“We work with the assets we have, Bowman,” said Mr. Richter, unbowed. “You have strength and cunning and a healthy dose of righteous indignation. I have money.”
Bren held his breath as the two men stared at each other, the admiral still clutching Mr. Richter by his vest. It was as if time had stopped and there were invisible forces holding every man in place. And then, the admiral released him.
For a moment, Bren thought he wouldn’t fall. The admiral didn’t push him, exactly, but had been holding him awkwardly, so that when he let go, Mr. Richter’s backside hit the railing at a funny angle, and he teetered there, off-balance, slowly tipping backward, and no one nearby—not the admiral, or Mr. van Decken, or even Bren, to his everlasting shame—moved to help him.
CHAPTER
28
ONE FALLS, ONE SINKS, AND ONE SOARS
He fell from the quarterdeck to the ship’s waist, landing on his back with a sickening crack. At first no one moved. Then Sean ran down from the forecastle and knelt at Mr. Richter’s side. He pressed his ear against his chest.
“I think he’s still alive!”
“I’ll go get Mr. Leiden,” said Bren, and he began to run down the steps to the ship’s waist when suddenly the ship juddered violently, jolting Bren off his feet and headlong down the steps.
“What was that?”
“We hit something!”
“Clew the sails!”
Bren got to his feet and looked out over the front of the ship. In the distance was a dense bluish fog, at once vaporous and solid, like a landscape of mist. Bren thought back to Polo’s letter, about the fortress of clouds. . . .
“Mouse, can you see anything from the crow’s nest?” said the admiral.
“I see birds headed that way,” she said. “I can’t tell where they are going.”
“We should strike the sails entire,” said Sean. “Until we figure out what just knocked us sideways.”
“He’s right,” said Mr. van Decken. “We’ve come this far, why take chances?”
Admiral Bowman was now staring into the distant fog with his spyglass. “Taking chances is what’s gotten me this far,” he said. “Why stop now?”
He pulled the glass away. “Master Owen, finish your task of fetching Mr. Leiden. Mr. Graham, kindly take Mr. van Decken to the brig.” He looked at his first mate, who raised his hands in mock surrender.
As it turned out, Bren didn’t have far to go—Mr. Leiden had run up from below to see what had caused the ship to rock so violently. He went immediately to Mr. Richter when he saw the company man lying motionless on the deck.
“Anything now, Mouse?” called the admiral. But before she could respond, another violent blow rocked the ship, and Bren watched in horror as a long, lightning-shaped crack crossed the deck and ran between his feet. The ship pitched and rolled hard to starboard, causing everyone on deck to lose their balance, and Mouse, who had been leaning over the crow’s nest to yell to the admiral, slipped over the edge.
“Mouse!” cried Bren, from his knees, as he watched her clinging to the side of the iron basket. She lost her grip, but caught herself on one of the ratlines running under the nest. Bren got to his feet, preparing to climb the mast and help her, when another huge wave pitched them starboard again, and Mouse fell.
“No!” he cried again, but all he could do was watch helplessly. She was so small, it was almost like she was floating down from above, a hundred feet in the air, like a stray feather. The ship had pitched so hard to starboard that the top of the mainmast was out over the water, and that’s where she landed, disappearing into the sea with a noiseless splash.
Bren ran toward the side of the ship, but his foot went through the fractured decking and he fell facedown as searing pain grabbed his ankle. He began to cry, from pain, from loss . . . he heard shouting and running feet pounding the decks all around him. He pulled himself together and pried his foot loose from the boards, limping into the fray of men and the growing sense of panic. The deck was splintering; the mainmast was snapped at the tip like a broken twig. Bren tried to run forward, to help the men on the forecastle, but this time his foot went through a widening hole, and down he went, falling with a rain of splinters to the deck below.
He was knocked nearly senseless. It was dark and his vision was blurred, but all around him he heard the fracturing bones of the Albatross. He felt for the necklace around his neck, touched the smooth black stone, and then traced the embossed images on the paiza. Maybe the magic he didn’t believe in would save him.
