The Vanishing Island

by Barry Wolverton

  Otto didn’t move, daring Bren to look away. It was all he could do to stand his ground and not run, and it helped to remember Mouse was there. He could pretend he was doing this to show he was as courageous as she was.

  Finally Otto blinked. “If we get wind,” he said, his voice as hard as a holystone.

  Bren was still too scared to speak. He felt every muscle in his body knot up, ready for Otto to attack. But after a few more agonizing moments, Otto walked away, knocking Bren sideways with his shoulder as he stormed off. It was another minute or two before Bren was calm enough to move.

  As they labored in the doldrums, Sean and Mr. van Decken kept everyone busy cleaning and recaulking the deck, scraping the hull, pumping the bilge, repainting the figurehead and the transom. At least it kept the men above, away from the stifling conditions below. Still, morale went as limp as the ship’s sails.

  To make matters worse, some of Mr. Black’s warnings to Bren began to come true. At least a half-dozen men were suffering from terrific tropical fevers or brain swelling. Another man had suffered a fractured skull during the battle with the Iberians, and the damage had gotten progressively worse. Typical of seamen, none wanted help from Mr. Leiden. Surgeons were associated with amputation and not much else. “Yer not cuttin’ off my head, quacksalver!” one of the afflicted men screamed at the poor surgeon when he came to check on him. The man died shortly thereafter.

  It was only after all but three of the fevered men were dead that the survivors agreed to entertain Mr. Leiden’s suggestion that he try something called trepanning. He produced a strange tool that looked like an auger—a tool for drilling holes into wood—and explained that he was going to drill into the men’s skulls.

  “You might be interested in this, Bren,” said the surgeon. “A Londoner pioneered it.”

  Bren joined the other curious men around the mess table as Mr. Leiden laid the first man down and shaved his head to the scalp. He then rubbed a dram of jenny on the bald spot and began drilling a small hole through the skull.

  “The trephine allows me to drill precisely to the bottom of the skull without damaging the brain,” he said, as small shavings of skin and bone corkscrewed away from the man’s head. “It will release pressure from the swelling. And notice he barely feels a thing.”

  “Sort of tickles,” said the patient, although Bren noted that in addition to the small amount of jenny rubbed on the man’s head, a much larger amount had been ingested orally.

  After treating the second fevered man, Mr. Leiden operated on the man with the fractured skull. “Now I use a larger drill bit, and remove any splintered bone, which could get lodged in the brain. A nice clean hole will heal brilliantly.”

  Mouse was the first one to press forward for a look at the wrinkled grey matter visible through the large opening. “I want to touch his brain,” she said, but Bren held her arm. “I don’t think Mr. Leiden would approve.”

  After the afternoon of surgery, the saloon table was wiped down and the men regathered for the evening meal, all still with healthy appetites. And oddly enough, their spirits had been lifted somewhat.

  “I have a taste for calves’ brains,” joked one man, to much laughter.

  “Wouldn’t know the difference between brains and stamp-pot,” said another.

  “We’ll be lucky to get something easier to chew than that fellow’s skull!”

  Mr. Leiden’s heroics seemed to heal the weather, too, as the wind picked up enough to cool your brow and the sails showed signs of life. But the sense of brighter days ahead was not to last.

  “How many knots?”

  “Three,” said Bren.

  Mr. Tybert rewound the log line, grumbling with every turn of the reel. “Barely more than half what we want.” He read the compass and Bren pegged the traverse board.

  “Mr. Tybert, do you believe in the Angels of the Four Winds?”

  “The what now?”

  “Tramontana, Ostro, Maestro . . .”

  “What are you going on about, jongen? What do they teach you in those English schools?”

  “Do you believe in the Devil?”

  “Do I look like a faithless heathen?” barked the navigator. “’Course I do! Now get yer mind back to business.”

  At this point, Bren didn’t care if it was the Devil or the Angels of the Four Winds, as long as they made it to Cape Colony alive. But the men they had just buried at sea were a harsh reminder that there were no guarantees.

