“If you’ll pardon me,” said Barrett, “I don’t quite see how a flute that makes it rain or a sword that makes scorpions dance is exactly a threat to world peace.”
“You don’t think like a conqueror, Lady Barrett. Imagine being able to flood a valley where your enemy is camped. Or possessing that sword when your enemy is on horseback.”
She thought about it. If what he said was true, then shouldn’t she want to help him find these objects? For the good of humanity, of course. The fact that they might be among the greatest historical finds to date, making her famous and quite possibly rich again, only slightly factored into her decision.
Still, she had made a promise to Archibald Black. . . .
“Yaozu, you say this jade tablet helps you find people?” she said, taking the tablet from him and looking at herself in the surface. The polished jade cast her reflection in pale green, which made her think of some sylvan spirit, alien but oddly enchanting. “If so, I think we can help each other out.”
“Who are you looking for?” said Yaozu.
“A boy named Bren Owen,” said Barrett. “He went off from Britannia on a Dutch ship, and his family believes he may be lost in the East somewhere.”
Yaozu took the tablet back and held it so they both could see, and said, “Show us Bren Owen, of Britannia.”
Bubbling up as if from a pool, the image of a thin, sunburned boy appeared, his hair windblown.
“Amazing,” said Barrett. “But where in the world is he? It looks like a boat, but not a full-blown ship.”
“At least you know he’s alive,” said Yaozu. “If he were dead, or if no one had any knowledge of him, I do not believe he would have appeared.”
“Okay,” said Barrett, “let’s try this. You said the tablet had the power of divination? Show me where I will rescue Bren.”
The image of Bren in the boat disappeared, replaced by nothing at first, and Barrett feared what that might mean—that the rescue wasn’t to be. But then they were looking at a tropical forest, and an elephant marched across the scene.
“That’s not good,” said Barrett. “Black was convinced Bren was taken to an island.”
“These powers are difficult to understand, and to master,” said Yaozu. “I am only just learning.”
“Wait,” said Barrett. “I want to try something else.”
She retrieved the atlas page she’d stolen, laid it on the floor, and gently spread the sand so that the hidden map appeared. Yaozu’s mouth opened in amazement. “I’ll explain later,” she said. She then took the jade tablet and said, “Show me where I’ll find Bren on the map of the Hidden Sea.”
In the mirror appeared the image of the floor of the caravansary, with the map laid on it, as if she were looking through a window instead of at a tablet. She then saw herself crouch down over the map and extend her hand, her right index finger hovering over the sea and moving slowly from one island to another, until finally the mirror image of Barrett set her finger down on top of a small island in the north Indian Ocean, the northernmost island, in fact, of the ones shown on the map.
“Remarkable,” said Barrett. She looked up at Yaozu, who was smiling. “Now the question is, how do we get there?”
CHAPTER
6
DRAWING LOTS
A week after Bren and company lost the shark, a tropical storm blew across their path, battering the longboat and nearly swamping it. Their makeshift mast was snapped, and though they kept the boat upright, it was filled with water. They counted themselves lucky that it hadn’t been a full-fledged typhoon, but when Bren measured their latitude, he discovered that they’d been blown backwards during the two-hour storm, and they’d lost their east-west bearings entirely. Sean had hoped for a journey of no more than three weeks in all, but they’d already been at sea nearly that long with no end in sight. And they had exhausted their food rations.
A seaman can go a fortnight without food, but only days without water, and that was their real concern. They had been able to save some of the rainwater from the storm, but it wouldn’t last long spread among thirteen people. Even still, Bren marveled at the way veteran seamen could stick to routine under any circumstances. When it was their turn to sleep they simply tucked themselves against the inside of the boat, between the thwarts, stretched their legs out, and were soon snoring.
Bren had never gotten used to sleeping on the Albatross, except when overcome with exhaustion, and the longboat was no different. If there was moonlight, he spent most of the night writing in his journal or looking at Mouse’s oracle bone map, trying to remember anything he’d read or seen in Admiral Bowman’s secret books that might be a clue to deciphering it.
