The Vanishing Island

by Barry Wolverton

  “We ain’t plotting to take the ship,” said one. “Just abandon this cockamamie mission. Bowman’s not thinkin’ straight. He’s . . . he’s possessed or somethin’.”

  “And that should make a fine argument when you bring it to him,” said Sean.

  And that was that, as far as a public airing of the crew’s concerns. But the grumbling went on.

  Later Bren stood at the side of the ship, bent over from exhaustion, and took a long look at the colony. It was a tidy arrangement of bright white buildings along the coast, surrounded by lush green pastures being grazed by horned cattle. Beyond the town sloped green grassy hills that surrounded an odd-looking flat-topped mountain, and farther still Bren could just make out a straw-colored tableland dotted with green trees and small, dome-shaped huts. At the foot of the mountain was a large, isolated house that Bren assumed to be that of Governor van Loon. Even from this distance Bren could see servants carrying provisions to the rear of the house, where the kitchen must be, in preparation for their banquet tonight.

  Bren couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with the admiral. Was he in the service of a man who could change the world for good, or a lunatic? And was the object of Bowman’s obsession even real? Was this so-called vanishing island real? The men were right to doubt, though he had read enough about mutinies to know he didn’t want to partake in one.

  Despite everything that had happened, Bren couldn’t bring himself to believe the Marco Polo story, or that Fortune might be real. For as long as he had tried to run away from Map, all he wanted now was to go home. He hadn’t realized how much until he overheard the governor mention the ship going back to Amsterdam. Suddenly he knew, more than anything, that he wanted to be on the Dolphin.

  But what choice did he have now, if he couldn’t leave the ship? He wasn’t a strong enough swimmer to make it to shore, or to where the Dolphin was anchored. He considered asking Mouse to send a message back to Map, by way of bird, but what good would that do? Neither his father nor Mr. Black could talk to birds.

  “It’s a funny-looking thing, isn’t it?”

  Bren jumped. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard Sean walk up.

  “Sorry, Bren. I thought you were looking at Table Mountain.”

  Bren realized he was talking about the odd flat-topped mountain that seemed to wall off Cape Colony from the rest of Africa.

  “I bet Mr. Tybert had a story about it,” said Bren.

  Sean smiled. “I know one; told by the Africans, though, not the Netherlanders.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I can’t spin a tale like Mr. Tybert, but here goes.” Sean cleared his throat. “They say Africa was shaped by a great battle between two bulls named Throw Mountains and Only One. Only One came first, and had no rivals until a young bull was born and hidden away by his keeper, a young boy who wanted the young bull to someday rule the herd. Every year as the young bull grew, the boy took him before a huge boulder and challenged him to move it. How can you hope to throw Only One if you can’t move the boulder? the boy said.

  “When the young bull had grown so large that his horns were like tree trunks, he smashed the boulder to pieces, and the falling rocks became the mountains of Africa. Only One saw this and demanded to know who would be so bold. Thus did the two bulls come face-to-face, the young looking to overthrow the old.

  “I am Throw Mountains, said the young bull, for that is the name he had earned, and I am here to take your herd.”

  “Mr. Tybert would have said it was just like a jongen to be impertinent,” said Bren. Sean laughed.

  “The two bulls lowered their heads and pawed the ground, preparing to charge. Their massive hooves stripped the ground bare of grass and trees, creating the great deserts of the north. When they charged, their hooves and raking horns gashed the ground with deep furrows that became mighty rivers. Where one bull threw the other, their bodies created valleys and lakes where they hit the earth.

  “Finally, Throw Mountains caught Only One under his chest with one of those powerful horns and tossed him across the face of the sun, creating an eclipse that lasted until the next moon, until the old bull crashed atop Table Mountain, flattening it like a German pancake.”

  Bren smiled in spite of himself. When he was a boy, his mother had sung him a rhyme that included the lyric “the cow jumped over the moon,” but he liked this wilder version of cow astronomy better.

