He had investigated his island as much as possible on foot, but areas of dense jungle and parts of the rocky shoreline remained inaccessible. The thought of looking down like a seagull from above fired his imagination.
As he strapped himself into the kite framework, the huge wings spread like a hawk’s against an updraft. He had already walked underwater near the Nantes shipyards; the air would offer him an entirely different perspective. From a fish to a bird.
Despite his tests and checks, he knew he was taking a grave risk. With a capricious downdraft, he could well be dashed against the rocks. Even if he received only a common injury—a broken leg or a shoulder twisted out of its socket—Nemo had no one to tend him, no one to help. He would be on his own. But he steeled himself—he was accustomed to that.
The wind stung his eyes, and he wished Caroline could be there to watch him, to cheer him on. Determined, he took two running steps to the abrupt cliff and jumped out into the open air . . . and kept going.
The brisk wind caught the giant kite and jerked Nemo up so sharply that his head struck the bamboo framework. His flight steadied, and the breezes took him where they would, an invisible and gentle escort. The cloth creaked against the framework, taut, and he seemed to be completely motionless, just hanging high above the ground.
After recovering his breath, Nemo laughed with delight.
He tilted his arms, banking the glider to test his degree of control. Only by looking at landmarks on the ground could he determine how fast and how far he was moving. His feet dangled, and he had a sickening sense of vertigo, just suspended high in the air, but then the excitement captured him once more, and he stared with wide, hungry eyes.
Circling around again, he flew back toward the meadow where he looked down at his corralled goats and the skewed square of his vegetable garden. From there, Nemo soared above the densest jungles where he spotted new streams, a breathtaking sheltered waterfall, and small ponds he hadn’t known existed (and which might contain good freshwater fish).
As he glided along, he calculated his rate of descent, surprised at the amount of time he could remain aloft. Breezes caught him again, and he spiraled higher in the updraft. He ranged even farther, over a spit of land that formed another cove on the mostly inaccessible south end of the island.
To his astonishment, he saw a cleared area at the crook of the long promontory—as well as the weathered skeleton of an overturned rowboat and a collapsed lean-to shelter. Someone else had been shipwrecked here! His heart pounded at the discovery. Could anyone still be alive? He had to see, had to determine how long ago these visitors had been there. Maybe he wasn’t alone on this island after all.
Nemo tilted his glider wings and angled toward the spot. Once he landed, it would be a painstaking process to detach the cloth from the framework and disassemble it—and a long walk back to Granite House—but it would be worth the effort if he received an answer to his question.
He landed hard on the beach, wrenching his ankle and ran like an albatross, trying to come to rest. He unfastened his arms from the glider and let go, rolling on his back as the breezes blew the framework against the hummocks of dunes. Limping on his sore ankle, Nemo ran after the glider wings and caught them. He used his knife to cut the lashing and removed the fabric, folding it up and weighting it down with rocks.
With curiosity and hope thrumming in his ears, he made his way along the shoreline. He wanted to shout, to call out a greeting, but his voice sounded strange in his ears. He climbed over shallow reefs that would be submerged at high tide, until he reached the site of the settlement.
His heart sank when he saw the collapsed hut and the overgrown clearing. No one had lived here for years. But perhaps he might find some supplies . . . or at least a clue as to who this strange castaway had been.
The crude hut was empty, and the broken rowboat rotten and wormeaten. When he found a few corroded buckles and some lead shot on the ground, he pocketed the precious bits of metal. Then he moved to the remains of a firepit at the edge of the clearing.
He froze as soon as he saw the skeletons.
A rusted spade with a broken handle protruded from a sandy pile of dirt. One of the human skulls had been bashed in. The other skeleton lay facedown with a pitted cutlass thrust through its empty ribcage. Some of the bones were fire-blackened.
Nemo imagined poor prisoners forced to dig their own graves, then murdered and left exposed for the scavengers. He had seen barbarism to match this only one other time. Pirates. He knew it in his heart. His jaws ached from his clenched teeth as rage boiled up again behind his eyes.
