The elder Baudelaires gasped, not just because of what Sunny had said but because they could easily picture the treacherous act Sunny had described. With Count Olaf overboard, the Baudelaires could sail someplace without the villain’s interference, or his threats to release the Medusoid Mycelium. There would be one fewer person with whom to share the remaining beans, and if they ever reached Kit Snicket and the Quagmires they wouldn’t have Olaf along. In uneasy silence they turned their gazes to the back of the boat, where Olaf was leaning over to peel off the nameplate. All three Baudelaires could imagine how simple it would be to push him, just hard enough for the villain to lose his balance and topple into the water.
“Olaf wouldn’t hesitate to throw us overboard,” Violet said, so quietly her siblings could scarcely hear her. “If he didn’t need us to sail the boat, he’d toss us into the sea.”
“V.F.D. might not hesitate, either,” Klaus said.
“Parents?” Sunny asked.
The Baudelaires shared another uneasy glance. The children had recently learned another mysterious fact about their parents and their shadowy past—a rumor concerning their parents and a box of poison darts. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny, like all children, had always wanted to believe the best about their parents, but as time went on they were less and less sure. What the siblings needed was a compass, but not the sort of compass Violet had mentioned. The eldest Baudelaire was talking about a navigational compass, which is a device that allows a person to tell you the proper direction to travel in the ocean. But the Baudelaires needed a moral compass, which is something inside a person, in the brain or perhaps in the heart, that tells you the proper thing to do in a given situation. A navigational compass, as any good inventor knows, is made from a small piece of magnetized metal and a simple pivot, but the ingredients in a moral compass are not as clear. Some believe that everyone is born with a moral compass already inside them, like an appendix, or a fear of worms. Others believe that a moral compass develops over time, as a person learns about the decisions of others by observing the world and reading books. In any case, a moral compass appears to be a delicate device, and as people grow older and venture out into the world, it often becomes more and more difficult to figure out which direction one’s moral compass is pointing, so it is harder and harder to figure out the proper thing to do. When the Baudelaires first encountered Count Olaf, their moral compasses never would have told them to get rid of this terrible man, whether by pushing him out of his mysterious tower room or running him over with his long, black automobile. But now, standing on the Carmelita, the Baudelaire orphans were not sure what they should do with this villain who was leaning so far over the boat that one small push would have sent him to his watery grave.
But as it happened, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny did not have to make this decision, because at that instant, as with so many instants in the Baudelaire lives, the decision was made for them, as Count Olaf straightened up and gave the children a triumphant grin. “I’m a genius!” he announced. “I’ve solved all of our problems! Look!”
The villain gestured behind him with one thick thumb, and the Baudelaires peered over the edge of the boat and saw that the CARMELITA nameplate had been removed, revealing a nameplate reading COUNT OLAF, although this nameplate, too, was attached with tape, and it appeared that yet another nameplate was underneath this one. “Renaming the boat doesn’t solve any of our problems,” Violet said wearily.
“Violet is right,” Klaus said. “We still need a destination, a way of navigating, and some kind of nourishment.”
“Unless,” Sunny said, but Count Olaf interrupted the youngest Baudelaire with a sly chuckle.
“You three are really quite slow-witted,” the villain said. “Look at the horizon, you fools, and see what is approaching! We don’t need a destination or a way of navigating, because we’ll go wherever it takes us! And we’re about to get more fresh water than we could drink in a lifetime!”
The Baudelaires looked out at the sea, and saw what Olaf was talking about. Spilling across the sky, like ink staining a precious document, was an immense bank of black clouds. In the middle of the ocean, a fierce storm can arrive out of nowhere, and this storm promised to be very fierce indeed—much fiercer than Hurricane Herman, which had menaced the Baudelaires some time ago during a voyage across Lake Lachrymose that ended in tragedy. Already the children could see the thin, sharp lines of rain falling some distance away, and here and there the clouds flickered with furious lightning.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Count Olaf asked, his scraggly hair already fluttering in the approaching wind. Over the villain’s nefarious chuckle the children could hear the sound of approaching thunder. “A storm like this is the answer to all your whining.”