  “Sorry you’re stuck on the boat, lad,” said Sean.

  “At least the company is good,” said Bren, who thanked Sean for the story and said good night. He went below to his cabin, took out his journal, and began to write:

  The Adventures of Bren Owen, apprentice cartographer and navigator of the Dutch Bicycle & Tulip Company flagship, Albatross, having left the port of Map, Britannia, the first of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1599, and having been at sea to date for . . .

  Bren suddenly sat up, putting the journal aside and closing his eyes. He brought forth the image of the Marco Polo letter and began to read it in his mind’s eye:

  On the first day of October, in the year of our Lord 1292, we traveled overland to the City of Lions, on the northeast coast of the Indian Sea. . . . The girl and I embarked on a small ship for the south, and . . . on our thirty-eighth day at sea . . .

  That was it. The missing information was all right there. The admiral had missed it because the last time he had read the letter, who knows when, he hadn’t known how important the dates were.

  He would need the admiral’s books, and his knowledge, but they needed only to know what city was called the City of Lions, and how long an overland journey would have taken from Xanadu. Plus thirty-eight days at sea. They would know the date Marco Polo drew his star map.

  Bren had done it. He had all the information he needed. The admiral had promised him anything he wanted, and for all he didn’t understand about Admiral Bowman, the man had been true to his word. He would give him the solution to the map, if the admiral would give him to the Dolphin.

  CHAPTER

  26

  THE BANQUET

  Bren’s plan was sound, he thought. He just had to convince Sean to let him off the boat first.

  “He’ll want to hear what I have to tell him, I promise,” said Bren.

  “And it can’t wait till he’s back on board?” said Sean, as if he were talking to an impatient child.

  “No,” said Bren. “It cannot.”

  Perhaps it was the firmness with which he said it. Or the serious, steely look in his eyes. Or maybe Sean just wanted an excuse to set foot on land for a bit—Bren didn’t care the reason, just that he finally got Sean to agree.

  “I’ll row you over myself,” he said, “and make sure the admiral gets the message to expect you.”

  “Do you really not trust me?” said Bren. It sort of hurt his feelings that Sean was treating him as a flight risk, even though running away was exactly what Bren was planning to do.

  “I trust you, lad,” said Sean. “I even like you. But I also know what happens to men who don’t mind their duties, and one of my duties is making sure the admiral leaves port with a full crew.”

  “Can Mouse come, too?”

  “Why?”

  Bren didn’t answer right away. What could he say? That he liked her? That she had become his only real friend in the world under the age of sixty? And that he wanted to wait as long as possible to tell her good-bye?

  “Never mind,” said Sean, with a wry grin. “We could use a hand rowing.”

  Bren went below to gather his things before remembering that he didn’t want to tip Sean off. So he simply tucked his journal into his waist, and then reached under his mattress for the knife Mr. Tybert had given him.

  The row over was pleasant enough, and once Sean had both boots on the ground, he looked around and said, “Might as well take a tour of the place, yeah?”

  Bren and Mouse eagerly agreed, and Cape Colony seemed even more perfect up close. The nea
t buildings, the carefully kept plots of land, the well-dressed Dutch in cheerful warm-weather clothes, breezing down packed-dirt roadways on their black Dutch bicycles.

  The natives frightened Bren at first. They were the darkest men he had ever seen. Khoikhoi, they were called, who spoke to each other with what sounded like clicking to Bren’s ear. But as they continued to walk around, visiting various dry goods stores and other suppliers, the natives were nothing but polite to them, and Bren’s fear lessened.

  “Excuse me,” said Bren to a shopkeeper in a store that sold leather goods, “but may I ask what day it is?”

  The shopkeeper gave Bren a funny look, but answered him. Bren did a quick calculation in his head and realized it was exactly the day it should be, according to the ship’s logbook. So they weren’t time travelers. Though that still didn’t explain what had happened with the Iberians. In fact, it made it even more confusing.

  “What sort of question was that?” said Sean, once they were back out on the street.

