by Lavie Tidhar
In the early hours of yesterday morning a subterranean explosion rocked the foundations of Charing Cross Road and its environs. The explosion sent shockwaves throughout the nearby neighbourhoods, causing damage to property and health. Two people were mildly hurt when their baruch-landau fell into an opening in the ground, and several people were rushed into hospital with minor injuries. The explosion caused damage to roads and houses, and destroyed a bookshop, Payne's, in Cecil Court. Scotland Yard Inspector Irene Adler was on the spot immediately after the explosion, with a full team of constables and police automatons. She and her team were seen by this reporter to dig through the ruins of Payne's, where the proprietor and his assistant are feared to be missing amidst the rubble. Inspector Adler was not available for comment. The cause of the explosion is unknown, though experts suggest it was caused by a build-up of natural gas deep under the city–
He found himself worrying about the Inspector. And he worried about his journey, about where he should go, and wondered how he would accomplish the seemingly impossible goal the Bookman had set him. But most of all he missed Lucy, and he worried, worried until he could barely think or eat: for, just before his interview with the Bookman was at an end, he saw her again.
"I can give you back Lucy," the Bookman had said, and then–
She came to him out of the water of that dark lake. Her hair fell down to her shoulders. Her body was as he remembered it. She ran to him, appearing at the edge of the light and rushing forward, and she embraced him, and her lips on his were the taste of happiness. He kissed her, holding her close to him, the cold water of the lake soaking his shirt. "Oh, Orphan," she whispered, and she looked into his eyes and he could have remained that way forever.
"Touching," the Bookman said. And then, as quickly and mysteriously as she had come, Lucy was gone again, and Orphan, helpless, could do nothing. He, too, had to obey the Bookman's commands.
And the Bookman had given him papers, and money, and instructions. He was to go to France, to the city of Nantes which lies close to the Atlantic Ocean, and there he would be met. He wondered who it would be to welcome him.
In the event, the Bookman's agent waited for him at the station, and Orphan got a bit of a shock.
As the train came to rest against the platform Orphan glimpsed, through the window, two figures standing outside. One was a large, fat man holding a cane: the other was short and balding and even from a distance Orphan could see he had a scar down his left cheek that ended just below the eye. When he got off the train the two men approached him, and the short one made directly for Orphan's luggage. The fat man beamed at Orphan and threw his cane to his servant, took Orphan's outstretched hand in both of his, and shook it energetically. "Welcome to my home town," he said. "Welcome to Nantes."
"Thank you," Orphan said, "Mr–?"
The fat man looked taken aback. "Why, I thought my name is well known even in that lizards'-spawn hell of yours across the Channel," he said.
"I'm sorry, I don't–"
The fat man drew himself up. He snapped his fingers and his servant threw him his cane. The man caught it single-handedly and twirled it. "The name," he said stiffly, "is Verne. Jules Verne."
"Jules Verne? The author of L'Île mystérieuse?"
"Amongst many others," the writer said modestly. "Is this all the luggage you have?" He barked an order in French at his manservant, then turned to Orphan with a shrug. "This is my man, Robur," he said. Then he smirked. "I call him 'the conqueror'."
"How so?"
"Because of, shall we say, his prowess, with the ladies?"
Robur grinned at Orphan from behind the luggage.
They went in a coach and Robur did the driving. He drove the horses very fast. As they went through the narrow streets Orphan saw strange figures gathered and thought, for a moment, that he had seen royal lizards. In France?
"What," he said, and then wasn't sure what to say and merely pointed through the window. Verne turned to look.
"Punks de Lézard," he said.
They were an odd, mixed crowd, Orphan saw, watching them in horrified fascination: their hair was cut off entirely for both the males and the females, save for several who had a curious ridge or spine made of a narrow strip of hair in the middle of their scalp, that stood in tall spikes from their otherwise-bare heads. Their naked skulls were painted in a greenish-brown imitation of Les Lézards' skin, and were then patterned with bands of alternating colour. Their faces, too, were painted to resemble those of lizards, and their clothes were sparse and made to resemble scales. They walked around in small groups, and when one opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to shout at the passing coach, Orphan saw he had had his tongue cut so that it, too, resembled a lizard's.
"What are they?" he asked, overwhelmed.
"Lizard boys," Verne said, and snorted. And then, more quietly. "Children at play, but nasty, the way children sometimes turn. Ignore them."
But Orphan found them hard to ignore.
They sped away and soon the town, and the strange youths he saw, were gone behind them. At last they halted outside a large villa that stood in isolated grounds outside of the city. The house sat on the bank of a wide river – the Loire, Verne informed him; a large sailboat was moored outside.
"Welcome, welcome," Verne said, ushering Orphan through the large doors of the house into a cluttered living area. He clapped his hands twice and lights came on. Another clap and unseen heaters began to send tendrils of heat into the room.