Had they come here only once? Or was this deserted island a regular stopping point? He took a deep breath, remembering Captain Noseless and his murderous crew. These waters were infested with brigands.
Taking the old cutlass, Nemo backed away from the abandoned encampment, wondering when the pirates might return . . . how soon they would come here to find him.
VI
A note came for Jules Verne at the law offices, hand-delivered by afternoon post. Standing in the sunlight by a window, he opened the card, already recognizing the flowery script. Caroline’s stationery smelled of lilacs, the perfume she often wore. Giddy, he sniffed the envelope, imagining the touch of her fingers against the paper, as if she might be holding his hand.
Now nineteen, he worked as a clerk in his father’s offices. Though three years had passed since he’d learned of Nemo’s death, he had never forgotten his friend . . . and his life had gotten no more exciting. Verne had a small, tidy desk in the front office, while his father sat in a separate room to deal with important cases. Verne did little more than file papers and recopy documents in his own hand. He had never yet found a way to leave France . . . or even Nantes.
The routine was tedious, and he found little to interest him, day after day. His imagination wandered, and he often stole a few moments to scribble verses he invented. Poetry had been his family pastime, and now he turned his talents to writing occasional love sonnets for Caroline. He never dared to send them, though; he left them safely hidden in his notebooks. At least it was practice.
But now she had sent him a card. So long after the shock of Nemo’s loss, it was possible she had changed her mind about him. Perhaps her mother had relented in trying to arrange a marriage for her headstrong daughter. . . . He could never give up hope.
Verne glanced up to see his father deep in thought over a curled document. Framed by gray-frosted sideburns, a frown creased Pierre Verne’s face. The elder man had not noted the postal delivery, since messages came at all times of the day. Real-estate deeds and wills provided all the entertainment his father needed, but Verne never ceased to want more.
Turning his back for a bit of privacy, fingers shaking with anticipation, Verne broke the dollop of red sealing wax. He peeled open the envelope and withdrew the note inside, eyes widening with pleasant surprise and disbelief.
“My dearest Jules, please come to my home at your earliest possible opportunity. We must discuss my future. I wish to speak with you in person, for you must hear of these matters from my own lips.”
Verne read the note again. He didn’t know what they meant. “Father, I have an important errand. I will be back within the hour.” He straightened the papers on his desk out of habit, arranging them alphabetically in neat piles.
“Very well, if you must.” His gruff tone indicated no interest in the nature of his son’s “errand.” Without looking up, Pierre Verne raised one impatient finger. Verne froze, waiting for him to finish scribbling a comment in the margin. The attorney crossed out a line like a hunter securing a prize, then dropped the quill pen back into its inkwell. He deigned to glance at his redheaded son. “When you return, I have a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
Verne gave a quick acknowledgment and hurried out of the law offices. As soon as he was around the corner, away from where his father could see him, he stopped to dust imaginary lint from his waistcoat, straighten his cr
avat, and brush his unruly hair. Then he ran onward.
In recent years he had grown tall, with awkwardly long arms and legs. He was intelligent, even rather handsome, according to what some young ladies said, though few saw him as a marriageable prospect. They said he was too flighty, too unsettled—and his vivid imagination alarmed them. No matter, he thought petulantly, since their dullness alarmed him.
But Caroline Aronnax was different. And now she wanted to speak with him regarding her future.
Several times in the past year, heady with her closeness, he had walked beside her under the lime trees in the courtyard of the Church of St. Martin, or the two had smelled the magnolias at the quai de la Fosse. They never spoke of love, but he knew she valued his friendship. Could it be that her parents had finally agreed to let Caroline choose her own husband? Strange things did indeed happen in the world. . . .