  “I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t lost track of time,” said Bren.

  “I bloody hope not,” said Sean. “You’re the bloody navigator!”

  As the sun set, the three of them went to the Boer’s Head Tavern for a drink before walking to the sprawling house of Governor van Loon. The front of the house was framed by a large porch, where the governor’s other guests had assembled, sitting in rocking chairs with pre-dinner drinks and socializing with a well-dressed woman who turned out to be the governor’s wife.

  The admiral was talking to Captain Kroeger of the Dolphin, and it was as if their difference in rank was described by their appearance—the admiral tall and lean, with his tapering beard; the captain pleasantly pudgy, with a large mustache that stuck straight out to the sides, like it was trying to measure how wide his face was. Captain Kroeger smiled broadly when Sean approached, but it was clear the admiral was not pleased.

  “Sorry, Admiral,” said Sean. “Bren says it’s important.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Captain,” said the admiral, who walked over to Bren, each step he took punctuated by tapping the ground with his fox-headed walking stick. Bren hadn’t seen him use it since Map.

  “Can we talk privately?” said Bren.

  The admiral, clearly irked now, found Governor van Loon, said something to him, and then waved Bren, Sean, and Mouse into the house. Bren hadn’t planned on sharing this with them. In a way he was ashamed for wanting to go home. But he decided they might as well hear it from him.

  “I’ve figured out how we can decode the star map,” said Bren, when they were alone.

  The admiral’s eyes immediately brightened, but then there was something else there . . . caution. He knew Bren was up to something.

  “That’s marvelous, Bren. But you could have told me that tomorrow, on the Albatross.”

  “I don’t want to go back there,” said Bren. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sean and Mouse look at each other. “I want to go back home, on the Dolphin.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said the admiral. “After you’ve solved the map? When we finally know the location of a treasure that has gone unclaimed for three centuries? One that can change all our lives?”

  You say, thought Bren, but all he said was, “I want to go home. You have the map. You don’t need me.”

  “I disagree,” the admiral began, but Bren interrupted him.

  “You promised me anything I want.”

  The admiral was momentarily speechless. “I meant after we get to the island,” he said. “That what awaits us there can grant us power beyond reckoning. Think about it.”

  “I told you what I want,” said Bren. “You said you were a man of your word.”

  “But your mother—”

  “Don’t bring her up,” said Bren, in the hardest voice he dared use against Admiral Bowman. But it was hard enough. The admiral backed down.

  “Very well, Bren. I will speak to Captain Kroeger after dinner. I can’t invite children to the banquet table, but you can blend in with the servants until we’re finished. Sean, take Mouse back to the ship.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I want Mouse to stay,” said Bren, and he turned to her. “I want her to come with me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the surprise on Sean’s face.

  The admiral laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Anything I want includes Mouse staying with me,” said Bren. “To you she’s just another exotic item you’ve collected from the Far East.”

  “Hardly,” said Admiral Bowman. “And what makes you so sure she wants to go with you?”

  They both turned to her. It had never occurred to Bren that she stayed with the admiral for any reason other than that she had no choice. He was giving her one. But without looking up, she simply said, “I’m meant to stay with the ship.”

  The admiral smiled. Bren felt himself getting angry. “Mouse, you don’t have to do this. You can go back to Map with me, and—”

  “And what?” said the admiral. “Live the life you worked so hard to escape? Maybe you’re the one who hasn’t thought this through.”

  Bren didn’t know what to say. He felt humiliated. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he said finally.

  “Very well,” said the admiral, looking at Bren with contempt. “You win. Although what a feeble prize you claim.”

  Admiral Bowman sent Sean back to the ship, but he asked Mouse to stay, as it would be the last time she and Bren saw each other. When it came time for dinner, Bren and Mouse were instructed to stand in the corner and be as still as possible. “Follow the footmen’s lead,” said the admiral, and once dinner was served Bren watched the small army of Khoikhoi approach the table in turn, refill a wine or water glass, then recede into the shadows as if they had never existed.

