“We aren’t going anywhere,” she answered.
“But what about Dad?” Celia wondered.
“I think the pirates will be bringing your father here soon enough. Sir Edmund will probably be right behind,” she said.
“How will they find us?” Celia demanded.
“You’re eleven years old, Celia,” said her mother. “You aren’t that hard to follow.”
“Eleven and a half,” Celia corrected.
“So what are we going to do?” Corey asked.
“They will certainly attack,” said Claire Navel. “And when they attack, we’ll be ready. I don’t know which of our nemeses will attack first, but we’ll have to be prepared.”
“That’s it,” said Celia.
“What’s it?” Her mother turned to her.
“The plural of nemesis—an implacable enemy bent on our destruction,” said Celia. “It’s nemeses!”
“You and your words,” groaned Oliver.
Their mother smiled. “It’s from the ancient Greek.”
“Yep,” said Oliver. “Just like Plato’s map and the Lost Library. All our problems come from some ancient Greeks.”
31
WE LOOK BEHIND
THE BOOKSHELF
SIR EDMUND did not like the odds.
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” he said, gazing across the top of his big brandy snifter at Janice the grave robber, Ernest the celebrity impersonator, and a rough-looking woman in brightly colored pants with too many pockets who said her name was Bonnie. “They are plucked from the sea and taken to the very island we’ve been looking for. I don’t like the odds of that one bit. It feels like a setup.”
“How could it possibly be a setup?” Janice asked. “No one knew where this island was. That’s why everyone was looking for it in the first place! And you said yourself you wanted them to find it first.”
Sir Edmund snorted and didn’t answer. He stood and paced across the thick carpet on the floor of his cabin. He studied a large wall map and twirled the end of his mustache with one hand, swirling the brandy in his glass with the other. Ernest and Janice waited patiently for him to finish his thoughts. Bonnie, however, did not.
“So when do I get my revenge on Big Bart?” she asked. “I want to board his ship, toss him into the sea, and take command.”
Sir Edmund turned to her. “Soon,” he said. “When we seize the island and I get what I’m after, you’ll be paid. These two”—he pointed at Janice and Ernest—“work for me already. You don’t. You have to earn your keep by bringing the Navels to me.”
“Or what?” Bonnie did not like taking orders. Big Bart may have tried to kill her, but he never bossed her around. After all, pirate ships were a democracy. The captain was elected and could be removed by a vote. Or by violence.
“Or I will feed you to my kraken,” Sir Edmund told her.
“There’s no such thing as a kraken.” Bonnie laughed. “Your empty threats don’t frighten me. I—” Her voice caught in her throat as Sir Edmund pressed a button on the wall.
An ornate mahogany bookshelf slid to the side, revealing a giant saltwater tank and, in it, a giant saltwater squid with huge coiled tentacles covered in hundreds of large pink suckers. Shining black hooks, like the claws of a tiger, glistened inside each of the suckers and the squid’s intelligent yellow eyes blazed through the glass as it gazed into Sir Edmund’s cabin.
“I caught it not far from here, with this very ship,” said Sir Edmund. “There aren’t any other ones in captivity in the world. So you see, it would be quite an honor to be eaten by this one.”
Bonnie’s face drained of color. There were countless pirate legends about the kraken devouring entire ships. She hadn’t believed any of them until now.
Sir Edmund made a quick gesture with his hands, opening and closing his palm, and the kraken responded by spreading wide its tentacles, rearing back and showing its gaping mouth, ringed with rows of teeth like a shark’s jaw, and beyond the teeth a rough black tongue and a darkness from which nothing could escape. Sir Edmund gestured again and the kraken relaxed.
“They are quite intelligent beasts,” he said. “This one is just a baby, but already it knows who to call its master.”
Janice and Ernest stood frozen in place. In their fright, they had grabbed each other by the hand. Once the bookshelves slid shut again, they looked at each other, blushed, and let go. Janice wiped her hand on her shirt.
“That’s not possible,” Bonnie muttered. “The legends say that only the rulers of Atlantis itself could command the kraken of the deep.”
