The Vanishing Island

by Barry Wolverton

  But Otto was actually making progress. His technique was to twist his way up, like a powerful snake curling its way up the trunk of a tree. When he reached the top spar of the mainsail and stood a moment to rest, the men erupted into cheers.

  “You’re still quite a ways from your dinner,” said the admiral, and in response, the crew started encouraging Otto.

  “Come on, Otto,” Bren found himself muttering. “Come on.”

  The topsail was taller than the mainsail, and it felt as if Otto had a mile to go. But still he climbed.

  Bren tasted blood in his mouth; he was biting his lip. For some reason he glanced at the admiral, who had been standing stoically at the quarterdeck rail, his hands clasped together in front of his mouth. Suddenly he separated his hands and Bren heard a scream, followed by a gasp from the crew. Bren looked up to see Otto falling through the rigging toward the deck.

  His foot caught in the ropes and he swung there, to and fro, in a sickening imitation of a man just hung from the gallows. Sean and others immediately ran for the mast. Negotiating the greasy wood and ropes, it took them several minutes to reach the dangling man. Eventually they untangled his foot and got him to the deck, where he collapsed.

  “Leave him,” said the admiral, when Sean tried to help him up.

  “Can I give him some water at least?” Bren had never seen Sean so angry. The admiral waved a hand dismissively and walked away from the rail.

  “I’ll help you take him below,” said Bren, and with two other men, they carried Otto down and placed him in his hammock. As they lay his limp body in the narrow bed, Bren wondered if he would ever see Otto alive again.

  Two mornings later, Bren was awakened early by Mouse. He’d never seen her look so scared.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Cook’s missing.”

  “What?” Bren dressed and followed her to the galley. Cook was nowhere to be seen. Breakfast should have been on the stove and coffee brewing. The daily stockroom was empty. They went below to check the hold and immediately noticed that the lock was broken.

  “Mouse, we need to tell the officers.” But Mouse didn’t move. She was staring into a darkened corner next to the bulkhead, where Cook sat sometimes to take a nip of jenny. A gentle finger of fear began to trace the length of Bren’s spine, and with Mouse at his heel, he crept over there and slowly reached out a trembling hand.

  His fingers touched flesh and hair. Then the boards creaked, and Bren jumped back as the lifeless Cook rolled forward, facedown at Bren’s feet. Sticking out of the back of his skull was a small hammer.

  “Mouse, go to our cabin and stay there. Understand?” She nodded, and Bren ran to the officers’ saloon, where the admiral and others were awaiting their breakfast. “Cook’s dead, sir.”

  They had scarcely pushed back their chairs when a pale-faced hob burst through the door and said, “Admiral, it’s Mr. Tybert. . . .”

  This time it was Bren who led the way, charging out of the saloon, up to the quarterdeck and then the poop deck. His foot slipped and he skidded face-first; he heard the men behind him gasp in horror. It wasn’t water he’d slipped in; it was blood. Bird feathers floated on a crimson pond, but there were no birds. Their cages looked as if they had been torn open by a bear. Sean ran past Bren, who tried not to look as Sean knelt next to the still body of Mr. Tybert, everything except his legs hidden by his equipment locker.

  “The hold,” said the admiral, ordering everyone down below. Bren struggled to stand, until someone pulled him up by his shirt.

  Mr. Tybert couldn’t be dead, Bren told himself, over and over again, as they ran below. He never should have ratted out Otto. This was all his fault.

  The admiral only glanced at Cook, calling “Lamps lit!” to the gathered party of Bren, Sean, Mr. van Decken, Mr. Leiden, and Mr. Richter. Even still it took their eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of the hold. And then Bren couldn’t believe what he saw. No one could.

  “Dear God,” said one of the men up front.

  The admiral said nothing as he walked among the overturned, empty barrels, the pried-open crates, and the demolished sacks of flour and peas. He had brought his pistol and had it pointed in front of him.

  “Have we sprung a leak?” asked Mr. Richter, his feet sloshing in water.

  The admiral bent down and put his finger to the liquid, then to his lips. “Not just water,” he said. “Spirits, too.”