Days later, they came in sight of another towering pyramid of rock, remarkably similar to the first one. Every man in the crew cursed the rock with parched mouths, as if it were a mirage of salvation, more proof of how lifeless this stretch of sea was. Having stared into the deadly mouth of a shark, Bren couldn’t help but see these jagged triangles as giant, prehistoric teeth, as if the ocean were concealing the mouth of some colossal beast lurking just beneath the surface. Compared to starvation at sea, though, being devoured in one gulp by a monster would be considered a lucky break.
Suddenly Mouse grabbed Bren’s sleeve with one hand while she pointed to the rock with the other. “Bren, look!”
“Look at what? It’s a rock. Same as the last one.”
He’d no sooner gotten the words out of his mouth than he realized that’s what Mouse meant—it looked almost exactly like the last one. Half the rock was smooth and concave, as if it had been cleaved in half.
“You don’t think . . . we haven’t been sailing in a circle, have we?” said Bren.
“No,” said Mouse. “Different rock, but it looks the same on purpose.”
“You’re saying they’re carved?” said Bren.
Mouse nodded. “Could it be a signpost?” she asked.
“Maybe,” said Bren. “We immediately recognized the shape. That would have been valuable to the people first sailing this ocean, before our modern navigation equipment.”
“What are you two so animated about?” said Sean, trying to be playful but sounding as weary as he looked.
Speaking only loud enough for Sean to hear, Bren said, “Mouse and I think these rocks we’ve passed may be wayfinders, left by ancient sailors.”
“Do you?”
Bren couldn’t tell if he was taking him seriously or not. “If they are, at least we know we’re on a course back to land, don’t we? If men sailed this way before?”
Sean half smiled and agreed without much enthusiasm, and Bren took note of the limits of positive thinking when your situation was dire. After all, even if they knew for sure they were on a course that would lead them to civilization, they were still out of food and nearly out of water.
They were slowing down, too. The men were rowing with less vigor, from the combined effects of fatigue and hunger. When they passed their third black pyramid, as forbidding and lifeless as the previous two, Sean pulled Bren and Mouse to the back of the boat to talk to them.
“Children,” he began, trying to wet his cracked lips. “I hate to call you that, after what you’ve been through, but the fact is, you are children, and I’m about to have to do something no captain wants to do, and that no one your age should have to witness.”
Bren’s already parched throat shrank even more in anticipation of what Sean was about to say. He had an inkling, from horror stories overheard at the Gooey Duck, and from his adventure books, but he still wasn’t entirely prepared for what Sean told them.
“I’m going to have to call a lottery,” said Sean, his voice quaking. “Of course, you two will be exempt. No one would tolerate sacrificing a child.”
Bren felt overwhelming relief, followed quickly by shame. It seemed cowardly to allow Sean to exempt him after these men had rescued him and Mouse.
“No,” he said. “Include me.”
“Me too,” sa
id Mouse.
When Sean tried to protest, Bren stopped him. “If you’re going to do this, Sean, the men have to know it’s fair odds.”
Sean clasped Bren on both shoulders and just shook his head. His speech to Bren and Mouse served as his rehearsal, and when he told the men his voice was strong and sure. They took the news in silence, unable to look one another in the eye.
It was a bright blue day with no wind, so that the whole of the Indian Ocean seemed empty but for them. Sean took a length of flexible rope and cut it into thirteen pieces of varying length. He then put all the pieces into a sack and let each man—and boy and girl—draw in turn, taking care not to let anyone fish for a longer piece.
Mouse went first and drew a piece as long as her forearm.
The next four men took their turns, and then the fifth drew out a piece barely the length of his forefinger, and his sun-scorched face went ashen.
Seeing this, the next five crew members confidently dipped their hands into the sack; none were gloating, but the looks on their faces as they compared their pieces to the pale-faced man’s were unmistakable. You’ve been a fine mate and an able seaman, but better you than me.
