Before he had his fill, though, before he could enjoy the sensation of being satisfied, the storm grew worse. The squall turned cold and violent, spinning the raft around so that Nemo had no idea which direction to sail. The waves thrust him up and down, battering him worse than the persistent shark had. The rain revived him from his daze—just in time for him to realize the danger he faced.
The frayed rope holding his raft together creaked, half rotted through. The small keg of wet gunpowder bobbed and clattered against the wooden crates. A gust tore the sailcloth out of Nemo’s hands, so that the tattered canvas flapped like a banner in the wind. He tried to clutch the rough fabric in a desperate effort to steer, but the wind yanked the sail from his trembling fingers a second time. Nemo let it go as the raft rode up and crashed down in a surge of whitecaps.
Drenched and choking, he grabbed the rope and the corners of the crates with his last strength. He could do nothing more than hold on. Rain pounded on his skin like tiny nails. The wind moaned with the cries of sailors lost at sea. Nemo clung as the waves crashed against him from all sides.
Minute by minute the storm grew worse. . . .
When Nemo awoke again, he found himself cast upon a rocky, jagged beach. The splintered remains of his crates had been tossed high up on the shingle, and the blue waters of the lagoon behind him were calm as a mirror now, a taunting apology for the storm.
He blinked, amazed to be alive even on this forbidding shore. The island’s coastline spread out on either side of him, covered with rocks and sand. In the center of the land mass towered the tall cone of a steep, smoldering volcano.
Nemo got to his feet, brushed sand and broken shells from his skin, and looked around. As the sun rose he took an inventory of his resources.
He could see forests and streams farther inland, so he knew he could survive here. Water and then food would be his immediate priorities. Nemo swallowed a hard lump in his still-parched throat and began to explore this mysterious island.
It would be his home until he could find a way to rescue himself.
PART III
T HE M YSTERIOUS
I SLAND
I
Nantes, 1842
As he stood at the rotting dock, Jules Verne couldn’t guess the last time anyone had taken the weathered sailboat out onto the river. His reddish hair purposely unkempt (to look more worldly wise and savvy than his lanky frame implied), he lifted his eyebrows and appraised the vessel’s chipped gray wood.
“I’m not convinced, Monsieur,” he said to the pot-bellied owner. “It doesn’t look entirely . . . seaworthy.”
The plump owner leaned against the moss-grown retaining wall. “She’s only one franc, boy.” He spat out the chewed end of a grass stem. “Go on, take her for the day. You look like an adventurous boy.” His smile showed gapped brown teeth. “I used to have a lot of fun with her when I was your age.”
Verne didn’t want to think about how long ago that had been.
A scum of algae rode at the water line, with drying clumps higher up to show that the boat had sunk even deeper when filled with rainwater. Larger boats went by on their business down the Loire, stopping at Nantes or continuing to Paimboeuf. His friend Nemo had departed two years earlier, riding the Coralie out into the wide world. But Verne was still stuck in Nantes and waiting to make something of himself.
Today, the warm water was green and summer calm—just like the afternoon when Nemo had experimented with his underwater breathing apparatus. Sunlight shone, making it a beautiful day for sailing. Considering the single patched sail on the boat’s short mast, Verne wondered how far downriver this vessel could manage.
He pointed an accusing finger at the craft, as if trying to talk himself out of the escapade. “She doesn’t even have a keel.”
The old man shrugged. “Never bothered me.”
Verne had never stopped dreaming about a life of travels to exotic lands. He longed for when he’d been able to share those hopes with Nemo, and Caroline too. Perhaps this sailboat was the best he could do for now. A river outing on this ramshackle rented boat might be just what he needed.
In his pocket, his fingers rubbed a franc coin. He pretended to be more concerned about the money than taking the boat by himself without telling his father. But at his age, he should be making his own choices, whatever the consequences. It wasn’t so much money, really. Not for a grand adventure.