Suddenly the deck exploded as if a warship had shot a cannonball through the center, and as the structure continued to fail, Bren fell again, into what was once the hold. Now it was a lake, and Bren splashed down among the floating kegs, food barrels, and ruined meats. He heard screams, and realized it was Mr. van Decken, locked in the brig as the ship was sinking and the waters rising. Bren swam over and saw the first mate waist-deep in seawater, jerking on the bars with all his might.
“I don’t have the key!” said Bren, who searched frantically in the drowning hold for something he could use. And then he saw it—one of the loggerheads, half submerged. He grabbed it and swung as hard as he could, striking the lock with the iron ball once, twice, three times, until finally the lock gave.
Mr. van Decken waded free, and swam away from Bren without so much as a thank-you. Bren was on his own. He took a deep breath, and with all the strength he had left, made his way down underwater into the hold, until he found a gaping hole that allowed him to swim free of the hull and away from the collapsing ship.
He swam and he swam until he was out of air, and when he finally surfaced, he gasped at the sight of the Albatross, the mighty yacht he had so admired from Map’s harbor. It was reduced to its ingredients—wooden boards, spars, and canvas. He hoped the men had been able to lower at least one of the two longboats, and that they would find him. And Mouse.
“Mouse!” he screamed, over and over. But if she was out there, if she was trying to call for help, Bren couldn’t hear her.
He still couldn’t see what the ship had hit. An undersea ridge or reef, he supposed. He turned toward the direction of the bluish fog, thinking that whatever it hid—natural or otherwise—it was his only chance.
But when he tried to swim again his muscles rebelled and seized up. His legs and arms cramped, and he couldn’t fight it. He dog-paddled as long as he could, trying to suspend himself there in the water. But after an hour or so, he slipped under the waves.
His body sank and sank, and his mind let him. He floated downward, as if in a dream, pieces of the ship floating gently down around him. The water below was lit from above by the setting sun, and a lifeless man tumbled through the water. Bren recognized the shiny silver buckles of Mr. Richter’s shoes.
Down he went, farther, until an arm wrapped around his neck, as if to save or strangle him. It was a corpse with a swollen white scar on its neck, and it said Beware the Night Demon. And then it was gone.
No! thought Bren, fighting back, clawing his way to the surface, churning the water until he was breathing air, spitting mouthfuls of the salty sea. He could hear shouts from somewhere, and then they disappeared. When his head popped back above water, the shouts returned, then were carried away by waves.
The third time he surfaced, gasping for air, he cried “Mouse! Mouse!” He was sure he had heard her shouting. He tried to swim, but the swells were too high and strong. He looked up to see a huge black bird above him, and he thought it must be his dark soul drifting away from his drowning body. The bird, soaring above the wreckage, turned and looked at Bren with the most brilliant pair of blue eyes, and then, exhausted from struggle, Bren went down one last time.
CHAPTER
29
THE HALL OF JADE
Bren wasn’t even sure why he had learned how to swim. Few boys his age could, other than splashing around in shallow creeks and ponds. His mother had taught him, because she was from the lake country, he guessed. She had
taught him not to be afraid of the water, how to use his arms and legs in concert and to use the water’s buoyancy to help him. She had said you never knew when you might need to hide from a troll in a sea cave, or might be invited to tea at the court of Atlantis.
If you knew how to swim, you couldn’t drown, could you?
But Bren couldn’t swim, not anymore. His head broke the surface and a rolling wave lifted him up, on a bed of water, and just as quickly tossed him down again. He spit water when he rose again, and this time held his breath, trying to make himself float, hoping the waves were rolling toward land.
Just when he thought he could hold his breath no more, one last wave spit him from the sea, facedown onto wet sand. He wanted to lie there forever, but when the next wave crashed over him, he began to crawl forward on his hands and knees, until the ground beneath him was warm and dry, and he lay down and slept.
