“Lousy,” Sunny said.
“This is not good news,” Klaus agreed. “Fiona, do you think we’ve been poisoned already?”
“No,” Fiona said firmly. “The spores shouldn’t reach us here. As long as we stay here at the far end of the cavern, and the mushrooms don’t advance any further, we should be safe.”
“It looks like they’ve stopped advancing,” Violet said, pointing at the line of gray mushrooms, and the other volunteers saw that she was right. There were still new mushrooms popping up, but the fungus didn’t seem to be getting any closer to the four children.
“I guess the mycelium has only grown that far,” Fiona said. “We’re very lucky.”
“I don’t feel very lucky,” Klaus said. “I feel trapped. How will we get out of here?”
“There’s only one way,” Violet said. “The only path back to the Queequeg leads through those mushrooms.”
“If we go through the mushrooms,” Fiona said, “we’ll most likely be poisoned. One spore could easily slip through our suits.”
“Antidote?” Sunny asked.
“I might find the recipe for a cure,” Fiona replied, “someplace in my mycological library. But we don’t want to take that chance. We’ll have to exit another way.”
For a moment, all four children looked up, into the blackness of the passage above their heads. Violet frowned, and put one hand on the damp and slippery tiles of the wall. With the other hand she reached into the waterproof pocket of her uniform, and drew out a ribbon to tie up her hair.
“Can we go out that way?” Klaus asked. “Can you invent something to help us climb up that passageway?”
“Tingamebob,” Sunny said, which meant “There’s plenty of materials here in the sand.”
“Materials aren’t the problem,” Violet said, and peered up into the blackness. “We’re far below the surface of the water. It must be miles and miles to the surface. Even the best climbing device would wear out over the journey, and if it did we’d fall all the way down.”
“But someone must use that passageway,” Klaus said. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have been built.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Fiona said. “We can’t go out that way. We need to get to the Queequeg. Otherwise, my stepfather will wonder what’s become of us. Eventually he’d put on his diving helmet and go investigate…”
“And the tide would carry him right into the poisonous fungus,” Klaus finished. “Fiona’s right. Even if we could climb all the way up, it’d be the wrong way to go.”
“But what else can we do?” Violet said, her voice rising. “We can’t spend the rest of our lives in this miserable place!”
Fiona looked at the mushrooms and sighed. “Mushroom Minutiae said that this fungus waxes and wanes. Right now it’s waxing. We’ll have to wait until it wanes again, and then run quickly over the sand and swim back down to the submarine.”
“But how long will it be until it starts waning?” Klaus said.
“I don’t know,” Fiona admitted. “It could be just a few minutes, or a few hours. It could even be a few days.”
“A few days?” Violet said. “In a few days your stepfather will give up on us! In a few days we’ll miss the V.F.D. gathering! We can’t wait a few days!”
“It’s our only choice,” Klaus said, putting a comforting hand on Violet’s shoulder. “We can wait until the mushrooms disappear, or we can find ourselves poisoned.”
“That’s not a choice at all,” Violet replied bitterly.
“It’s a Hobson’s choice,” Klaus said. “Remember?”
The eldest Baudelaire looked down at her brother and gave him a small smile. “Of course I remember,” she said.
“Mamasan,” Sunny said. Her siblings looked down at her, and Violet picked her up in her arms.
“Who’s Hobson?” Fiona asked. “What was his choice?”
Klaus smiled. “Thomas Hobson lived in Britain in the seventeenth century,” he said. “He was in charge of a stable, and according to legend, he always told his customers they had a choice: they could take the horse closest to the door, or no horse at all.”
“That’s not really a choice,” Fiona said.
Violet smiled. “Precisely,” she said. “A Hobson’s choice is something that’s not a choice at all. It’s an expression our mother used to use. She’d say, ‘I’ll give you a Hobson’s choice, Violet—you can clean your room or I will stand in the doorway and sing your least favorite song over and over.’”
Fiona grinned. “What was your least favorite song?” she asked.
“‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat,’” Violet said. “I hate the part about life being but a dream.”
“She’d offer me the Hobson’s choice of doing the dishes or reading the poetry of Edgar Guest,” Klaus said. “He’s my absolute least favorite poet.”
“Bath or pink dress,” Sunny said.
“Did your mother always joke around like that?” Fiona asked. “Mine used to get awfully mad if I didn’t clean my room.”
“Our mother would get mad, too,” Klaus said. “Remember, Violet, when we left the window of the library open, and that night it rained?”
“She really flew off the handle,” Violet said, using a phrase which here means “became extremely angry.” “We spoiled an atlas that she said was irreplaceable.”
“You should have heard her yell,” Klaus said. “Our father came down from his study to see what was the matter.”