  They came to the wall of taps connected to barrels of water, beer, and jenever. Every spigot was turned on, and every barrel was empty. And lying in a heap was the purser, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.

  “He’s dead,” said Mr. Leiden, kneeling beside him. “Broken neck.”

  “Is anything left?” asked Mr. Richter, still staring at the empty taps.

  The admiral shook his head. In the brief silence of astonishment, they heard something . . . a low growl . . . something moving in the darkness.

  “Is there a monster on board?” whispered Mr. van Decken.

  “I’m afraid there is,” said the admiral, and he swung both his lamp and his pistol around toward a ransacked pile of supplies, where Otto sat hunched, smeared with blood and grease, eating what looked like a wharf rat.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy,” said Mr. Richter, struggling to stand on his businessman’s legs.

  “Not holy,” said the admiral. “It’s the Hunger.”

  “There’s no such thing,” said Mr. Leiden, his voice trembling. “Old Dutch folklore.”

  The admiral didn’t take his eyes off Otto. “Perhaps it’s not in your medical journals, Mr. Leiden. But do you not believe your own eyes?”

  Otto crouched there, chewing remorselessly while he eyed the search party. His ropy muscles stood out against his wasting body, but his stomach was bloated to an unnatural size. Whatever was in him had devoured his humanity as well. He was little more than a beast. And he was cornered.

  “Bren, go up and lock the hatch,” said the admiral. “We can’t let him loose again.”

  “I’ll do it!” said Mr. Richter, and moving apace he was up the ladder, out of the hold, and the hatch was snapped shut.

  “Well then,” said the admiral. “We shall have to proceed without the courageous Mr. Richter. Mr. van Decken . . .”

  Before he could finish, Otto charged through the debris like a wild boar. The admiral fired his pistol, and Bren could have sworn it hit Otto squarely in the chest, but on he came, scattering the men and sending their lanterns flying. Two of the lights went out, and in the near-darkness, Bren watched as Otto brutally attacked Mr. Leiden. The admiral, Sean, and Mr. van Decken grabbed him from behind, but Otto threw them off.

  Then, to Bren’s horror, Mouse appeared out of nowhere, carrying the small hammer Otto had used to kill Cook.

  “No!” Bren cried, but Mouse charged at Otto, striking him in the back with the claw end, between the shoulder blades. Otto howled as the tines sank into his flesh; he turned on Mouse, yanking the hammer free and raising it over his head.

  Bren rushed toward Otto and grabbed the madman’s arm with both hands, determined not to let him use the hammer on Mouse. Otto took his free hand and grabbed both of Bren’s wrists, easily pulling them off his own arm. He flung Bren away against a pile of ripped-open sacks, and then slowly came toward Bren with the hammer cocked.

  Bren shrank back against the burst sacks, and in the moment before Otto reached him he remembered he still wore the paiza. If he let Otto attack him, would he disappear like the thief in the alley? Bren shut his eyes tight, and when he did, he heard the hammer clatter to the floor. He quickly opened his eyes, praying that Otto would no longer be there, but what he saw instead was the admiral, who had come up behind Otto and flung a piece of rope around his neck.

  Otto snarled and spit as the rope pressed against his windpipe, but he managed to work his fingers between his neck and the noose, and once he had a good grip he snapped the rope in two as if it were a string.

&
nbsp; Bren noticed the third lantern, which had rolled onto its side but still flickered. It was lying in a mixture of water and spirits, and suddenly the flame and alcohol joined and ignited. A low, blue fire began to spread.

  “Admiral!” said Bren, but the admiral didn’t answer, rolling to his side and trying to gain his feet again. Mouse was trying to put out the growing fire. The other men, all hurt or wounded, were grappling with Otto again, hopelessly fighting a man who had the strength of an ape.

  “Admiral!” Bren called again, but to his disbelief, the admiral was crawling on his hands and knees, away from the fight. A moment later he had disappeared into the darkness and smoke, into the back of the hold.

  “Bren, help!” cried Mouse, and Bren forced himself to ignore the retreating admiral and help Mouse try to put out the fire. But what difference did it make? They were all dead anyway. If the ship burned, maybe Otto would die, too.