“It might destroy the boat,” Violet said, looking nervously up at the tattered sails. “A boat of this size is not designed to withstand a heavy storm.”
“We have no idea where it will take us,” Klaus said. “We could end up even further from civilization.”
“All overboard,” Sunny said.
Count Olaf looked out at the horizon again, and smiled at the storm as if it were an old friend coming to visit. “Yes, those things might happen,” he said with a wicked smile. “But what are you going to do about it, orphans?”
The Baudelaires followed the villain’s gaze to the storm. It was difficult to believe that just moments ago the horizon had been empty, and now this great black mass of rain and wind was staining the sky as it drew closer and closer. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny could do nothing about it. An inventing mind, the notes of a researcher, and surprisingly adept cooking skills were no match for what was coming. The storm clouds unfurled wider and wider, like the layers of an onion unpeeling, or a sinister secret becoming more and more mysterious. Whatever their moral compass told them about the proper thing to do, the Baudelaire orphans knew there was only one choice in this situation, and that was to do nothing as the storm engulfed the children and the villain as they stood together in the same boat.
CHAPTER
Two
It is useless for me to describe to you how terrible Violet, Klaus, and even Sunny felt in the hours that followed. Most people who have survived a storm at sea are so shaken by the experience that they never want to speak of it again, and so if a writer wishes to describe a storm at sea, his only method of research is to stand on a large, wooden boat with a notebook and pen, ready to take notes should a storm suddenly strike. But I have already stood on a large, wooden boat with a notebook and pen, ready to take notes should a storm suddenly strike, and by the time the storm cleared I was so shaken by the experience that I never wanted to speak of it again. So it is useless for me to describe the force of the wind that tore through the sails as if they were paper, and sent the boat spinning like an ice-skater showing off. It is impossible for me to convey the volume of rain that fell, drenching the Baudelaires in freezing water so their concierge uniforms clung to them like an extra layer of soaked and icy skin. It is futile for me to portray the streaks of lightning that clattered down from the swirling clouds, striking the mast of the boat and sending it toppling into the churning sea. It is inadequate for me to report on the deafening thunder that rang in the Baudelaires’ ears, and it is superfluous for me to recount how the boat began to tilt back and forth, sending all of its contents tumbling into the ocean: first the jar of beans, hitting the surface of the water with a loud glop!, and then the spatulas, the lightning reflecting off their mirrored surfaces as they disappeared into the swirling tides, and lastly the sheets Violet had taken from the hotel laundry room and fashioned into a drag chute so the boat would survive its drop from the rooftop sunbathing salon, billowing in the stormy air like jellyfish before sinking into the sea. It is worthless for me to specify the increasing size of the waves rising out of water, first like shark fins, and then like tents, and then finally like glaciers, their icy peaks climbing higher and higher until they finally came crashing down on the soaked and crippled boa
t with an unearthly roar like the laughter of some terrible beast. It is bootless for me to render an account of the Baudelaire orphans clinging to one another in fear and desperation, certain that at any moment they would be dragged away and tossed to their watery graves, while Count Olaf clung to the harpoon gun and the wooden figurehead, as if a terrible weapon and a deadly fungus were the only things he loved in the world, and it is of no earthly use to provide a report on the front of the figurehead detaching from the boat with a deafening crackle, sending the Baudelaires spinning in one direction and Olaf spinning in the other, or the sudden jolt as the rest of the boat abruptly stopped spinning, and a horrible scraping sound came from beneath the shuddering wood floor of the craft, as if a gigantic hand were grabbing the remains of the Count Olaf from below, and holding the trembling siblings in its strong and steady grip. Certainly the Baudelaires did not find it necessary to wonder what had happened now, after all those terrible, whirling hours in the heart of the storm, but simply crawled together to a far corner of the boat, and huddled against one another, too stunned to cry, as they listened to the sea rage around them, and heard the frantic cries of Count Olaf, wondering if he were being torn limb from limb by the furious storm, or if he, too, had found some strange safety, and not knowing which fate they wished upon the man who had flung so much misfortune on the three of them. There is no need for me to describe this storm, as it would only be another layer of this unfortunate onion of a story, and in any case by the time the sun rose the next morning, the swirling black clouds were already scurrying away from the bedraggled Baudelaires, and the air was silent and still, as if the whole evening had only been a ghastly nightmare.