  Governor van Loon sat at the head of the long table. To his right was Admiral Bowman and to his left was his wife; to her left was Captain Kroeger. Mr. Richter and Mr. van Decken were sprinkled in with the rest of the twenty or so guests, who were a mix of various cultures—European, Persian, African—but all dressed like they could afford to be invited to the governor’s table.

  Slowly the table began to fill up with food, and Bren hadn’t realized how hungry he was until one servant after another came through the swinging door to the dining hall and passed by him with platters of fresh fruit and cheese, tureens of hot soup, dishes of savory-smelling vegetables and potatoes, and enormous cuts of roasted meats that made Bren’s mouth water. He and Mouse exchanged looks, but Bren quickly looked away, still hurt by her rejection.

  After almost an hour of indulgence, the trophy dish was brought forth: a boar’s head the size of a rhino’s that reminded Bren of his old nemesis, Duke Swyers. It was carried on a wooden plank by two servants as if it were a foreign dignitary, its eyes fixed open but its mouth closed, a menacing pair of tusks curving up and around the top of its snout like horns on a Viking helmet. Some guests oohed and ahhed but most of their faces went rigid with fear or disgust, as the grotesque head was brought near and then set down, facing the head of the table as if it had requested an audience with the governor.

  “Have you ever eaten boar’s head, Admiral?” said the governor, clearly pleased with his display.

  “I’ve eaten everything once,” the admiral replied.

  “Well, you haven’t had Cape boar, I’d wager,” said the governor, trying hard to impress. “Wild boar was imported from northern Europe by the Dutch, but the damned things ran rampant once they got here. Now they’re a menace.”

  “How do we set at it?” asked a man who was seated right in front of the boar’s head. He was staring at the monstrous thing, goggle-eyed, as if he were afraid it might come to life. “It doesn’t even appear to be cooked.”

  Bren noticed he was right. The boar still had a full head of hair, stiff bristles of brown and white covering it like a porcupine.

  “Ah, that’s the fun part!” said the governor. “We only eat th
e tongue, the eyes, and the brain.”

  The governor snapped his fingers and two servants emerged from the background, both armed. One took what looked like a small silver spoon and skillfully scooped out the boar’s eyes. He then grabbed the tusks and held open the boar’s mouth while the other grabbed the blackened tongue and sliced it off, quick as that, and laid the thing with a thump in front of the snout in the middle of the table.

  One guest fainted, falling against Mr. Richter, who nudged her away until she fell against the man to her left, who did the same. They exchanged her several more times before she finally fell forward into her plate.

  “We’ll save the brains for last,” said the governor, and then he motioned for a servant to bring him the small dish with the boar’s eyes.

  “One each for our guests of honor,” he said, motioning for the admiral and the captain to help themselves.

  The admiral looked at the offering, not with disgust or delight, but with boredom. He popped the eyeball into his mouth, chewed once or twice, and swallowed. The audience then turned to Captain Kroeger, who Bren could tell would gladly have passed, except that he would look weak.

  The captain grabbed the other eyeball and threw it into his mouth, as if he were trying to hurl it down his throat and past his taste buds. But it lodged between his rear molars, and when he bit down a mist of milky liquid sprayed from the corner of his mouth and onto the face of the governor’s wife.

  A second guest fainted.

  “You got the juicy one, Captain!” said the governor, who roared with laughter as he dried his wife’s face with a linen. Captain Kroeger looked hopelessly embarrassed, his mustache drooping.

  And then Bren noticed something curious. Admiral Bowman appeared to signal one of the servants, and it wasn’t to ask for more wine.

  Snap! Snap! went the governor, and servants removed the dishes and replaced them with clean ones.

  “So what of these rumors of unrest among the natives?” said the admiral. “Does it make you uncomfortable to be surrounded by Khoikhoi?”

  The governor seemed confused. “Unrest? What unrest? What rumors? Do you not see the cattle tended and the fields plowed?” He looked around the room. “Are my servants not happy and attentive?”