was stone. “Did you just say ‘Ralph’?”
The vague image of a boy with stark blond hair and an unassuming face—quiet, like stilling waves—became sharp as Jack’s memory recovered that one, core image that he sometimes played in his head before falling asleep: eyes that could hold so much hidden defiance—eyes that had widened in fear and shock and pain as Jack had stabbed him through with a spear. Over and over through his stomach as he’d sputtered blood and cried and—
That Ralph?
“Ain’t it a bit low,” Jack said with perfect temper, “to blame the dead?”
“I really saw’im, though.” Henry would not stop insisting, even through a split lip and a bloody nose. “He was betwixt the trees.”
“I hate how this kid talks,” Roger said.
Jack did not have time for this shit. He’d hit Henry a few times to try to coerce the confession out of him, but he just kept on with the same stupid lies.
He had to make Henry understand how important hunting was. He couldn’t go round messing things up. Mating season had come and gone. The boars had reproduced and he was ready to get back to the hunt. The proper hunt, where he did not have to proceed as rationally as usual to ensure the meat supply could string on.
He could actually go all out. It was his favourite time of the year.
And then Henry, this twiney speck of crap, had decided a ghost had appeared within the black of the trees. Even for Henry, this cover-up was reaching cracker levels.
Henry wasn’t little no more, so why was he still such a bloody child? If he kept this story up and it got round to the other littluns, they’d harp about it forever. The whole lot of’em. The younger ones who’d barely remembered the world outside the island had kept at the superstitions and tales. They lived for this stuff. They knew no better despite Jack trying to explain their tall fancies did not exist and they needed to stop with it.
Like Piggy and Simon, Ralph was a dead boy from the past. Dead boys weren’t uncommon. Sickness or infection or suicide—and it wasn’t like Jack hadn’t had to shut a few other boys up, like when they tried to usurp him and such. Well, he’d typically gotten Roger to do it since Roger had an inclination towards that sort of thing, but the end result was all the same.
Anyway, gone was gone. Dirt was dirt and there was no use talking about dirt, because it was bloody dirt. Who gave a hoot about’em now?
Well, Henry, apparently, who was staring at him with eager eyes.
“I ain’t lying. I rememba,” Henry said. “I was small when Ralph was around—I was just a wee thing—but I remember him like he’s been here the whole time.” And then, ominously: “Maybe he has been.”
Oi, fuck this child.
Jack grabbed the kid by the neck. “Enough of your prattlin’. I don’t want you spreading stupid shit to kids even dumber than you.” He gave a firm shake. “I got enough on my hands just trying to make sure you lot don’t walk off cliffs.”
They reminded him of lemmings. Sure, there were a couple who had good heads on their shoulders, but most of them just pissed him off half the time. Sometimes he considered gathering his hunters and just doing away with them all, but then who would Roger have to take his—ah—tendencies out on?
Jack let go of Henry and Roger’s gaze stayed on Henry, following him as though if he blinked this opportunity would flitter away.
Jack slapped the back of his hand to Roger’s chest. “Just a little.”
He spun round and headed back towards Castle Rock. He could hear Henry apologising and pleading, but Roger would do whatever he did and that was that.
AN: hello :D