The children stood up unsteadily in their piece of the boat, their limbs aching from clinging to one another all night, and tried to figure out where in the world they were, and how in the world they had survived. But as they gazed around at their surroundings, they could not answer these questions, as they had never seen anything in the world like the sight that awaited them.
At first, it appeared that the Baudelaire orphans were still in the middle of the ocean, as all the children could see was a flat and wet landscape stretching out in all directions, fading into the gray morning mist. But as they peered over the side of their ruined boat, the children saw that the water was not much deeper than a puddle, and this enormous puddle was littered with detritus, a word which here means “all sorts of strange items.” There were large pieces of wood sticking out of the water like jagged teeth, and long lengths of rope tangled into damp and complicated knots. There were great heaps of seaweed, and thousands of fish wriggling and gaping at the sun as seabirds swooped down from the misty sky and helped themselves to a seafood breakfast. There were what looked like pieces of other boats—anchors and portholes, railings and masts, scattered every which way like broken toys—and other objects that might have been from the boats’ cargo, including shattered lanterns, smashed barrels, soaked documents, and the ripped remains of all sorts of clothing, from top hats to roller skates. There was an old-fashioned typewriter leaning against a large, ornate bird cage, with a family of guppies wriggling through its keys. There was a large, brass cannon, with a large crab clawing its way out of the barrel, and there was a hopelessly torn net caught in the blades of a propeller. It was as if the storm had swept away the entire sea, leaving all of its contents scattered on the ocean floor.
“What is this place?” Violet said, in a hushed whisper. “What happened?”
Klaus took his glasses out of his pocket, where he had put them for safekeeping, and was relieved to see they were unharmed. “I think we’re on a coastal shelf,” he said. “There are places in the sea where the water is suddenly very shallow, usually near land. The storm must have thrown our boat onto the shelf, along with all this other wreckage.”
“Land?” Sunny asked, holding her tiny hand over her eyes so she might see farther. “Don’t see.”
Klaus stepped carefully over the side of the boat. The dark water only came up to his knees, and he began to walk around the boat in careful strides. “Coastal shelves are usually much smaller than this,” he said, “but there must be an island somewhere close by. Let’s look for it.”
Violet followed her brother out of the boat, carrying her sister, who was still quite short. “Which direction do you think we should go?” she asked. “We don’t want to get lost.”
Sunny gave her siblings a small smile. “Already lost,” she pointed out.
“Sunny’s right,” Klaus said. “Even if we had a compass, we don’t know where we are or where we are going. We might as well head in any direction at all.”
“Then I vote we head west,” Violet said, pointing in the opposite direction of the rising sun. “If we’re going to be walking for a while, we don’t want the sun in our eyes.”
“Unless we find our concierge sunglasses,” Klaus said. “The storm blew them away, but they might have landed on the same shelf.”
“We could find anything here,” Violet said, and the Baudelaires had walked only a few steps before they saw this was so, for floating in the water was one piece of detritus they wished had blown away from them forever. Floating in a particularly filthy part of the water, stretched out flat on his back with his harpoon gun leaning across one shoulder, was Count Olaf. The villain’s eyes were closed underneath his one eyebrow, and he did not move. In all their miserable times with the count, the Baudelaires had never seen Olaf look so calm.