He swallowed a lump in his throat and strode off, chin high. Humming, he made his way down the narrow streets toward her tall house in the merchants’ section of town. He felt very different from the time when he and Nemo had slunk through the dark streets to tap on her window. Now Verne almost looked respectable, an actual gentleman caller.
It seemed like a scene out of a story to him, a story he himself might write someday, and he wondered how this tale would end. In the past year he had become more and more interested in literary pursuits beyond exchanging verses across the dinner table as a family pastime.
Verne had read the magnificent works of Victor Hugo, France’s most important literary hero, the spearhead of the Romantic movement. He was proud to live at a time when such writers came from his own country. He’d read The Hunchback of Notre Dame and the plays Cromwell and Hernani, in addition to Hugo’s romantic verse, all of which made a profound impression on him, perhaps even more than the boyhood adventure stories he and André Nemo had devoured.
In his notebooks Verne had drafted two plays of his own (both heavily influenced by Hugo). His first, Alexandre VI: 1503, was a romantic drama in verse, five acts long, about the Borgia Pope—a villain if there ever was one. Next, even more ambitious, he had written The Gunpowder Plot, about Guy Fawkes. He had showed the work to Caroline, and she had expressed her encouragement and delight. “You have such a gift for telling stories, Jules. I am certain that someday you will be successful.”
With light footsteps he danced along the streets, letting the fantasy carry him. Nantes had a respectable playhouse on place Graslin, modeled after the Paris Odéon. If ever he got up his nerve, he would investigate any connections his father might have to get his plays performed on stage. And, if he actually married Caroline Aronnax, even more doors would open for him.
Verne imagined how wonderful it would be if The Gunpowder Plot were to be performed there. Dressed in his finest suit, he would sit in the author’s box and watch the players take their bows. He hoped Caroline might be beside him, cheering along with the audience. “Author! Author!”
Grinning, Verne strode up the brick steps to the ornate facade of Caroline’s house and rang the bell. The maidservant Marie, looking awkward and embarrassed, opened the door and allowed the young redhead into the foyer. “I shall let Mademoiselle Caroline know you have come. Please wait here.”
Marie hurried off with a whisper of her crinoline petticoat. A pendulum clock ticked in the main drawing room, and Verne waited. Feet planted, he looked at the many odd items that M. Aronnax had acquired over the years—trophies brought by his merchant ships from their voyages around the world.
A pink conch shell sat on a glass tabletop, surrounded by delicate shells from South Sea islands. A carved elephant tusk sat on a black lacquer stand. Around the corner, in shadow, stood an airtight case that contained a dark mass that just might have been a shrunken human head. . . .
Marie returned from the back room and gestured toward a pair of folding French doors that led out to an enclosed flower garden. “Mademoiselle Caroline awaits you in the courtyard. She has requested chocolat chaud for the two of you.” She hurried off.
A cast-iron table, painted white, stood on the patio flanked by two chairs. Caroline, wearing a lavender chintz dress with full sleeves and lace collars, sat in the sun without a hat or parasol, staring listlessly at a cluster of scarlet blossoms. Her back was to Verne, though she must have heard him arrive. A sketchpad lay on her lap, its top page covered with a quick drawing of a face. Nemo’s?
Gathering courage, he stepped forward. Caroline folded her sketchpad and turned. Her heart-shaped face was achingly beautiful as she smiled at him. “Please sit, Jules.”
He almost tripped over his own feet as he hurried to take the scrollediron chair opposite her. Verne’s heart fluttered as if it were pumping air bubbles instead of the red blood of a young man in love. He rested his elbow on the table, before remembering his manners. He sat up again, straight and proper.
Through the interior windows, Verne caught a flash of Mme. Aronnax pacing in the sitting room, a distant chaperone. Verne berated himself for not thinking to bring a bouquet of flowers. He still had a lot to learn about love.
“It can be no news to you that I reached marriageable age some time ago, Jules,” Caroline said, and he caught his breath. “My parents have received many offers from suitors attracted by my social standing.”