“Is that so?” Sir Edmund polished the medal on his chest, the symbol of a scroll wrapped in chains, and he shrugged.
“Who are you?” Bonnie exclaimed.
“I am a simple explorer and businessman, founder of the Gentlemen’s Adventuring Society and a keeper of exotic animals,” said Sir Edmund.
“So how do you control the kraken?” Bonnie asked, still backing away from the tank.
“Well, I also happen to be a descendant of the original rulers of Atlantis. There are thirty of us alive today, as there are always thirty of us throughout history.”
“That’s your Council,” Janice whispered. “That’s who you are!”
“What did you think? We just got together to play bingo?”
Janice nodded a little.
“My Council of Thirty will stop at nothing to raise Atlantis from the depths and restore its glory to the world. Unfortunately, Claire Navel’s stupid library contains the instructions for how to do it.”
“I thought that P.F. hid the Lost Library in Atlantis,” said Janice. “I thought that’s why we were looking for it.”
“He did hide it there, the devil,” said Sir Edmund. “It was like locking a key inside a safe. The only way to get to it would be with an expert safecracker. And that is what the Navels are. They are my safecrackers.”
“Those brats?” Janice asked. “No!”
“I am as baffled as you are,” said Sir Edmund. “But a prophecy is a prophecy and I have seen enough movies to know better than to question a prophecy.”
“What about Corey Brandt?” Ernest wondered. “Is he, you know, part of a prophecy?”
“He’s just a celebrity,” said Sir Edmund. “If we capture him alive, you can do with him what you like.”
Ernest smiled.
“And when we’re finished?” Bonnie wondered. “Then you’ll, what? Bring Atlantis up from the depths and rule the world?”
“I’ll rule what’s left of it.” Sir Edmund smiled. “I imagine that the process of raising Atlantis from the sea will be a little, shall we say, disruptive. It’s a lost continent, you see. It vanished from the earth in a single day some ten thousand years ago. Some things will have to be moved around as it rises. Cataclysm, I believe, is the word. Earthquakes, tidal waves, volcanic eruptions. Bad television reception.”
“Where?” Janice asked. “Where will there be a cataclysm?”
“Oh, you know.” Sir Edmund waved his hand dismissively. “Europe, the Americas, Africa, Asia, Australia.” He nodded in thought. “Antarctica will stay where it is, I suppose. The survivors will flock to us for safety and security. They will crave order, and my Council will give it to them.”
“You’re a madman,” said Bonnie. “Your whole plan is based on a fairy tale! A fantasy! Atlantis isn’t even real!”
“Is that kraken a fantasy?” asked Sir Edmund. “Is this island we’re approaching a fantasy? Perhaps destiny is at work right now. Perhaps you are playing a role in this prophecy yourself?”
“You’re nuts,” Bonnie said. “But I’ll help you get those twins, as long as I get Big Bart. At least I know he’s real.”
“Good,” said Sir Edmund, checking his watch. “We should reach the island by daybreak.”
“And then what?” Ernest wondered.
“Haven’t you been listening?” Janice snapped at him.
“We get the twins,” said
Sir Edmund. “And we find P.F. He has a map to Atlantis.”
“And we get Big Bart’s ship for me,” Bonnie added. “Don’t forget.”
“Right, the pirates,” agreed Sir Edmund. “We’ll fight your silly pirates.”
32
WE’RE WEDGIED TO A WAR COUNCIL
BIG BART LIKED THE ODDS.
“Two children, a teenage actor, and my old chicken alone on an island,” he said. “I like those odds.”
He took a big sip of rum through a long pink curly straw in his pink plastic Princess Cruise Lines novelty cup. He had scrawled “Big Bart” across the cup in black marker so none of the other pirates would take it.
“How do we know they’re alone?” asked Twitchy Bart. He sat next to Big Bart at the round table in the banquet hall, holding a smaller pink plastic Princess Cruise Lines cup with a less curly straw.