The old owner scratched his bulging belly, in no hurry for Verne to make a decision. Flies buzzed by, and the water smelled of fish and drying weeds. Some might have found the smells unpleasant, but Verne had lived on the riverfront all his life. To him, the Loire carried the scents of distant countries, treasures and trinkets, rich spices and unusual cuisine.
Right now, he supposed Nemo was having a fine time sailing the seven seas. Had he already gone around the world? Both Verne and Caroline had received a few dated letters from Nemo, but the last one had arrived some time ago. However, messages sent across such great distances were often delayed or lost. He was anxious to hear news, and it did not occur to him to worry.
Verne looked again at the small, forlorn boat. Though his friend lived a life of excitement, he would have to content himself with drifting downriver in a leaky sailboat. He looked at the questionable craft, then at the potbellied man, and yanked the coin out of his pocket. “I’ll take it for the day.”
With agonizing slowness the old man extended his hand to take the money. “Ride out with the descending tide, and then come back with the flood tide a few hours later. You can’t get lost. Just follow the river.”
Verne worked at the damp knots of the frayed tether rope. “I’m not worried, Monsieur. I have faced danger before.”
Earlier, when Nemo’s silence had stretched for eighteen months, Verne had screwed up his courage and gone to see Caroline Aronnax. He met her in the outdoor café where they stole a bit of conversation over cups of chocolat chaud and gooseberry pastries.
Looking at Caroline, Verne still felt the confusion of youthful love. Stranded here in Nantes while Nemo went around the world, Verne felt as if he had let her down. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to take care of André, as I promised to do.”
She dismissed his concern. “I’m sure he can take care of himself.”
Verne shared his new stories and poems with her, glowing every time she laughed at one of his clever plot twists. He needed to show her that the son of a dull though modestly successful attorney was worthy of her love. M. Aronnax was a friendly enough sort, though Caroline’s mother always sniffed in disapproval when Verne came asking after her daughter. . . .
Hands trembling around the delicate porcelain cup in the outdoor café, he tried to meet Caroline’s bright blue eyes. Verne noted how beautiful she looked in a lilac dress and a hat trimmed with fine lace from Chantille. She kept nudging the lace aside, as if it made her itch. “So, what did you want to see me about, Jules? Another new adventure story?” She laughed in anticipation. “Pirates on the high seas? Explorers in Amazon jungles?”
“Not a story this time, Caroline, though I did write you a . . . poem. But I, uh, forgot to bring it with me.” He flushed, remembering his heartfelt and embarrassing expressions of undying love. He didn’t dare let her read them, though. “I . . . you must be aware of my . . . feelings for you.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like you to consider—” He drew a deep breath.
All the words drained out of his head: the beautiful speech, the lyrical love letters he had written but never sent, the passionate sonnets. “I mean, would you wait for me? I realize you miss Nemo, but he’s been gone for a long time.”
Caroline looked up, startled. At least she didn’t laugh at him. Instead, she clasped his hand. “Oh, Jules—you dear, sweet, optimistic boy.” He felt as if his heart might catch on fire. He hadn’t dared to hope that she might say Yes.
Then Caroline’s face clouded. “You cannot think I have any choice in the man I marry? Whether it is you, or Nemo—or a
nybody else? There was a time when I had hoped . . . but that no longer matters.” She tried to soften the blow. “Jules, my father is a wealthy merchant, already negotiating with other families to secure a proper husband for me. My mother began making plans years ago.”
Caroline hadn’t said outright that he wasn’t good enough for her, hadn’t said that she still clung to a hope that André Nemo would return with chests full of gold and jewels from ports on the other side of the world.
She didn’t need to. Verne understood it all too well.
He would have died for her touch at any other time, but now he withdrew his hand. “I thank you for hearing me out, Mademoiselle.” He sounded much too formal.
Her face fell into sadness again. “Wait, Jules. Will you not stay a while and tell me one of your stories?”
With a slow shake of his head, he stood, tossed a few coins on the table without even counting them, and marched off in search of a place where he could be alone with his wounded pride. . . .