That left Bren and Sean. Bren’s mind was distracted by the poor soul holding the short rope, and the look on his face, and the horrible thought of men having to survive by eating one of their own. How would they kill him? How would they cook him? Would any of them really be able to keep human flesh down? Those were just some of the unimaginable thoughts troubling Bren when he noticed that the expression on the poor soul’s face had changed, as had the faces of the others. Bren looked at his hand: the piece of rope he was holding was no more than a stub, the length of his thumb knuckle if he was lucky.
Sean, looking like he might be sick, drew the obligatory final piece, which was of course much longer than Bren’s.
An already somber mood in the longboat took a turn for the worse. A veteran seaman getting the short end, a man who had fully embraced the profession and all its risks, was one thing. A boy like Bren losing out was something else entirely. The only person who didn’t seem horrified was the other man with the very short piece.
“Let’s lay them out,” said Sean, pointing to Bren and the other man. “Measure for measure.”
What’s the use? thought Bren. He could tell his piece was shorter.
But then something extraordinary happened. Sean stretched the older man’s piece across the thwart, and when he stretched Bren’s piece next to the other, it proved to be a hair longer.
Bren couldn’t believe it. Sean didn’t seem to be able to believe it either, and a grin broke across his face.
The other man also didn’t believe it, and he certainly didn’t appreciate Sean’s reaction, lunging for him and pushing him back with great force, so that Sean tripped on the thwart behind him and nearly fell over the side.
“You rigged it!” said the man. “Or switched ’em! You two are friends.”
Sean scrambled to his feet. “You know me better than that, Bakker. And you saw for yourself how careful I was to keep it aboveboard. You all did.” He spun his head in all directions, to see if he could detect any mistrust among the rest of the crew.
“Mr. Graham is true to his word,” said another, and the rest of the crew quickly backed him up. Bren didn’t know if it was because they really believed what they saw, or simply because no one relished the idea of sacrificing a child.
“Everyone here could see I had the longer piece!” shouted the man called Bakker, whose desperate anger made Bren think of Otto, shortly before he’d gone mad.
“Optical illusion,” said Sean. “The eyes, and the mind, play tricks. You saw me lay them out equally, fair and square.”
Bakker tried to lunge at him again, but the others stopped him. “You’re friends with him! You’re all in cahoots!”
Bren couldn’t look at him. He turned to Mouse . . . what had she seen? She said nothing, but touched her hand to her chest, near her throat. Bren did the same, touching the stone necklace.
A chill went through him. Had some sort of magic just saved Bren’s life, at the cost of another’s?
The rest of the crew had to restrain Bakker, until they decided exactly how to carry out this most unspeakable of options.
Bren sat down at the stern, exhausted by fear and relief, and now regret. If he were truly brave, he would offer to take his rightful place as the sacrificial lamb. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was a coward.
CHAPTER
7
NEW AMSTERDAM
Two men hauled a bound Bakker to the middle of the boat. As soon as Sean drew his knife, Bren had to look away. He’d witnessed enough bloodshed for a lifetime, and there was no way he could watch Sean do what no captain wants to do.
“Wait!” cried Bren suddenly, jumping up from the stern and clumsily stepping forward over the thwarts.
Everyone froze. One of the men holding Bakker said, “You offering to switch him places, boy?”
“No,” he said feebly, overcome again by his lack of courage. “But I think I can buy him time. Buy us time.”
“How?” said Sean, eager for any alternative. Even before Bren answered, he was sheathing his knife.
“There may be a way to make saltwater drinkable, by removing the salt.”
Sean slumped a little; others grumbled. “Bren, lad, it’s not like dirt swirling around. The salt is dissolved in the water.”
“I know that,” said Bren. “I didn’t say it would be easy. But apparently it can be done. Mr. Leiden once told me he’d read about it in a scientific journal.”
That was a lie. Bren had actually read this in a cheap adventure book, but he wasn’t about to tell them that.