  And then, something emerged from the back of the hold. It was a walking shadow, in the shape of a man, and when it crossed through the jumping wall of flames Bren was stunned to see that it was the admiral . . . or at least, it looked like the admiral. A tall man, with a beard and golden hair, striding toward Otto. But when he came closer, in the bright light of the fire, Bren could see that he, or it, didn’t look quite human. Its skin was brownish grey, and the hair and beard looked more like spun wheat. He seemed to walk without moving his legs. The blue eyes sparkled, but like gemstones: lifeless.

  Otto saw it, too, and turned on him, grabbing the admiral by the throat and squeezing with all his might. As Bren watched, Otto squeezed harder and harder, until it seemed he would tear the admiral’s head from his body, when suddenly the admiral’s head began to disintegrate into mud and straw in Otto’s hands.

  “Bren, we need you!” said Sean, who despite his wounds had rushed to the wash-pump to draw up seawater. He and the others were trying to douse the flames.

  But Bren couldn’t look away, and he watched as a stunned Otto, confused and frightened, leaped toward the admiral, clutching his headless body like a bear, and then there was a howl of pain the likes of which Bren had never heard. He assumed it was the admiral dying.

  “Bren!”

  It was Mouse this time, and Bren snapped out of it long enough to help them smother the fire with water, blankets, and canvas. Nearly choking on smoke, they finally put down the flames, and the effort and lack of air caused Bren to sink to his knees, on the verge of passing out.

  As the smoke slowly cleared, they could see Otto, his back to them, hovering before them like a specter. Bren recoiled in fear, until he saw that Otto wasn’t hovering, he was hung. Sticking through his back was the sharp, curved end of a meat hook, and his lifeless feet dangled over a pile of straw and clay.

  CHAPTER

  23

  THE LOST VOYAGE OF MARCO POLO

  Bren suggested they commit Mr. Tybert’s body to the sea at the back of the poop deck, where he spent so much of his time. He also fetched the navigator’s hammock for his burial, and while he was there, he opened Mr. Tybert’s locker and found the old Jacob’s staff he had once mentioned—his first instrument on his very first ship.

  Bren handed the Jacob’s staff to the man sewing the hammock around the body. “To help him find his way,” he said, trying to steady his voice.

  The admiral said a few kind words, and then they tipped the body over the side. Cook, the purser, Otto, and Mr. Tybert, all in one day. Bren hoped he would never have to hear the mournful sound of canvas sliding against rough wood ever again.

  No one wanted to talk about what had happened. Sean and Mr. van Decken returned to their duties immediately, despite their injuries, as did Mr. Leiden and Mouse. It was as if talking about what had happened to Otto would mean admitting it was something more than a nightmare, something real that could happen again.

  But Bren couldn’t let go of what he’d witnessed. First the paiza, then Mouse and her strange story and supposed ability to talk to animals. And now this—except Bren wasn’t even sure what this was. Otto had become . . . possessed was the only word Bren could think to describe it. And yet the admiral, or someone or something that looked very much like him, had summoned the power to kill him.

  Bren kept hearing Mr. Leiden say there was no such thing as “the Hunger,” and the admiral countering that he had only to believe his own eyes. Well, Bren didn’t believe in magic, but the list of things that confounded his own eyesight was getting longer. Had others seen what he had? Not just this time, but other times as well? Were there other reasons the men thought the admiral was in league with the Devil?

  And of course, there were Mr. Tybert’s doubts about the mission itself. Doubts echoed by the rest of the crew.

  Sean said the admiral had always shown an interest in Eastern magic, and there were those other books in his trunk that he didn’t want Bren to see. . . .

  Bren decided it was time he saw them.

  He waited until that evening, when the admiral was on duty above, and then he fetched Mouse and led her to the door of the admiral’s personal cabin. He could see the doubt on her face.

  “You mean this is the one place you’ve never snuck into?”

  She shook her head firmly. “Not in there.”

  “This is important, Mouse. Do you trust me?”