  Bren told himself he had to remain positive. They would make Cape Colony eventually, and once they had fresh supplies, Fortune awaited them. Or at least, fortune with a little “f.” He ran his finger over the smooth black stone again, and thought of the time Mr. Black had explained to him that fortune was a fickle word, shifting meanings from great wealth to good luck to blind chance. Fortune could be a friend or an enemy.

  Well, I can make sure it’s my friend, thought Bren, by helping decode the treasure map. He returned to The Book of Songs, reading and rereading “The Cloud Maiden and the Plowman,” as well as other passages, looking for more clues. The songs, or poems, were some of the most beautiful things Bren had ever read, tales of jade emperors and one-legged mountain demons, of heavenly mansions, pillars of destiny, dragon palaces, and armies of clay soldiers. But everything in them—the symbolism, the imagery—was part of a culture he had no knowledge of. It frustrated him.

  He imagined, though, that these poets might feel the same way about Mr. Tybert’s crazy stories, like that of Apollo, the mighty god of Olympus who tended sheep in his spare time.

  Suddenly Bren exclaimed so hard he blew out the lantern. “That has to be it! Mouse, wake up!” he said, relighting the lantern, only to see that Mouse’s cot was empty.

  Does she ever sleep? Bren wondered, but it didn’t matter. He had to dress quickly and find the admiral—he had cracked the code.

  But as soon as he stepped outside their cabin, Mouse came running toward him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She held a finger in front of her lips and grabbed Bren by the hand, leading him down to the goblin deck, where they crouched in the shadows behind the lowest part of the mainmast, facing the front of the ship.

  “Listen,” she whispered.

  Bren did. What he heard was a pinging sound, like a smith working metal with an undersized anvil.

  They crept closer, and Bren saw someone crouched next to a candle, swinging what looked to be a small hammer. It was Otto, trying to break the padlock to the hold. Sweat was pouring from his face, which looked positively feral in the flickering light. His hands must have been sweaty, too, because the lock slipped out of his hand and he brought the hammer down on his fingers, causing him to curse loudly. He put the injured finger in his mouth and looked around to make sure no one had heard him.

  Before he could strike another blow, Cook came down from the galley, almost sliding down the ladder. “What are you doing, Otto, you damned fool! The admiral will hang you for stealing!”

  Otto said nothing, but brought the hammer down with even greater force. He raised it again and Cook grabbed his arm. Wordless and growling, Otto struck Cook across the face and returned to the lock.

  “Don’t make me fetch someone, Otto,” said Cook, now on his knees but not daring again to try and overpower him.

  “Give me the key,” snarled Otto.

  “I can’t!” said Cook. Suddenly he looked around, to make sure they were alone, but Bren and Mouse were well hidden. “We’ve all been rationed . . . I can’t let you have extra.”

  “Not extra!” shouted Otto. “My fair share!”

  Cook was pleading now. “It ain’t me, it’s the admiral. You know that. Once we’re out of here, I promise.”

  Otto stopped hammering and stared at him. Every muscle in his body was tensed. He held the hammer up to Cook’s face.

  “You see this? The soul-sellers gave it to me the day they signed me up. Along with steady pay, food and drink, the Orient is full of treasur
e, they said. Rocks encrusted with jewels in every port, they said. You’ll be using the claw end of this hammer to fill your pockets with rubies and emeralds.”

  Otto slammed the claw end of the hammer into the deck, causing Cook to jump back. The wild man then climbed through the hatch above, leaving his hammer buried in the wood and a terrified Cook on his backside.

  Bren’s heart thumped so hard it was a wonder Cook couldn’t hear it. Finally Cook picked himself up and slunk away, and Bren and Mouse ran as fast as they could in the other direction.

  CHAPTER

  22

  THE HUNGER

  “Should we tell the admiral, Mouse?”

  They were back in their cabin, in the dark, and he could hear both of them still breathing hard. Most of the crew disliked Otto, and were afraid of him, but they would not look kindly on Bren for ratting him out. Cook was the man to file a complaint, if he dared.