He woke up on his back. Above him the sky stretched across like an extended wing, mottled blue-grey with patches of white. He couldn’t remember where he was, or the dreams he’d had. He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked around. The beach disappeared into a thick line of ferns and large-leafed bushes with bright flowers, and behind them, in the distance, rose a snaggle of hills. He was completely alone.
He forced himself not to cry. There was no use. He was here now, and he had to figure out what to do next. But where was here?
And then he remembered—at least he had the paiza, for what it was worth. He reached inside his collar and was relieved when his fingers grasped the leather lanyard. And there was the black stone, clasped in iron . . . and, what? Where was it?
He jerked the necklace over his head and laid it in the sand.
The paiza was gone!
Suddenly panic began to set in. He wasn’t even sure how the amulet had worked, or what good it would do him on a deserted island. Except that it had protected him. And now he was completely vulnerable.
As if the island sensed his weakness, there was a commotion among the bushes, and Bren scrambled to his feet, preparing for a wild boar or some other fierce creature to charge from the jungle. And then she emerged, and Bren’s heart leaped like a fish on the deck—it was Mouse! He hadn’t dared hope that she might actually have survived her fall. He ran to her, as best his wobbly legs and sprained ankle would carry him.
“Mouse! What happened? I didn’t know you could swim!”
“I can’t,” said Mouse. “I’m not sure what happened. I was drowning, but then it was like the waves picked me up and kept me safe, and carried me here.”
Bren nodded. He had had a similar feeling, being carried to the shore. He noticed Mouse had several pieces of fruit in her arms, each the size of a potato. He took one. “This is okay?”
“The giant bats seem to love it,” she said.
“Giant bats?” said Bren, and suddenly, instead of worrying about his empty stomach, he thought of the stories he’d heard back in Map that the Netherlanders had discovered islands in the Far East populated with giant prehistoric beasts . . . lizards the size of mountains, and apes that could crush a village with their fists.
He took a bite of the fruit, which was about the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten—sweet and juicy, the meat of it dense and satisfying.
“Have you seen . . . ?” said Bren. Mouse shook her head. “I wonder if anyone else survived.”
Mouse said nothing, and they each ate a second piece of fruit.
“We should probably go,” she finally said, both their faces sticky with fruit juice.
“Go where?” said Bren. He was on dry ground, and not drowning or being attacked by Iberians or rebellious natives. He wanted to stay right there, in that very spot.
“To find what the admiral was looking for.”
“You think it’s really here?” said Bren. “You know where to look?” It occurred to him that Mouse had been with the admiral much longer than he had. There were probably things she knew, or that the admiral had told her, that she hadn’t shared with Bren.
“I’m not sure,” said Mouse. “But we have to look.”
Bren’s first step sent a sharp pain shooting from his ankle through his leg, and he winced as he remembered his foot going through the planks in the deck.
“Your necklace,” said Mouse, handing it to him.
“Oh, right,” said Bren. The paiza was gone, but the stone was all he had to remember his mother by.
From the beach the island sloped upward, which made walking even more painful. But the denseness of the jungle would have made it slow going regardless. A little later Bren asked, “Mouse, do you think Admiral Bowman is a bad man?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Just . . . what happened with Mr. Richter, and some other things I’ve seen him do. . . .” He faltered, not sure how much he should say, given her seeming loyalty to the admiral.
“I know you don’t understand why I wanted to stay with him,” said Mouse. “All I know is, if not for him, I’d still be at that orphanage. And even this is better than that. He saved me.”
“Why did he take you from that orphanage?” said Bren.
“I told you, he said I was special.”
They walked on without talking for a long time. Everything they saw, every tree and bush and bird, was new to Bren, and he would have loved to record what he saw, but his journal was gone. He could re-create it, he was sure. He could recall every word he’d written and every picture he’d drawn. But what good would that do if he didn’t have paper?