“And then he started yelling, too,” Violet said, and the Baudelaires paused and looked at one another uncomfortably. Everyone yells, of course, from time to time, but the Baudelaire children did not like to think about their parents yelling, particularly now that they were no longer around to apologize or explain themselves. It is often difficult to admit that someone you love is not perfect, or to consider aspects of a person that are less than admirable. To the Baudelaires it felt almost as if they had drawn a line after their parents died—a secret line in their memories, separating all the wonderful things about the Baudelaire parents from the things that perhaps were not quite so wonderful. Since the fire, whenever they thought of their parents, the Baudelaires never stepped over this secret line, preferring to ponder the best moments the family had together rather than any of the times when they had fought, or been unfair or selfish. But now, suddenly, in the gloom of the Gorgonian Grotto, the siblings had stumbled across that line and found themselves thinking of that angry afternoon in the library, and in moments other angry afternoons and evenings had occurred to them until their brains were lousy with memories of all stripes, a phrase which here means “both good and bad.” It gave the siblings a queasy feeling to cross this line in their memories, and admit that their parents were sometimes difficult, and it made them feel all the queasier to realize they could not step back, and pretend they had never remembered these less-than-perfect moments, any more than they could step back in time, and once again find themselves safe in the Baudelaire home, before fire and Count Olaf had appeared in their lives.
“My brother used to get angry, too,” Fiona said. “Before he disappeared, he would have awful fights with my stepfather—late at night, when they thought I was asleep.”
“Your stepfather didn’t mention that,” Violet said. “He said your brother was a charming man.”
“Maybe he only remembers the charming parts,” Fiona replied. “Maybe he doesn’t want to remember everything. Maybe he wants to keep those parts secret.”
“Do you think your stepfather knew about this place?” Klaus asked, looking around the eerie room. “He mentioned that we might find a place to take off our diving helmets, remember? It seemed strange at the time.”
“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “Maybe that’s another secret he was keeping.”
“Like the sugar bowl,” Violet said.
“Speaking which,” Sunny said.
“Sunny’s right,” Klaus said. “We should keep looking for the sugar bowl.”
“It must be he
re someplace,” Fiona agreed, “and besides, we need some way to pass the time until the fungus wanes. Everyone should spread out, and give a shout if you find the sugar bowl.”
The Baudelaires nodded in agreement, and the four volunteers took distant positions on the sand, taking care not to step any closer to the Medusoid Mycelium. For the next few hours, they dug through the sand floor of the grotto and examined what they found by the light of the two floorlamps. Each layer of sand uncovered several items of interest, but no matter how many objects the children encountered, no one gave a shout. Violet found a butter dish, a length of electrical wire, and an odd, square stone with messages carved in three languages, but not what she was looking for, and so the eldest Baudelaire remained silent. Klaus found a box of toothpicks, a small hand puppet, and a ring made of dull metal, but not what he had come to the cave to find, and so the middle Baudelaire merely sighed. And Sunny found two cloth napkins, a broken telephone receiver, and a fancy wineglass filled with holes, but when she finally opened her mouth to speak, the youngest Baudelaire merely said, “Snack!” which meant something like, “Why don’t we stop for a bite to eat?” and quickly opened the crackers and peanut butter she had found.
“Thanks, Sunny,” Fiona said, taking a cracker spread with peanut butter. “I must say, Baudelaires, I’m getting frustrated. My hands ache from all that digging, but there’s no sign of the sugar bowl.”
“I’m beginning to think this is a fool’s errand,” Violet said, using a phrase which here means “errand performed by a fool.” “We journeyed all the way down here to find a crucial item, and instead it seems like we’re finding nothing but junk. It’s a waste of time.”
“Not necessarily,” Klaus said, eating a cracker and looking at the items he had found. “We may not have found the sugar bowl, but I think we did find some crucial information.”
“What do you mean?” Violet said.
“Look at this,” Klaus said, and held up a book he had taken from the sand. “It’s a collection of poetry, and most of it is too damp to read. But look at the title page.”
The middle Baudelaire held open the book so the other volunteers could see. “Versed Furtive Disclosure,” Violet read out loud.
“V.F.D.,” Sunny said.
“Yes,” Klaus said. “‘Furtive’ means ‘secretive,’ and ‘disclosure’ means ‘to reveal something.’ I think V.F.D. may have hidden things here—not just the sugar bowl, but other secrets.”
“That would make sense,” Violet said. “This grotto is a bit like a secret passageway— like the one we found underneath our home, or the one Quigley found underneath his.”
Fiona nodded, and began to search through a pile of items she had taken from the sand. “I found an envelope earlier,” she said, “but I didn’t think to open it. I was too busy concentrating on the sugar bowl.”
“Punctilio,” Sunny said, holding up a torn and tattered sheet of newspaper. The children could see the letters “V.F.D.” circled in a headline.
“I’m too exhausted to dig anymore,” Violet said. “Let’s spend some time reading instead. Klaus, you can examine that poetry book. Fiona, you can see if there’s anything worthwhile in that envelope. And I’ll take a look at the clipping Sunny found.”