  But what if Cook didn’t? Was that really for the best, or just some outdated sailor’s code at work? Or was he just as scared as Bren was?

  “Maybe we should tell Sean at least,” said Bren. “We can trust him.”

  “Mr. van Decken is the one in charge of discipline,” said Mouse.

  Mouse knew he wouldn’t go to van Decken, and Bren guessed that she was trying to tell him to say nothing. Either that or she was just as confused as he was. But if Otto were truly dangerous, he could jeopardize their entire voyage—a voyage Bren very much wanted to complete now that he felt closer than ever to solving the riddle of the map.

  In the end Bren told himself he was doing the right and proper thing—warning Admiral Bowman of a possible threat.

  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Bren,” said the admiral, when they were alone in the chart room. “I’m impressed that you understand the difference between being a tattle and sharing information that’s in all our best interests.”

  “What will you do to him?” said Bren. He was embarrassed to admit to himself that he hadn’t considered this before. He didn’t want to be responsible for seeing a man hanged.

  “I’m not sure,” said the admiral. “Attempting to steal rations is a serious offense, I don’t have to tell you. As is threatening crew members. And yet, a trial and punishment will not help morale. I’ll have to give this careful thought.”

  “I thought it especially important to tell you . . .” Bren started to say, before faltering. Had he really figured out the map, or would the admiral think his theory was foolish?

  “Yes, Bren?”

  He didn’t answer right away, instead fishing for a piece of parchment, and when he found one he started drawing.

  “Watch this,” he said, and he drew the hidden symbols again, but instead of using their Chinese logograms, he drew each one as a picture, in the same position as they were on the back of the paiza: the plowman on the left and the cloud maiden on the right; but instead of the silver river between them, he drew an eagle instead.

  Then, next to each image, he drew a pattern of dots, connected by lines, so that the geometric image roughly matched the shape of the pictures.

  The admiral came closer, stroking his beard.

  “I’ll be damned. Constellations?”

  Bren nodded eagerly. “I think so. It came to me when I was remembering a story Mr. Tybert told me about the North Star, and something he said about looking at the right sky, and then it all made sense—the part of the tale about the plowman having to climb into heaven but in the end, only being able to reunite with his wife once a year.”

  The admiral took the paper from Bren, his face flushed. “How did I not see it?”

  “Because we don’t have these constellations in the West,” said Bren. “I mean, we do, but our mythology is different. Look . . .”

  Over the Chinese constellations, Bren roughly sketched the Lyre and Cygnus, the swan. “The plowman was a musician, and the cloud maiden disguised herself as a swan,” Bren explained. “I think the Silver River is the Milky Way, created by the empress, after she transformed herself into an eagle.”

  The admiral remained speechless, but his eyes were darting excitedly across Bren’s drawing.

  “I think this is actually what Marco Polo saw when he looked into the sky that night,” said Bren. “I don’t think he had any idea where he was, and this was his way of marking his surroundings, hoping to retrace his steps.”

  “Yes, it’s possible,” said the admiral. “In theory. Make a map of the stars from a particular vantage point on a certain day of the year, and you could figure out where you were.”

  Suddenly Bren’s sense of relief and joy evaporated, as he thought about what the admiral had just said. “But we don’t know the date he saw this sky,” said Bren. “Not the exact date, anyway.”

  “No,” said the admiral, his face now draining of color. “He would have known it, of course, which makes it a brilliant treasure map. One no else could ever solve.”

  The next afternoon, the admiral remained below in his cabin for the entire morning and into the afternoon. He had Mouse leave him coffee and food outside his door. Bren began to worry. He knew how the revelation about the map affected him personally—that he had worked so hard to leave Map and come so far, only to learn that their reward might be hopelessly out of reach. How must the admiral feel, having been searching for this lost treasure for years now? To come so close, to feel you have a map to the vanishing island in your hands, only to realize it’s hardly better than no map at all?