Now, trying to find a comfortable spot on the old sailboat’s splintered seat, Verne paddled into the current and set the patched sail to catch a breeze. The potbellied man, who had not lifted a finger to help, plucked a fresh stalk of grass and stood chewing, still leaning against the stone wall. Verne was glad to sail out of sight so he no longer needed to pretend to know what he was doing.
Several times Verne nearly capsized, from either a misguided shove at the helm, a botched maneuver, or an ill-advised tug on the sail rope when a swell ruffled the Loire. It was truly dangerous.
He was having the time of his life.
In the doldrums of summer, the low water was treacherous because of occasional sandbars. The sailboat handled sluggishly, catching a breeze in its threadbare sail and lumbering about like a blinded ox. He shaded his eyes against the bright sun, hugging the shore as he enviously watched pleasure yachts skim past him. Someday, he wanted to purchase a boat like that.
The outgoing tide was strong and the current swift, and many miles of riverbank passed by. Two years ago, while leaving home on the Coralie, he had felt himself a brave sailor on a tall ship cruising toward distant adventures. I really would have gone along! This was much different, of course. Verne navigated around sandbars and islands covered with willows and reeds despite periodic dunkings from seasonal high waters. He would never get far in this old hulk.
But still, it was something.
Engrossed in this journey, he didn’t notice the seeping water at his feet until it sloshed around his ankles. He scowled at the rising puddle, wondering if the old owner had duped him, or if the man had just overestimated the seaworthiness of his boat.
By now, Verne was many miles from home. Using his heel, he pushed down on the sideboard to determine the extent of the leak. With an alarming crack, one of the planks split. He placed his hands over his mouth in horror, then bent down, trying to hold the rotted wood together. But water gushed through the broken hull like wet fingers, prying the weakened boards apart.
Verne grabbed the sail as if he could turn the skiff around and flit homeward. The old boat, however, began to break apart, riding lower in the water, splitting at the sides. He waved and called for help, but saw no one to assist him, not even any pleasure yachts. His collapsing vessel sank deeper, until the water was up to his knees in the little boat. Not much better than being in the river itself.
He tugged the sail again, trying to angle the waterlogged craft toward a low, wooded island that protruded from the Loire. When the skiff broke apart completely, Verne abandoned ship and plunged into the warm, waist-deep water. He slogged through mud to the solid ground of the islet. He had no supplies, no resources—and he was stranded.
On shore, he trudged through clawing willow branches to find a sunny spot where he could dry himself. “Hello, is anyone else here?” He raised his voice again, but already he knew this would be a deserted island, a small refuge in the middle of the wide estuary.
No one lived here. He was alone . . . on an uninhabited island.
Verne sat down on a fallen tree, wondering what he should do, indignant that the rented sailboat had fallen into pieces on him. He certainly didn’t intend to pay the old man for the damages. His father was a lawyer, after all—in fact, the potbellied owner’s blatant disregard for a young man’s safety would look very bad in a court of law.
But Verne didn’t want to think what his father would say about the whole misadventure. How would he get rescued? Would he ever see his home again? His loving mother, his sisters, his young brother Paul?
Around him, he found an unexplored world of trees and grass. This was the closest he’d ever been to reenacting his beloved “Robinson” stories. He allowed himself a wan smile . . . and then his imagination took over.
In clothes still wet and uncomfortable, Verne pushed his way through the clumps of willows, knocking aside gnarled branches that scratched his face. As his soggy shoes sank into the river grass that covered the ground, he thought that perhaps he might be the first person ever to walk here. These footprints—like the footprints the man Friday had left on Crusoe’s beach—might be the first mark a human soul had ever made on this untamed land.
He studied the loose rocks piled by spring floodwaters and imagined firepits with blackened bones from cannibal feasts. But he found nothing more than a rat’s nest and a worm-eaten plank washed up from some old ship.
