“I’ve seen something,” Peter said. “I’ve found a ruin.”
IT LOOKED MORE LIKE an abandoned house than a ruin to me.
“It is a ruin,” insisted Peter.
“It has doors and part of a roof,” Honey said.
Peter was not deterred. “It’s not the Parthenon, I grant you, but it’s still a proper ruin. Look at it!”
I had never seen anything like it. It was a large building with ornate adornments over its façade — hideous carved animals I did not recognise.
“Interesting,” said Mamoru. “Some of the decoration looks almost European, neo-Gothic. We know that a few Englishmen built fantastic palaces at the turn of the century — such as Kellie’s Castle — which imitated High Victorian architecture, but this is different. It looks like a Mughal dwelling. I cannot place it. There is something in the construction of this place that suggests it is older than the Edwardian castles I have mentioned.”
“Oh, much older. It’s clearly ancient,” said Peter.
“There are traces of paint on the doors,” Mamoru said.
“I do not want to go inside,” said Johnny.
But there was no stopping Peter. He had already bounded up the stone steps and was trying the door. It fell open without resistance.
We hesitated awhile. Mamoru was very interested in the exterior of the building. He looked at it so intently it was as if he were taking photographs with his eyes. I knew he was committing to memory the image of that house, down to the tiniest detail.
“I’m not going in,” Johnny said again in a small voice.
“It’ll be an utter waste but we might as well,” said Honey as he started towards the house.
By the time we stepped through the broad stone threshold Peter had explored much of the house.
He ran down the wide stone staircase, leaping the final few steps.
“It’s magnificent,” he said. “You’ll gasp when you see what I’ve found.”
I looked around me. The walls were built of a pinkish stone that looked soft in texture. I put my hand on a wall; it was crumbly to the touch. Although the floors were covered in a scattering of dust it did not feel damp and I could not smell any guano. In every way the house seemed remarkably well preserved.
“Who on earth would build a place like this in the middle of the bloody jungle on a godforsaken island?” said Honey.
As we ascended the sweeping staircase and my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I thought I could pick out cobwebs hanging thickly from the ceiling; they appeared to adorn the walls, too, like necklaces. Then, as we stood at the top of the stairs and looked down the long hallway that stretched into darkness, I realised that they were not cobwebs but something firmer, less tentative. Their shapes curved into the darkness, forming an uneven carpet over our heads.
“Can you see?” Peter cried. “Aren’t they wonderful?” He reached into his satchel and found a box of matches. After three or four goes — the box was probably damp — he finally succeeded. He lifted the match above his head. Its flared light danced towards the ceiling.
“Dear God,” Honey breathed.
Every conceivable space on the ceilings and the walls was hung with antlers. There were no stuffed heads or skins, no skulls or skeletons, merely antlers of every shape. They pointed downwards like twisted, ossified fingers reaching out to touch us. I felt Mamoru’s arm next to me and was calmed by his closeness.
“Do you think they’re from hitherto undiscovered species?” Peter asked. “They must be. They must be!”
That evening’s dinner — tinned rations, much to Honey’s delight, with some wild papaya Mamoru had found — was dominated by talk about the house. Who built it? What was it for? When? Peter insisted on calling it a ruin, and seemed offended when we did not follow suit.
“To be perfectly honest,” Honey said, “that derelict house is of no consequence whatsoever.” He had gorged himself on corned beef and seemed very at ease, reclining against a log. He was himself again, speaking as if pronouncing Imperial edicts. “It’s an incidental structure, abandoned because it didn’t serve any purpose. It isn’t very remarkable. I’m not surprised you like it, Wormwood.”
Peter smiled. “You simply can’t appreciate beauty.”
“On the contrary,” Honey replied, “you see beauty even where it doesn’t exist.”
We retired to bed and I checked, as I always do, to see if my diary was safe in my belongings. I don’t know if it was the result of having spent too much time out at sea, or if I was still suffering from the lingering effects of the storm, but I could not remember the exact position in which I had left it. I imagined that the wax cloth had been disturbed. Not much, but enough to make me notice it. I unwrapped the diary and found that all was in order. I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind as I fell asleep.