"Amazing," Orphan said. The room, he saw, was a treasure trove of quaint mechanical constructions and odd automatons: a replica of Vaucanson's duck, for instance, sat in a cage beside one window, mechanically eating and disposing of its food at the two opposite ends of its body. Another, a replica of a young boy, sat writing, over and over again, a short message on a slate. Elsewhere there were calculating machines, toy soldiers that marched on the spot, the model of a blowfish growing and thinning, as constant as a clock, a miniature flute player, a Tesla set, an Edison player, a steam-powered, miniature ship moving in a large aquarium of water with metal fish swimming underneath it, and a mechanical giant squid that reached out tentacles for the ship, never quite seizing it; there were clocks and records, spyglasses and microscopes, mirrors like something out of a carnival, each reflection different and contrary: and everywhere there was space it was occupied by books, lying haphazard over this museum of curiosities like sleepy attendants.
"The wife and kids are away for a while," Verne said. "Italy. They love it there. And it will keep them out of the way…" He sighed. "Bedrooms are upstairs, also shower, bath, et cetera. Kitchen through here. Robur!"
"Sir?" The small man appeared beside him.
"Fix our guest some food," Verne said.
Robur disappeared towards the kitchen.
"How did you get involved in all this," Orphan said to Verne. "Sir?"
"Oh, call me Jules," Verne said. His face became serious, almost stern. "I will tell you all," he said, "but all in good time. There will be plenty of time to talk – on the ship."
"You?" Orphan said. "You are coming with me to Caliban's Island?"
It seemed like madness.
The writer chuckled. "Who better?" he said, patting his stomach. "So I am not as young or as lithe as I used to be, but trust me, there is life and spirit in this old man yet! Robur!"
"Sir?"
He seemed to have simply materialised there.
"Fix our guest a drink."
"Sir."
"Drink, my young friend?"
"Please," Orphan said, a little dazed. "Some red wine would be lovely."
Verne smiled, Robur did his disappearing act, and in a moment Orphan was left holding a large goblet filled almost to the brim with a dark cabernet sauvignon. He gulped it down and felt welcome warmth and a relaxing haze settle over his mind. He would do what he could to work against the Bookman, he thought. Were it not for Lucy. Then he stood up with a shout and nearly spilled his drink.
A massive lizard had entered the room.
It was, he saw a moment later, not a royal lizard, but a creature very similar to those he last saw underneath the King's Arms in Drury Lane. It was six feet or more in length, with yellow bands and spots forming broken crosses on its body and powerful tail. The lizard ambled into the room, paused, and its tongue tasted the air.
"This is Victoria," Verne said.
"Victoria."
"My pet. Isn't she beautiful?" Orphan downed the rest of his wine.
TWENTY
The Nautilus
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.
– William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Orphan woke up to dim light streaming in through the open blinds. The black-velvet blinds; early-morning light; the cold breeze coming in through an open window, making him shiver: finally, Verne's full-moon face rising disembodied above him.
"Argh!" Orphan said, and shook himself awake. Above him, Verne grinned. "Good morning, young Orphan," he said. "You slept for a long time, and now it is time to set forth. It is time, Orphan." His smile melted away, leaving him looking solemn and introspected. "It is time," he said again, then fell silent.
Orphan rose, stood up, began hunting for his clothes. A fresh suit of clothing was lying neatly on a chair beside the bed. "Robur is serving breakfast in the kitchen," Verne said. "Meet me there in fifteen minutes. We sail with the tide."
He felt clear-headed that morning, and he stood in the centre of the room for a long moment and stretched, and breathed in the sea air and felt it whisper promises. To go on the sea: it conjured images from books he had read in his youth, of treasures and battles and tropical storms. He thought, There is a book of poems in that. But he had not written a poem since that day at the Nell Gwynne, and his poetry had been bottled up, locked away together with Lucy: neither of them were as yet coming back from the dead.
He dressed and went downstairs. Verne was sitting alone at the kitchen table, a plate heaped with food before him. Robur was cooking eggs and bacon on the stove.
Verne indicated a vacant seat with the tip of his butter-smeared knife. "Sit down."
Robur served him a plate to accompany Verne's. Eggs, bacon, slices of toast, a strong sweet coffee, butter and jam: they were a powerful wake-up tonic. "English cooking," Robur said with a shake of his head, and disappeared into the adjoining room.
"Orphan," Verne said, "you are very much thrown into this without direction. You are a brave man; an honourable man. I respect that. As you know, I had attempted to go to Caliban's Island before. In that I was not successful. I was unable to land. Consequently, you must understand I know little more than you do. I do not know what expects us there. But I do know how to pilot a ship, which I have, as I have the men to operate it. I will give you all the help I can, and will tell you what little I know." He stood and reached out for Orphan, took his hand awkwardly in both of his. "I will do everything in my power to bring you there, and bring you back alive, too. If I can. Do you believe me?"
Orphan looked at the writer. For all that he was mixed up in these conspiracies of the Bookman, and for all of his effusive theatricality and his way of filling in its entirety the space around him, he found himself liking Verne. There was something almost innocent about the man, mixed with a childish, wicked glee at everything, as if life was one big game, a puzzle put out there for him to fathom one section at a time. "I do," he said, and meant it. Verne smiled. "Good."