“Who could they have run into on an uninhabited island?” Big Bart laughed. “I’ll bet they are all crying for their mommies right now. Maybe they’ll thank us for kidnapping them again.”
The other scar-faced buccaneers huddled around the table laughed and sipped rum from their own pink plastic cups through their own pink plastic straws and eyed the luxurious curls of Big Bart’s straw enviously. If he weren’t so big they might be tempted to fight him for it, but Bonnie had always been the toughest among them, and she was gone.
“Rmpf bttr ut ffrubrbgur,” Dr. Navel groaned through the oily rag they’d stuffed in his mouth again. All the pirates looked up.
The explorer’s arms were tied behind his back and he was hanging from the crystal chandelier by his pants with the worst wedgie he’d ever experienced in his many years of exploration.
While we must understand that wedgies are to be expected in the explorer’s line of work—there are always Stone Age funeral monuments or tangled mangrove roots on which to snag one’s jockey shorts—a pirate-induced wedgie on the ballroom chandelier of a luxury cruise ship is not a circumstance for which one can adequately prepare.
Dr. Navel’s nostrils flared, and, to add even greater discomfort to his indignity, his glasses slipped down his nose and he could do nothing about pushing them up again.
“RRRHUMRPFLAH!” he shouted. The pirates below laughed heartily.
Dr. Navel had thought the pirates would throw him overboard right when they first caught him, but Big Bart was determined to follow the twins to the island, so they had hung him from the chandelier and called together this war council.
“Here’s the plan, brothers,” Big Bart told them. “We’ll get to this lousy island, find those Navel brats and their celebrity friend, and hold them for ransom again.”
“What about the kraken? Didn’t they tell you this island was guarded by giant squid?” one of the pirates asked.
“You afraid of some fairy tale?” Big Bart sneered. “Piracy ain’t no hobby for me. I want to get paid! And the only way we get paid is if we capture that Corey Brandt again.”
One of the pirates raised his hand. Big Bart nodded at him to speak. “I really think that at the end of Sunset High, Corey Brandt should have ended up with Laur—” Big Bart cut him off with a punch square across the jaw.
“No more talk about Sunset High,” he told his crew. “I’m tired of hearing about teenage vampires. Now, who’s with me?”
“About the vampires?” Twitchy Bart wondered.
“About the island!” Big Bart roared. “We attack at dawn! We take the Navels. We take the teenager. And we take whatever treasure we can find!”
“You really think there’ll be treasure?” Twitchy Bart asked. The whole crew leaned in to hear the answer. As a general rule, pirates are quite fond of treasure.
“There’s always treasure!” Big Bart roared. “And this time it’s ours for the taking! Now who’s with me?”
The pirates jumped to their feet, clapping and whistling and cheering for their captain, who sat back in his chair and smiled. He laced his fingers together behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling, looking Dr. Navel right in the eyes. As the wedgied explorer squirmed, dancing in the air over the ballroom, Big Bart gave him a friendly wink and dismissed his war council so they could go get ready for battle and maybe use the old waterslide a few times before it was time for mayhem.
Once they left, Big Bart stood. “Good night, Doctor,” he said, and flipped the lights off, leaving Dr. Navel hanging in the dark of the old ballroom.
“Mrmffff,” groaned Dr. Navel. He wiggled furiously, trying to loosen the rope around his hands. He had to get free and try to stop the pirates somehow.
His fingers found the zipper on his pair of Corey Brandt’s Pocketed Pants. He felt the sharp edge and realized he might be able to use it to cut his hands loose. Then he would have to figure out how to get down to the floor below without cracking his head open or causing too much noise. But first, he would have to escape from the anguish of his underwear.
He sawed his hands free with the jagged zipper edge and then reached up to the chandelier. He lifted himself up to relieve the pressure of his wedgie and sighed with glorious relief. He tried to wriggle the pants free from where they were snared, but he had to hold on to the chandelier with both hands to keep from falling. He couldn’t get free. Corey had said the Pocketed Pants had special wedgie protection built into them for life-or-death wedgies. He must have had a defective pair. Dr. Navel decided that he would write a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer, just as soon as he escaped and saved his family.