  But around midafternoon, he emerged, and in much better spirits than Bren would have guessed. He called all hands on deck and reported that they were within a week of Cape Colony, and a celebration was in order. The announcement was met with great cheer, and within an hour much of the crew was dizzy with drink.

  Bren was confused. “Are we really within a week of the cape?” he asked Sean.

  “First I’ve heard of it,” Sean replied. “And even if we are, a lot can happen between here and there. That’s why I’m not drinking. Too early to celebrate.”

  “I didn’t know you were superstitious,” said Bren. Sean had always struck him as a most practical man, a professional sailor, in it for the wages and because it was all he knew.

  “I’m Eirish,” said Sean. “You won’t meet a more superstitious people if you sail to the ends of the earth, lad.”

  The bell began to ring, and the admiral called the crew to attention again.

  “I believe a celebration is incomplete without some entertainment,” he began, and Bren immediately felt ill. Surely they wouldn’t bring out the loggerheads again, with the men already well into drink? He searched the crowd for Otto, and racked his brain for a good excuse to go below.

  But it wasn’t loggerheads the admiral had planned.

  “In the Low Countries we tell of a mythical land called Luilekkerland. A place of luxury, where every comfort and pleasure is at hand. During the harvest festival we celebrate this Utopia with a game called the greasy pole, where a great reward is placed within reach, should you be determined enough to reach it.”

  There was some rumbling of recognition among those in the crew familiar with the game. Others simply welcomed the diversion. But Bren finally spotted Otto by the port railing, staring at the admiral, his hands empty of drink. He looked even thinner than Bren remembered, his face bony and his eyes sunken.

  “I believe we have our choice of tall, sturdy poles, do we not?”

  The men cheered.

  “Cook!” cried the admiral. “We’ll use the slush fund and kill two birds with one stone!”

  They struck the sails and the admiral sent Mouse up and down the mainmast, greasing it all the way to the crow’s nest. And then for a prize, the admiral ordered Cook to provide an entire porknokker, which was dangled from the side of the crow’s nest. It was an extravagant use of precious food, especially after their rationing. But the free-flowing beer and spirits had dulled everyone’s judgment.

  The admiral surveyed the crew, a
nd before he said anything more Bren knew where his gaze would land. It was at that moment he understood: this wasn’t a game, it was a punishment. The admiral had settled on public humiliation. “Otto, I’d wager you’d do just about anything for a bit of pork, wouldn’t you?” Some of the men snickered, but much of the merriment drained from the deck.

  “Reach it,” said the admiral, “and it’s all yours.”

  More tension spread along the ship’s waist. The quarterdeck was all giggles, though. The admiral was smirking, and Mr. Richter and Mr. van Decken were looking on with malicious glee.

  Otto stared back at the admiral, refusing to look at the sausage. Bren felt a sudden and unexpected wave of sympathy for the brute. Say no, he thought. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Mouse can get you into the hold. I’ll let her this time. And then, to Bren’s horror, Otto looked across the deck at him, as if he knew what was happening, and that Bren was responsible.

  Otto turned back to the admiral: “I’m not hungry.”

  The admiral turned to Mr. van Decken.

  “Climb that pole, Mr. Bruun,” commanded the first mate, “or we cut your rations in half again.”

  Bren felt another wave of nausea. The heat . . . the smothering tropical air . . . the stench of the whole crew, who had gone weeks without water for bathing or a breeze to wick their sweat. He turned and vomited.

  Bren heard a smattering of laughter and turned back around to find Sean smiling at him and some of the other men ribbing him, but all he saw was Otto. He had jumped onto the mast and started to climb. Soon the other men noticed as well.

  “You can pause at the spars, but no help from the rigging,” the admiral shouted. Otto, who had stuck his foot out toward one of the ratlines, withdrew it. Up he continued to go, with excruciating slowness. Bren had seen this game played back home, with much smaller poles, and had rarely seen someone reach the top. The whole point of the game was its futility, and laughing at the person failing to gain purchase and ultimately sliding back down on their rear end.