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. When it was over, Verne stretched, sighed in satisfaction, and rose from his seat. Orphan, knowing the time had come, rose too. He felt jittery, but expectant too. The books he'd read kept flittering through his mind. Adventure on the high seas. He smiled to himself. Verne looked at him and replied with a smile of his own. For a moment they were two boys together, and the future was a bright game that would last all afternoon.
"Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Then let's go."
And so they did.
The clipper ship was magnificent. Three masts rose high above their heads, a white canopy of sails growing out of them like the first leaves of the season. The body was long and narrow, metal and wood intertwined, 18pounder guns (as Orphan later learned) peeking out of portholes in the side of the ship. Sailors were already on board, and were busy with preparations.
"We're going in that?" Orphan said.
"She was built in Birmingham," Verne said, not a little proudly. "Served her time in the India trade. She's got some scars–" he pointed like a tour guide– "there, there, and there, where she was hit in a pirate attack a few years ago. But she's sturdy, and fast."
"It's huge. How many people have to be in on this?"
Verne smiled. "Only the captain. A funny old bird. The crew know nothing. As far as they are concerned they're taking cargo to King's Town – that's in Xaymaco, what you may see on some maps as Jamaica – and we're coming on board simply as additional cargo."
"I thought…" Orphan stopped. It hadn't really occurred to him just how he was meant to reach the island. "Maybe a steamer…"
"A steamer!" Verne said, and he pulled hard at his beard. "Those monstrosities pollute and destroy the ocean. They have no soul!"
"I thought you wrote stories about such vessels," Orphan said.
"Some things," Verne said, "are better left in books."
Orphan fell silent. They climbed on board, trying to get out of the way of the sailors. Robur hurried ahead with Verne's luggage. Orphan had a small pack, and was carrying it himself.
The wind blew at his hair, stirring it, and he realised it was growing long. He had shaved, earlier, standing before an enormous mirror with book cover paintings covering the walls, usually depicting some sort of futuristic vehicle or brooding menace. He had almost cut himself, but now on deck, leaning over the railings, the wind felt soft against his naked cheeks, and he raised his head high and breathed in the sea air. Adventure, he thought. Pirates and secret maps and treasure islands. He felt good, then, fresh and alive, and his determination returned like a full-blown wind. He would do this and return.
He followed Verne, who followed Robur, who followed a boy no more than sixteen who moved over the deck with the gait of someone who had spent his life on water. Orphan and Verne had neighbouring cabins on the middle deck, near the prow.
Orphan remained for only a few moments. Once he had settled his meagre belongings he left and returned to the deck and a comfortable position out of the way but with a good all-around view.
Sailors were hauling up cargo, whose nature Orphan couldn't discern (it came in large wooden boxes, and seemed heavy), while others were moving all about the ship, performing tasks of which he knew nothing. It reminded him, with a sudden intensity, of the docks in London, the ships coming and going, the bustling porters and sailors and merchants and officials and, in the distance, the song of the whales.
"Welcome," a deep voice said, close behind him, "to the Nautilus."
Orphan turned. A dark-skinned man with sharp, austere features, wearing a stiffly ironed uniform, stood there.
"A beautiful ship," Orphan said.
"A good ship," the man said. "I wouldn't give her up easily."
Orphan knew without being told that the captain of the Nautilus was speaking.
"I am Captain Dakkar," the man said, nodding. "And you must be our passenger, sir."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, captain," Orphan said. Dakkar had a lean, intense feel about him – the feel of a hunter, Orphan thought. On an impulse, he said, "My name is Orphan," and saw the captain's eyes narrow in thought.
"Orphan, then," Captain Dakkar said. "Welcome on board. You have every possibility of enjoying your journey, as long as you stay out of the way of my crew." He smiled, though his eyes didn't. Orphan nodded. "Of course."
"Then I shall spea
k with you and Mr. Verne later," Dakkar said. "Please join me at my table tonight." His eyes, bright and curious, examined Orphan for a long moment. What did he see, Orphan wondered? And more importantly, how much did he know? "Later," Dakkar said, touched two fingers to his forehead in a brief salute, and turned away. Orphan abandoned the deck and returned to his cabin. He needed some answers, and Verne, it seemed, had them all.
When he knocked on Verne's door, however, there was no answer, and as he went into his own cabin the room moved about him and for a moment he lost his balance. Then, peering out of the porthole, he realised they were moving.
The Nautilus was leaving port and heading to the open sea.
What can be said of this, the last ever voyage of the clipper Nautilus? It was a ship of misfits and rogues, of men from every nationality, their tones ranging from a Swede's pale eyes through their Indian captain's earthdark skin, to the Nubian darkness, like a polished obsidian rock, of the second mate's muscle-twined arms. Sailors spoke and sang and cursed and took orders in a confusing babble of tongues of which Hindi, English, French, Portuguese and Zulu were only the most common. It had seemed to Orphan, after a few days, that there were, in fact, more languages than people on board the ship.
