The Vanishing Island

by Barry Wolverton

  “So, how did a . . . girl . . . end up on the Albatross? A girl from China?”

  Mouse didn’t reply at first, and in the silence Bren realized just how complete the darkness was below the decks of a ship.

  “I don’t remember much about China,” Mouse began. “I was an orphan, in a very poor village. The things people like you read about, and dream about . . . it was nothing like that. Always hungry. Always dirty. Not just me, everyone. I kept getting sent away.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Where the admiral found me was a fishing village at the mouth of the Pearl River, on one of the many islands south of China. There was an old woman there known to take in unwanted children, and I showed up at her door one day.

  “The admiral says he rescued me because he could tell I was special. That was why others kept sending me away—they were fearful. He says I came from China, yes, but from a lake high in the mountains. One day a flock of cranes landed on the shores of the lake, and when they touched the earth they transformed into beautiful girls. They undressed and hung their robes on a willow tree by the shore, and then went to bathe in the lake. What they didn’t know was that in that very willow tree was a hunter, who had come to the lake to hunt geese, and hidden himself when the cranes landed.

  “The girls finished bathing, and one by one they dressed and flew away. But the last girl couldn’t find her robe—the hunter had stolen it. He jumped down from the tree, and forced her to come with him, lest she freeze to death by the lake. She agreed, and the hunter took her home, and tried to get her to marry him. She refused, and he refused to return her robe, and this went on for days and weeks and months until she finally gave in. But she vowed never to name their children, so that they could never grow up.”

  “What happened?” said Bren.

  “They had eleven children together,” said Mouse. “Years later, the hunter’s wife finally tricked him into returning her robe, so that she could fly away and rejoin her sisters. As she flew higher and higher away from their home, the hunter begged her to at least name their sons, so they could grow up to be leaders of their tribe. And so the crane wife agreed, calling out the sons’ names as she departed, but the daughters were left nameless, and cast away by the hunter.

  “The admiral says that’s why I can talk to animals,” said Mouse. “Because my mother was a crane.”

  Bren swallowed hard; he didn’t know how to respond. “Why does he call you Mouse?”

  “That’s what the old woman called me. She says I wouldn’t talk to any of the other orphans, just a small mouse I had made a pet of.”

  “It sort of fits you,” said Bren. “I just mean because you’re quiet, and sort of curious.”

  “What about you?” said Mouse. “How did you get here?”

  “A much more ordinary story, I’m afraid,” said Bren. “I was born in Map. My father is a mapmaker for Rand McNally, and my mother died two years ago of plague. I was named for St. Brendan, which my friend Mr. Black says means I am cursed with a wandering spirit.”

  They lay in silence for several minutes before Bren said, “You never knew your mother, and I watched mine die.” He grasped the black stone necklace as he said this. He had never said it out loud before, but it was true. He had been at his mother’s bedside when she died. There was no wishing it otherwise. But that didn’t mean Fortune couldn’t be real, did it? The admiral believed in it, or a place very much like it.

  “We should get some sleep,” said Mouse. “We could be at sea a long time.”

  “Is that what the birds told you? That we’re lost?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Mouse, and that was the last thing she said. Bren wanted to keep talking to her, to learn more about her, and the admiral, and what she knew about where they were going. But it had been a long day, and Mouse was right, so he lay back on his pillow and was soon asleep, feeling less alone than he had in a very long time.

  CHAPTER

  19

  LOGGERHEADS

  The next morning Bren went above and thought he had stumbled onto a random fight, the sort of thing that happens among men in close quarters. But when he saw the crew circling the waist of the ship, cheering and placing wagers, he knew it was something else. It turned out that sailors, at least on a Dutch ship, celebrated victories in battle (or the avoidance of defeat) in a rather strange way. They tried to beat each other to a pulp.

  “Loggerheads,” Sean explained. “Barbaric, yeah?” But even as he said it, he leaped up in excitement as the man he had apparently bet on drove his opponent against the gunwale and almost over the side of the ship.