He thought about the sadhus of India, some of whom could hold their bodies in impossible positions, endure great pain and discomfort, and become free of the limits of the physical realm. He tried thinking like them, bending and flexing and twisting to lift himself out of his underwear and descend peacefully to the floor.
It didn’t work.
“Ow!” He grimaced as his wedgie worsened.
Then he remembered something else about the sadhus of India. He realized what he would have to do to escape.
The sadhus of India were often stark naked.
He sighed a sigh worthy of his children at their most annoyed and wriggled himself right out of his pants, leaving them hanging on the chandelier as he dropped down onto a table below.
As they ran to and fro preparing for battle, none of the pirates noticed Dr. Navel—who was wearing a tablecloth like a toga—creeping about, hiding in doorways, and slipping through narrow passageways belowdecks, searching for a way to escape.
And for some new pants.
33
WE DON’T GET A MONTAGE
OLIVER, CELIA, their mother, and Corey spent much of the night preparing for battle. They had changed back into Corey Brandt’s Pocketed Pants, leaving their formal wear behind. It made working a lot easier, and there was plenty of work to do.
They reset the snares by the large statues that had caught Oliver and Corey. They gathered rocks onto high hilltops to tumble down on intruders. They dug pits and covered them with leaves.
It was hard, physical labor and most of it was tedious and dull. Oliver spent hours digging the same pit. Every time he got deep enough, water would flood up from below and cave in the walls and he’d climb out gasping and muddy.
Celia spent hours tying rope snares. Just when she got one attached, the volcano would rumble, the earth would shake, and the snare would snap and she had to do it all over again.
“If this were on TV, there’d just be a bunch of scenes of us building different traps while music played,” Oliver said. “And funny little things would happen, like Corey getting stuck in a net, and we’d help him down and we’d all laugh. And then by the time the song was over, we’d be done.”
“It’s called a montage,” said Celia.
“Yeah,” said Oliver. “That’s what we need. A montage. We’d get this done faster if it was a montage.”
“Well, this isn’t television,” said Celia. “So keep digging that hole.”
The sun was starting to peek over the hor
izon by the time their mother said they were done. Mount Haircut rumbled and belched smoke.
“I’ll bet we’ve only got a few hours before it blows,” said Corey.
Their mother shimmied down from a treetop.
“That’s plenty of time,” she said. “Sir Edmund’s ship is just offshore and the pirates are close behind. Both of them will launch their dinghies any minute now.”
“Dinghy is such a dumb word,” said Oliver. “It doesn’t sound like something to be afraid of.”
“These dinghies will be filled with Sir Edmund’s thugs and groups of bloodthirsty pirates,” his mother answered.
“That sounds scarier,” said Oliver.
“Don’t be afraid,” his mother told him. “We want them to come. We need to get off this island somehow.”
“So we’re going with Sir Edmund?” Celia was incredulous.
“Or the pirates?” Oliver was equally shocked.
“Bwak-bwak-bwak,” Dennis clucked, which almost certainly had nothing to do with the conversation. He was, after all, just a rooster.
Corey, however, still had fresh memories of the pirates threatening to sell his hair. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
“Well, that depends,” the twins’ mother answered.
“Depends on what, Dr. Nav—?” Corey started. “I mean, Claire.”
“It depends on whose ship is easier to hijack.” She smiled.
“You mean, like, steal?” Oliver asked. “Like pirates do?”
His mother nodded.
“That’s crazy,” said Celia.
“Don’t worry.” Her mother squeezed her shoulder. “I have a plan. I’ll keep you safe.”
“How will you do that?” Celia stomped her foot in the sand. She had been working all night and was pretty hungry, which made her grumpy. She also got grumpy when she was about to be attacked by Sir Edmund’s thugs and bloodthirsty pirates. The Daytime Doctor might call it a “psychological coping mechanism.” Celia thought it was perfectly reasonable to be grumpy at times like this.
We Give a Squid a Wedgie Page 15