“Here—give me one of those tin drinking cups. Now, something to cover it . . . this!” Bren ripped a blank page from the back of his journal. “Parchment is made from animal skin. Strong yet flexible, and not too porous. When we stretch it over the cup like this, you see, it becomes somewhat translucent.”
“Does anybody understand a word he’s saying?”
“Listen!” said Sean. “Go on.”
Bren removed the parchment and dipped the cup over the side of the boat, filling it with seawater. He then stretched the parchment back over it and set it in the sun.
“He’s trying to grow fish,” someone said.
“No, trying to create some steam, which will condensate on the paper, leaving the salt behind,” Bren explained. “Don’t look at me like that. I know it will hardly produce enough to wet your tongue and lips, but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”
“It’s worth a try,” said Sean. “If we can buy a day or two, we may get another one of those typhoons. Bren, lad, are you willing to sacrifice your journal?”
“Of course,” said Bren.
“What about pieces of cloth from our shirts?” Mouse asked. “Might that work, too?”
“It might,” said Bren.
What followed was tedious, and the results hardly quenched any man’s thirst. But the most desperate did revive a bit, and it gave them all something to focus on besides the alternative.
Then a miracle happened. They sighted land two days later, and it wasn’t a lifeless black pyramid or some other forbidding place. It was a wide, white beach sloping gently toward a verdant jungle, and a lagoon the color of a robin’s egg. The air was pleasantly warm and humid, and birds Bren had never seen before were congregating in the treetops. It looked like Paradise.
“What is this place?” asked one man.
Sean was shaking his head, looking at the chart Bren had been keeping. “We can’t have reached the Eastern Netherlands yet. It’s simply not possible, even accounting for errors of measurement on our part.”
“So what?” said another man. “If it’s not already Dutch, we’ll claim it!”
That was met with a roar of approval from the rest of the crew, except for Bakker, the man who was now spared. Bren expected him to be happiest of al
l, but he just remained slumped near the prow, a vacant look in his eyes.
They rowed the longboat into the lagoon, and Bren and Mouse both leaned over the side to look into the clear blue water, where strange and colorful fish darted about. They took their shoes off to feel the warm sand with their bare feet, and Bren wanted nothing more than to lie down and stare up at the tropical sky until he fell asleep.
But of course, that wasn’t possible. He was a member of a crew, and there was work to do. Finding freshwater and food was their first concern. Then they would worry about where they were, and whether anyone else lived here, friend or foe.
“Any volunteers to explore the island?” said Sean. “Besides Mouse?”
Mouse was already running into the jungle before anyone could stop her. Then a crewman named Cornelius led another group, leaving Bren, Sean, and six others to stay by the beach, secure the boat, collect wood for a fire, and keep a watch for any other ships at sea. It was perhaps an hour later that Cornelius emerged from the jungle, carrying fresh fruit and a hat full of freshwater.
“This place is Paradise,” he said, his lips wet and spread wide in a smile. He shared what he’d brought and then led them all to a freshwater stream and a thicket of fruit trees. After they’d all had their fill, they went back to the beach to finish preparing shelter. They were desperately in need of rest.
They had hardly made it back when Mouse came tearing through the undergrowth and onto the beach: “People are coming.”
“How many?” said Sean. “Hostiles?”
Mouse shook her head. “A large number,” she said. “I don’t know if they are friendly or not.”
They all looked at each other. They were outnumbered, that much they knew. They also knew they were exhausted. Getting back in the boat wasn’t an option.
Before long, they heard the swoosh of people moving—lots of people. The friction and the crunching of leaves and twigs underfoot grew louder. Bren could have sworn he heard music . . . and singing? Was it a war call? And then, he couldn’t believe what he saw next. Two great elephants emerged from the jungle, surrounded by a dozen white men on foot. On the backs of the elephants were men dressed in the sober black and white of Netherlanders, seated in embroidered pavilion-like structures. The larger of the two elephants held a larger pavilion, and a larger man—pale and fat, with yellow hair and a beard, and overdressed for a tropical island. Bren could only assume he was the leader.
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