  The name of the game was based on the weapons of choice—loggerheads, long sticks with an iron ball attached to one end that joiners used to melt pitch and press it into open seams for waterproofing. But for the lack of spikes they could have been called maces. There were rules against blows to the head or joints—anything that might kill or maim—but Bren discovered that the contests were only for hobs, the low men on the ship, and rules weren’t exactly enforced.

  The admiral was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Richter and Mr. van Decken were presiding over the contests from the quarterdeck rail, and when one man conceded, the purser went around noting who lost and won in his ledger. “We haven’t had a good match of loggerheads in ages,” said Sean. “But Mr. Richter there said he wanted to see some real seamanship.”

  Bren glanced up at the company man, a cruel smile on his face and his ample gut propped against the railing. This is what rich men had done since the dawn of time: made sport out of lesser men. Bren felt sick to his stomach, but when he turned back to the crew, he felt even worse. Up next was Otto Bruun, the dark-eyed brute.

  Otto was a Netherlander, but behind his back the men talked of him as if he were a mutt . . . a Dutch mother and an unknown father. But they didn’t say that to his face. Otto was powerfully built, his arms and shoulders knotted with muscles, and he could lift or move what any other two men could. Bren guessed that whoever had given him the scars on his face wasn’t around to brag about it.

  When Otto picked up his loggerhead, the winner of the previous fight slumped and cowered right away.

  “Otto’s never lost a fight,” Sean whispered, and Bren could believe it. His opponent already seemed beaten.

  The two came at each other, Otto wielding his loggerhead like a broadsword, and when his opponent tried to block Otto’s blow, his own weapon broke in two, the end with the iron ball flying across the deck and nearly striking a bystander.

  “That was fast!” someone said.

  “Good strategy, Schneider,” called another. “Get out while ye can!”

  The other men laughed, but Otto turned on them and snarled, “Fight’s not over!” He tossed his loggerhead aside and rolled up his sleeves. “You can keep yer stick, Schneider. Won’t do you no good.”

  The man called Schneider charged at Otto, swinging his decapitated loggerhead with both arms, and Otto let the blow hit him squarely in the shoulder. Then he grabbed his opponent by the shirt and hurled him against the mainmast with a loud crack, causing Bren to wonder if he had broken the mast, or the man’s spine.

  “I concede,” said Schneider as he crumpled to his knees, and Otto turned in a slow circle, staring at his mates, silently asking Who’s next?

  No one stepped forward.

  “You must be kidding,” said Otto. “We’re finished? Back to work?”

  “I can’t let you take out my whole crew,” said Sean, laughing, but Otto wasn’t the joking type. He turned toward Bren.

  “What about our Johnny from Map?” he said.

  “Be serious, Otto,” said Sean. “He’s only a boy.”

  Otto smirked, and he turned and found the loggerhead he’d discarded, and tossed it in Bren’s direction. “You can use that. I’ll use nothing.”

  There were catcalls and taunts from the crowd. Bren suddenly needed to use the privy very badly, and if he got the chance, he told himself, he might as wel
l jump through the hole into the sea.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Bruun,” said Sean, putting his foot down on the ball of the loggerhead. “Master Owen is twelve years old, and we don’t entertain ourselves by having grown men fight boys, even with a handicap. Now, I believe we all have work to do. . . .”

  “No.”

  It was Bren who said it, even though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Everyone turned to look at him. Sean looked as if he wanted to slap him.

  “If Mr. Bruun wants to prove his mettle against a boy, we should let him,” said Bren, and suddenly the hoots and whistles were directed at Otto.

  The muscles in Otto’s face writhed like the snakes in Medusa’s hair. “Well, come on then, jongen.”

  Bren bent down and picked up the loggerhead. It weighed a ton . . . he could barely lift the iron head off the ground, so he choked up on the handle to get more leverage. Otto smirked again. With his scars and knotty cheeks, Otto’s face was like a topographical map of some forbidding continent.