“Me?” asked Sunny, whose reading skills were still developing.
“Why don’t you cook us something, Sunny,” Klaus suggested with a smile. “Those crackers just whetted my appetite.”
“Pronto,” the youngest Baudelaire promised, looking at the foodstuffs she had found in the sand, most of which were sealed up tight. The phrase “whet my appetite,” as you probably know, refers to one’s hunger being awakened, and usually it refers to food. The Baudelaires had lost track of time while searching through the sand of the grotto, and the snack Sunny prepared made them realize just how long it had been since they had eaten. But another appetite had been whetted for the Baudelaires as well—a hunger for secrets, and for information that might help them. As Sunny began to prepare a meal for her fellow volunteers, Violet and Klaus looked over the materials they had found, devouring whatever information seemed important, and Fiona did the same thing, leaning up against the tiled wall of the cavern as she examined the contents of the envelope she had found. The volunteers’ hunger for information was almost as fierce as their hunger for food, and after a lengthy period of studying and note taking, whisking and mixing, the four children could not say whether they were more eager to hear about the others’ research or to eat the meal Sunny had prepared.
“What is this?” Violet asked her sister, peering into the fishbowl Sunny was using as a serving dish.
“Pesto lo mein,” Sunny explained.
“What my sister means,” Klaus said, “is that she found a package of soft Chinese noodles, which she tossed with an Italian basil sauce she got out of a jar.”
“That’s quite an international combination,” Fiona said.
“Hobson,” Sunny said, which meant “I didn’t have much choice, given our surroundings,” and then held up another item she had found. “Wasabi?”
“What’s wasabi?” Violet asked.
“It’s a Japanese condiment,” Klaus said. “It’s very spicy, and often served with fish.”
“Why don’t we save the wasabi, Sunny,” Violet said, taking the tin of wasabi and putting it in the pocket of her uniform. “We’ll take it back to the Queequeg and you can use it in a seafood recipe.”
Sunny nodded in agreement, and passed the fishbowl to her siblings. “Utensi,” she said.
“We can use these swizzle sticks as chopsticks,” Klaus said. “We’ll have to take turns, and whoever isn’t eating can tell us what they’ve discovered. Here, Fiona, why don’t you go first?”
“Thanks,” Fiona said, taking the swizzle sticks gratefully. “I’m quite hungry. Did you learn anything from that poetry book?”
“Not as much as I would have liked,” Klaus said. “Most of the pages were soaked from their journey, and so I couldn’t read much. But I believe I’ve learned a new code: Verse Fluctuation Declaration. It’s a way to communicate by substituting words in poems.”
“I don’t understand,” Violet said.
“It’s a bit tricky,” Klaus said, opening his commonplace book, in which he’d copied the information. “The book uses a poem called ‘My Last Duchess,’ by Robert Browning, as an example.”
“I’ve read that,” Fiona said, twirling a few noodles around a swizzle stick to get them into her mouth. “It’s a very creepy story about a man who murders his wife.”
“Right,” Klaus said. “But if a volunteer used the name of the poem in a coded communication, the title might be ‘My Last Wife’ instead of ‘My Last Duchess,’ by the poet ‘Obert Browning’ instead of Robert Browning.’’
“What purpose would that serve?” Violet said.
“The volunteer reading it would notice the mistake,” Klaus said. “The changing of certain words or letters is a kind of fluctuation. If you fixed the fluctuations in the poem, you’d receive the message.”
“Duchess R?” Fiona asked. “What kind of message is that?”
“I’m not sure,” Klaus admitted. “The next page in the book is missing.”
“Do you think the missing page is a code, too?” Violet asked.
Klaus shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Codes are nothing more than a way of talking so that some people understand and other people don’t. Remember when we talked to Quigley in the cave, with all the other Snow Scouts listening?”
“Yes,” Violet said. “We used words that began with V, F, and D, so that we knew we were all on the same side.”
“Maybe we should have a code ourselves,” Fiona said, “so that we can communicate if we run into trouble.”
“That’s a good idea,” Klaus said. “What should we use as code words?”
“Food,” Sunny suggested.
“Perfect,” Violet said. “We’ll draw up a list of foods and what they mean in our co
de. We’ll bring them up in conversation, and our enemies will never suspect that we’re actually communicating.”
“And our enemies could be around any corner,” Fiona said, handing the fishbowl of lo mein to Violet and picking up the envelope she had found. “Inside this envelope was a letter. Normally I don’t like to read other people’s mail, but it seems unlikely that this letter will ever reach Gregor Anwhistle.”
“Gregor Anwhistle?” Violet asked. “He’s the man who founded the research center. Who was writing to him?”
A Series of Unfortunate Events Box: The Complete Wreck Page 123