His heart thumped, and a foolish grin crossed his face. This might be similar to some of the ordeals Nemo was enduring on his world-wide explorations. He couldn’t wait to tell his friend about it.
Before long, Verne was sweaty, sunburned, and miserable. This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined the adventure would be, but he tried to make the best of the situation. As any true castaway would have done, he salvaged the sail from his sunken boat where it had caught on shore weeds. Then he raised a lean-to shelter of weathered sticks to protect him from wind and storms, hurricanes or snow. Curled on the prickly ground, he imagined he could live here for a while, isolated from the world. Perhaps he’d even keep a journal of his daily struggles, scratch words on smooth bark. There was no telling how long he might remain lost on his little island. . . .
Exhausted in the afternoon and at a loss for what else to do, he tried to nap, troubled by thoughts of tropical storms or pirate ships on the prowl. The ground was uncomfortable, and his shelter let in the biting flies so prevalent during summer along the sluggish river.
Within an hour, Verne began to consider how he might signal for help. He thought of piling dry branches and lighting a bonfire so that passing ships could see the smoke and send rowboats to investigate. But as Verne gathered sticks from the shore, he realized he had no matches and no other way of lighting the blaze. Glum, he sat with his chin in his hands.
He had absorbed the wilderness adventures of James Fenimore Cooper, tales of wild Indians, Hawkeye and Chinganook, The Last of the Mohicans, The Deerslayer, Drums Along the Mohawk. He had learned about survival in an untamed new world.
But though he furiously rubbed sticks together, he got no smoke or sparks—only blisters.
Frustrated, Verne knocked apart his pile of firewood and scanned the islet again. His stomach knotted with the first pangs of hunger, and he wondered what he might eat, since he had packed no lunch. Could he perhaps fashion a stone knife or maybe a throwing ax to kill some wild animal? He would skin it and roast its haunch over a crackling fire.
But again, he had no fire, no weapons, and he’d never killed anything in his life. He couldn’t recall seeing any animals other than a few sparrows on this whole islet. He doubted he could even catch fish in the river without net or line.
How could anyone survive like this?
Before the afternoon was out, Verne was miserable. When he went back to the shore, he found that the broken boat lay high on a hummock of wet silt. The tide had gone out, draining the estuary and leaving an expanse of glistening mud flats. With a sinking feeling, he realized he could simply w
alk to the main shore.
Verne sloshed through brown, ankle-deep muck and lost one of his shoes in the sucking mire. The mud flats stank of old weeds and refuse and belly-up fish. Verne’s sunburned face was streaked with tears and mud spatters by the time he dragged himself up the bank of the Loire, then to the road back to Nantes.
Aching and weary, a one-shoed Verne stumbled toward Ile Feydeau. Fortunately, the driver of a passing horsecart took pity on him and let the young man climb into the back and ride the rest of the way along the bumpy road. When he told his story, he decided to make it much more exciting and entertaining.
With his clothes torn and dirty, his red hair disheveled, Verne made it back home just in time for supper.
II
Shipwrecked. Marooned on a desert island.
Nemo collected himself, wet, bedraggled, and hungry on the stony beach. He would have to work hard here, but he had his wits, his resourcefulness, and his sheer stamina. He was better equipped than most people would have been.
His time on board the Coralie had toughened him, given him the skills and strength to endure much adversity. He had always been a clever young man, and Captain Grant had taught him many things. He would survive.
One step at a time. After drinking his fill from a thin silver stream that ran to the beach, Nemo looked around himself, listening to the roar of the sea as he concentrated, deciding where to begin. Waves curled against black reefs that sheltered the lagoon. With forced optimism, he decided that eking out a living here day by day probably wouldn’t be much more difficult than being a penniless orphan in France. . . .
As his first order of business, he dragged the battered crates, the torn sail cloth, and other bits of wreckage higher up the beach to where a line of dunes met a pitted rock wall. A shallow overhang formed enough shelter for Nemo to make camp.
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