“I guess we didn’t need to throw him overboard,” Violet said. “The storm did it for us.”
Klaus leaned down to peer closer to Olaf, but the villain still did not stir. “It must have been terrible,” he said, “to try and ride out the storm with no kind of shelter whatsoever.”
“Kikbucit?” Sunny asked, but at that moment Count Olaf’s eyes opened and the youngest Baudelaire’s question was answered. Frowning, the villain moved his eyes in one direction and then the other.
“Where am I?” he muttered, spitting a piece of seaweed out of his mouth. “Where’s my figurehead?”
“Coastal shelf,” Sunny replied.
At the sound of Sunny’s voice, Count Olaf blinked and sat up, glaring at the children and shaking water out of his ears. “Get me some coffee, orphans!” he ordered. “I had a very unpleasant evening, and I’d like a nice, hearty breakfast before deciding what to do with you.”
“There’s no coffee here,” Violet said, although there was in fact an espresso machine about twenty feet away. “We’re walking west, in the hopes of finding an island.”
“You’ll walk where I tell you to walk,” Olaf growled. “Are you forgetting that I’m the captain of this boat?”
“The boat is stuck in the sand,” Klaus said. “It’s quite damaged.”
“Well, you’re still my henchpeople,” the villain said, “and my orders are that we walk west, in the hopes of finding an island. I’ve heard about islands in the distant parts of the sea. The primitive inhabitants have never seen civilized people, so they will probably revere me as a god.”
The Baudelaires looked at one another and sighed. “Revere” is a word which here means “praise highly, and have a great deal of respect for,” and there was no person the children revered less than the dreadful man who was standing before them, picking his teeth with a bit of seashell and referring to people who lived in a certain region of the world as “primitive.” Yet it seemed that no matter where the Baudelaires traveled, there were people either so greedy that they respected and praised Olaf for his evil ways, or so foolish that they didn’t notice how dreadful he really was. It was enough to make the children want to abandon Olaf there on the coastal shelf, but it is difficult to abandon someone in a place where everything is already abandoned, and so the three orphans and the one villain trudged together westward across the cluttered coastal shelf in silence, wondering what was in store for them. Count Olaf led the way, balancing the harpoon gun on one shoulder, and interrupting the silence every so
often to demand coffee, fresh juice, and other equally unobtainable breakfast items. Violet walked behind him, using a broken banister she found as a walking stick and poking at interesting mechanical scraps she found in the muck, and Klaus walked alongside his sister, jotting the occasional note in his commonplace book. Sunny climbed on top of Violet’s shoulders to serve as a sort of lookout, and it was the youngest Baudelaire who broke the silence with a triumphant cry.
“Land ho!” she cried, pointing into the mist, and the three Baudelaires could see the faint shape of an island rising out of the shelf. The island looked narrow and long, like a freight train, and if they squinted they could see clusters of trees and what looked like enormous sheets of white cloth billowing in the wind.
“I’ve discovered an island!” Count Olaf cackled. “I’m going to name it Olaf-Land!”
“You didn’t discover the island,” Violet pointed out. “It appears that people already live on it.”
“And I am their king!” Count Olaf proclaimed. “Hurry up, orphans! My royal subjects are going to cook me a big breakfast, and if I’m in a good mood I might let you lick the plates!”
The Baudelaires had no intention of licking the plates of Olaf or anyone else, but nevertheless they continued walking toward the island, maneuvering around the wreckage that still littered the surface of the shelf. They had just walked around a grand piano, which was sticking straight out of the water as if it had fallen from the sky, when something caught the Baudelaire eyes—a tiny white figure, scurrying toward them.
“What?” Sunny asked. “Who?”
“It might be another survivor of the storm,” Klaus said. “Our boat couldn’t have been the only one in this area of the ocean.”
“Do you think the storm reached Kit Snicket?” Violet asked.
“Or the triplets?” Sunny said.
A Series of Unfortunate Events Box: The Complete Wreck Page 150