  Bren figured he’d made a serious mistake—perhaps his last—but he couldn’t help himself. He remembered how satisfying it had felt to stand up to Duke finally, to sink his fist into the bully’s stomach and watch him crumble. But Duke was just a boy.

  Think, Bren, he told himself. You’ve just heard the admiral talk about the advantages of being the smaller, quicker foe. And he remembered the advice Mr. Black had given him one time, back when Duke had first started tormenting him. The older man claimed to have been a boxing champion back in his salad days, which Bren found hard to believe. But he had told him, Achilles had a weak spot. Even dragons have one. It’s just a matter of learning it.

  “And getting at it,” Bren mumbled, thinking of just how small Achilles’ heel must’ve been.

  “Come on, you little rukker,” said Otto, standing up straight and spreading his arms wide. “I’ll give you a free shot.”

  Overconfidence, thought Bren. Putting his back into it, he swung the loggerhead back between his legs for momentum, then hurled it forward, high in the air, toward Otto. Instinctively, he reached to catch it, and when he did, Bren ran directly at him. Otto glanced down, at which point the loggerhead rotated with the weight of its iron head, arcing downward and striking him squarely in the noggin.

  Otto wobbled and tipped backward, landing on his backside, and sat there, stunned. A tiny rosette of blood appeared on his forehead, just before the dark-eyed brute fell backward onto the deck, out cold.

  The deck erupted in cheers. The next thing Bren knew, he was being carried around the ship’s waist on the shoulders of hobs.

  “Conquering hero!” shouted one.

  “Yeah—conked him right on the head,” said another, to roars of laughter.

  Sean brought up a full flask of jenny to reward the underdog. It was Bren’s first taste of spirits, and he wouldn’t remember whether he enjoyed it or not. In fifteen minutes he was as unconscious as Otto.

  “Did I tell you I invented the fixed spool, jongen?”

  “At least once before,” said Bren, his head throbbing. He had already thrown up three times—once in his cabin and twice over the rail of the poop deck.

  “Used to take three men to read a log line. One to hold the spool, one to pay out the line, another to watch the sand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mouse’s birds can feed themselves!”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Bren, dumping the rest of the crumbs on the floor of the cage. One of the birds was missing. Mouse had sent it off in search of land, in hopes that they could at least determine their exact location.

  “Five knots,” said Mr. Tybert, whose every word was like a tiny fist. Bren could hardly see how letting Otto pound him with the loggerhead would have made him feel worse. The navigator read the compass direction, and Bren inserted two pegs in the traverse board.

  “Yer not very talkative this morning, jongen.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Yer usually jabberin’ my ear off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I ever tell you exactly how I lost my eye?”

  Bren looked up at the navigator. “No, sir!”

  “Not twenty years ago, in these very waters, on a ship called the Green Beetle,” Mr. Tybert began, “I was reeling in the log line, when all of a sudden I feel her stop. Caught on something, I thought. Just flotsam and jetsam, or some old driftwood, I told myself. And then I gave the line a yank, and when it came out of the water, I seen the rows of suckers, and the tentacle wrapped around her.”

  “A squid?!”

  “A giant squid,” said Mr. Tybert. “As long as our boat, tip to tail. Before I knew it, the thing was attached to the stern of the ship, its fearsome beak snapping at the transom. It took our whole crew to hack the thing off, but just my luck, as the beast is plunging back to its dark and desolate home, it lashes out with the one tentacle it has left and one of its teacup-size suckers lands on my eyeball and plucks it right out of the socket!”

  Bren gasped, hardly able to believe what he was hearing, and then he noticed the glint in the navigator’s remaining eye. “Wait, is that true?”

  Mr. Tybert stared at him, dead serious, for what felt like forever. There is no good way for a one-eyed man to stare at you, and Bren’s face began to tingle in anticipation of having his ear cuffed. But then the navigator erupted with a big, coarse laugh. “Nah. A swingin’ boom hit me in the face during a storm.”

  Bren sat down and began feeding the birds again. At least he had briefly forgotten how terrible he felt.