  She nodded, and Bren put his ear to the door to make sure it was empty. Mouse picked the lock and they entered the small room, dark except for the pale-blue squares of moonlight that checkered the floor.

  “Under here,” said Bren, crouching next to the admiral’s cot.

  Mouse opened the locker, and Bren began pulling out books and scanning the titles: The Bamboo Chronicles, Records of the Grand Historian, something called Lüshi Chunqiu.

  “Mr. Black would kill for these,” said Bren.

  “What’s this?” said Mouse. Several loose sheets of parchment had fallen out of one of the books. They were filled with cramped writing, and on the top one, written in Dutch, was a foreword of sorts: From a letter, in the authentic hand of the wayfarer Marco Polo, written from prison but never published, and discovered only in the dead man’s effects.

  Bren laid it flat on the floor in a square of light, and they began to read.

  The bulk of my travels I have dictated to my cellmate, one Rustichello da Pisa, a romance writer who promises to publish my account if I am unable to. The content of this letter I have withheld from him, but I feel I must purge my soul through confession, for God’s eyes if no one else’s.

  Our journey of twenty years may seem excessive to some, but I assure you, had the Great Khan had his way, we would never have returned home. Our travels were initially commercial in nature—my father and uncle and I being dealers in silk, gems, and spices. But while my father and uncle mostly remained in Xanadu, I became an emissary of sorts for the Khan, conveying messages to various parts of his kingdom, and also collecting tribute from those he governed. It gave me the chance to travel the full extent of the greatest empire known to man.

  Sending a foreigner on these missions required special consideration, however. The Silk Road wound through nests of robbers and vipers, and there were mountains and deserts where even native travelers feared to go. The Great Khan provided me with a small gold coin, a paiza, the Mongols called it, inscribed with a warning to any and all who might molest me. I was very grateful for this imperial passport, for its words were obeyed by all. It seemed the savagery of Mongol justice was known far and wide.

  After many years on the road, Kublai Khan summoned me back to Xanadu and announced that he had an important new mission for me.

  And what a strange mission it was! For the next seven years I visited a region called Longmen—the Dragon’s Gate—supposedly on the business of the empire, to collect taxes or appoint an official, but my real mission was to observe a child recently born there, a girl named Sun. I pretended the Great Khan took an interest in all the heirs to his empire, and was received into her family’s home with u
tmost courtesy, but upon seeing the child for the first time, I received a shock, for she had apparently been born with only one eye.

  I watched her grow into a young girl during those years, and never observed anything unusual about her, until her tenth birthday. An old man came to the village and presented her with an extraordinary gift: a false eye, made of a rare and precious form of jade that was milky white, like a pearl. With the skill of a healer he set the jade eye in the empty socket, although to my mind it was only scarcely less unnerving to see the solid white eye there, like she was half a ghost.

  When I reported this to the Great Khan, it marked the beginning of the end for me. He told me he would finally grant my family leave to return home, on one condition: I was to take this girl from her family to a secret island in the India Sea, and leave her there to die.

  I was appalled, and demanded an explanation for this madness, and Kublai Khan, evidently convinced of my trustworthiness after my long years of service, finally obliged me. He explained that before the first empire, there had been an ancient people in China who practiced powerful magic, but whose existence had been erased from history. The Shang they were called, and one of the Khan’s star readers had recited for him a prophecy that a Shang heir would be born—a sorceress—to overthrow the Imperials and restore the Ancients. And though he didn’t explain it to me in full, the gift of the jade eye was the sign for him that Sun was that heir.

  The mission on which he sent me I have dictated to my cellmate exactly as the Khan would have had it, that we were dispatched from the empire to take a young princess to Persia as a bride for the sultan, along with ships filled with gold and jewels. This was communicated along the Mongol post system, so that the sultan would be expecting us. However, the girl was never to arrive. I would give the sad news to the sultan, that we had sailed through a terrible storm, and that most of our fleet, and the princess, had been lost. In this way I was to gain my freedom to return home.

  So committed to this insane plan was the emperor that he actually sent three ships—decoys—to be sunk in the North Indian Sea to support his alibi. I could give you nearly the exact coordinates where today you could find this sacrificial ghost fleet.