And also by your beauty, Verne thought, but did not dare say it aloud.
With a resigned and confused expression, she forced out the next words. “My mother has completed all the necessary arrangements for me to marry. He is an older man, a well-respected sea captain. My father concurs, and so the decision has been made.”
Verne felt as if he would shatter from despair if he moved even a fraction of an inch. Her news struck him like an avalanche.
“Captain Hatteras has sailed my father’s ships with great success. I . . . looked over his records. His profits have always been excellent. The captain is an ambitious man who wishes to become an explorer.” Caroline continued rapidly but without emotion, as if she had memorized her speech.
“He has recently financed a new expedition to seek an alternate passage to Asia. He will go northwest, up around Greenland and North America, hoping to discover a route through the Arctic Sea and back down to China and Japan. Such a route could bring vast fortunes to my family.” She toyed with a ruffle on her sleeve. “And it is time for me to stop waiting.” He could hear the unspoken message in her words. With Nemo gone, I can ask for no better husband.
Verne swallowed hard, tried to articulate any objections that came to mind. “But . . . but that’s so dangerous. Around the Arctic Circle? It’s never been done.”
He thought of the Dutch explorer Willem Barents, who in the seventeenth century had sailed around Norway and upper Russia until his ship became ice-locked and crushed. Barents and his crew were forced to build wooden huts on the no-man’s-island of Novaya Zemlaya. During the spring thaw, the survivors braved the Arctic Sea in open boats. Barents himself died, as did many of the crew, before anyone reached civilization.
Caroline intended to marry a man who would attempt a similar passage.
She sat straight and proper in her wrought-iron chair. “Monsieur Hatteras is a brave man. If anyone can do it, my captain can. Our marriage is already scheduled, as is his expedition. We will be wed very shortly, before he departs.”
Caroline looked directly at him. Verne knew that his face must be pale, his freckles prominent, his expression stricken. Given the wording of her note, had she not guessed what he might think?
“I know this is a disappointment to you, Jules, but I wanted you to hear it from me, rather than from gossip.” She took his hand again. “I want you to come to the wedding. You must remain my friend, and keep telling me your stories. When Monsieur Hatteras departs, I will have no one to talk to—certainly no one with such imagination.”
Numb, Verne climbed to his feet again just as Marie arrived with a pot of steaming chocolat. He didn’t even see her, didn’t want any refreshment—and
he could not endure staying here any longer. Bees thrummed among the courtyard flowers, and birds sang from the hedges—but for Jules Verne, this place held only the deepest shadows.
Moving like a man in the final stages of consumption, he managed a bow to Caroline. “Accept my best wishes for your health and happiness. I . . . I’m certain your parents have made the proper decision for you.”
He forced himself not to run as his hopes crumbled around him. He wanted to hurry home, though the work day was not yet over. Caroline called after him. “Wait, Jules! Can you not make a joke for me to remember? Tell me another amusing story? Please, you are my only true friend.”
Verne didn’t dare let his feelings out, lest the emotions crack his invisible armor. “Am I a friend, or a court jester? A jongleur to tell stories? Caroline, I’m sure your betrothed must have a wit and imagination that far outshines mine. After all, I’ve never even left France.”
He walked back to his father’s law offices, where he hoped to sit alone at his desk and bury himself in the tedious work of copying and certifying documents. There seemed to be nothing else in store for him in life.
But when Verne seated himself and set a new stack of papers before him, his father called. “Jules, I must speak with you.”
The young man moved like a clockwork machine. His father would no doubt give him instructions for a fresh set of documents or perhaps ask him to deliver a sealed testament. Pierre Verne saved money by using his son rather than hiring the local courier boys.
Verne stood in front of his father’s desk, wearing his formal frock coat and vest. The elder Verne did not invite him to take a seat. “I have already made arrangements for you.”
Wondering what his father could mean, Verne blinked. After his conversation with Caroline, what else could go wrong this day? “What arrangements, Father?”
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