Sometime in the late afternoon, Bren began to get hungry again. They were surrounded by berries and other fruits, as well as large seeds from some of the native trees. Mr. Black had told him once about how to test unfamiliar plants to see if they’re poisonous: Rub a leaf or piece of fruit against your lips to see if there is any irritation. If not, touch it to your tongue. If everything seems okay after that, it’s probably safe to eat.
Another twinge of panic set in. How many such survival skills did Bren need to know? What if they were marooned forever, forced to start from scratch, figuring out how to survive each day for the rest of their lives? The island was lush—there was fruit, and there must be water. But how did you make a bucket? With what tools would he fell a tree to make a house? How did you make a house?
They did find a stream on the other side of a ridge. And there were birds and lizards to eat, if it came to that, and fish, of course. They saw no pigs or monkeys or horses or dogs, let alone giant beasts. The weather was surprisingly mild, and despite how the island had looked from the sea, Bren saw no trace of fog or clouds. As they continued their quest, it all looked exactly the same—the hills, the valleys, the streams. This side of the island and the other . . . this chorus of birds and that hum of insects, and the whispering language of trees.
“Let’s make a camp,” said Bren as the sun began to set. “It’s warm enough; we don’t need a fire. Just some shelter in case it rains.”
As they lay down to sleep, Bren said, “Mouse, did you see a black bird with blue eyes flying over the water? I could have sworn . . .”
“That it was the admiral?” she said.
Mouse pushed herself up to sitting, found a small stone, and placed it on Bren’s chest. She picked it up and set it back down in the same place.
“Mouse . . .”
“Just watch,” she said, and she lay back down and closed her eyes. A moment later, a small lizard ran up Bren’s stomach and onto his chest, picked the stone up with its mouth, and set it back down again. The lizard ran off, and then a small bird fluttered down from a tree and did the same thing. The bird flew off, and Mouse opened her eyes and sat up.
Bren stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
“That’s why the admiral took me,” she said. “I’ve been able to soul-travel as long as I can remember, but only into animals. The orphan matron was scared of me. That’s the real reason she called me Mouse, and she thought I was of the Devil.”
“And I
guess word of a possessed child attracts attention,” said Bren. “The admiral must’ve heard about it on his travels.”
Mouse nodded. “He considered it a sign that what he believed in was real, and that I could help him.”
Bren thought back to that eerie night in Map, in his room, when Mr. Grey kept coming and going, pawing his neck as if looking for something. . . . He looked at Mouse and started to ask but decided not to.
“The admiral is more powerful,” Mouse said, after a long pause. “You need to know this. He can physically change into a bird, or another creature, for short times. I didn’t see the bird you’re talking about, though.”
Bren was suddenly very afraid. He kept scanning the trees for signs of a blue-eyed bird. As he began to get sleepy, though, he stared up at the stars, wondering if he was looking at the same sky Marco Polo had the night he brought an innocent girl to her place of exile, to die because of the superstitions of others.
The next morning, Mouse took the lead as if she knew exactly where she wanted to go. As if she had been here before. And Bren didn’t question her. They walked all day without stopping—it was only Bren’s sense of pride as the older of the two that kept him from begging for a break—until they emerged from the jungle onto a river, just downstream from a towering waterfall.
Mouse stopped, and Bren stopped, too, waiting for a sign.
“Mouse?”
“‘A curtain of pearls hangs before the hall of jade,’” she began, “‘and within is a lovely lady, fairer in form than the gods and immortals, her face like a blossom of peach or plum. Spring mists will cover the eastern mansion, autumn winds blow from the western lodge, and after many years have passed . . .’”
She stopped, and then, as if coming out of a trance, she shook her head and looked up at Bren. He realized she was quoting the poem that had been left on his cot that night.
“A curtain of pearls,” she said, and pointed toward the waterfall. “Come on.”
He nodded and followed her along the river up to the waterfall, and standing directly beside it they could see that the cascading water hid the mouth of a cave.
The Vanishing Island Page 21