  “Of course,” said the navigator, “your biggest worry is Otto putting a knife in your scrawny back.”

  “You think he’ll be sore about the fight?”

  Mr. Tybert just grunted and flipped his hourglass, then measured the height of the sun above the horizon.

  The birds were going crazy in their cage now, as if they had had to listen to one too many of Mr. Tybert’s stories. Bren looked at the navigator. “Maybe a storm is coming?”

  “Old wives’ tale,” he grumbled. But a moment later, Mouse was running up the stairs to the poop deck.

  “She’s coming back,” said Mouse, and far off, Bren saw it—the missing seabird, descending out of a wisp of cloud, soaring gracefully until it came near the ship, when it suddenly threw its wings up as if terrified and stuck its big yellow feet forward to land. Bren dove out of the way just in time as the bird hit the deck like a shuttlecock, wobbling head over tail.

  Mr. Tybert cursed as Mouse gathered up the bird, stroked its head several times, and returned it to its cage.

  “What happened?” said Bren.

  “No land,” said Mr. Tybert.

  Bren looked at Mouse, who confirmed this.

  Mr. Tybert cursed again. “Back to the drawing board, jongen,” he said, rapping the traverse board with his knuckles. Mouse began hand-feeding the bird, and Bren heard the bell signaling a change in watch. He had to get back to the map now.

  “Just a second,” said Mr. Tybert, looking around to make sure no one else was nearby. “Wanted to give you this. Don’t tell Mr. Graham, or the purser.” He held out what looked like only the handle of a knife.

  “What is it?”

  The navigator flicked up a small latch with his thumb. The handle split in two and folded back on itself, revealing a small, pointed blade.

  “Whoa!” said Bren.

  “It’s called a balisong. Came out of the Dragon Islands. Keep it in your boot.”

  “Is this because of what you said about Otto?” said Bren. “About him putting a knife in my back?”

  Mr. Tybert lowered his voice. “I’ve been a sailor forty years, jongen. Never met a sailor who wasn’t capable of putting a knife in your back. Just be careful, that’s all.”

  Bren tried keeping the knife in his boot, but it felt strange there, and it hurt, rubbing against his ankle through his wool socks. In his cabin later, he practiced opening it a few times, or tried to. On his third attempt he nearly s
tabbed himself in the hand, so he closed it up and shoved it under his thin mattress. He would just have to rely on his wits, and of course, the paiza, for now.

  CHAPTER

  20

  MAPS AND LEGENDS

  The Empress of the Western Skies had seven daughters, one of whom wove the clouds in the sky. One day the daughters took a trip to Earth, disguised as swans, to see what mortals were like. The cloud maiden, attracted by the sound of music, wandered off from her sisters and into a nearby field, where a humble plowman sat playing his liuqin. So enchanted was the cloud maiden by the plowman’s gentle notes that she abandoned her disguise and showed herself. The two fell in love, and they got married without the knowledge of Heaven.

  They lived happily together on Earth for two years (which was only a day in Heaven), until the empress discovered what her daughter had done. She was furious and ordered the cloud maiden to return to Heaven, else she would kill the plowman and destroy his village. When he found that his wife was gone, the plowman was so upset that he rode his favorite ox up to Heaven to find his wife, and begged for her to be returned to him. The empress was furious, and transforming herself into an eagle, she scratched a wide gap with her talon on the floor of her palace, causing a Silver River to separate the two lovers forever.

  The King of the Magpies heard the lamenting and weeping from everyone involved, and took pity on them. Calling upon all the subjects in his kingdom, he formed a bridge of birds and allowed the couple to reunite. Even the empress was moved by this display, and thereafter allowed the lovers to meet once a year. So once a year all the birds in the world fly up to heaven to form a bridge so the lovers may be together for a single night.

  “Learning anything over there, boy?”

  It was Mr. Richter, in his customary position on the sofa. Bren had grown to hate him. He seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever, other than being wealthy. “I hope you’re as clever as the admiral thinks you are,” he said.