The Vanishing Island (18 page)

He imagined, though, that these poets might feel the same way about Mr. Tybert's crazy stories, like that of Apollo, the mighty god of Olympus who tended sheep in his spare time.

Suddenly Bren exclaimed so hard he blew out the lantern. “That has to be it! Mouse, wake up!” he said, relighting the lantern, only to see that Mouse's cot was empty.

Does she ever sleep?
Bren wondered, but it didn't matter. He had to dress quickly and find the admiral—he had cracked the code.

But as soon as he stepped outside their cabin, Mouse came running toward him.

“What's wrong?”

She held a finger in front of her lips and grabbed Bren by the hand, leading him down to the goblin deck, where they crouched in the shadows behind the lowest part of the mainmast, facing the front of the ship.

“Listen,” she whispered.

Bren did. What he heard was a pinging sound, like a smith working metal with an undersized anvil.

They crept closer, and Bren saw someone crouched next to a candle, swinging what looked to be a small hammer. It was Otto, trying to break the padlock to the hold. Sweat was pouring from his face, which looked positively feral in the flickering light. His hands must have been sweaty, too, because the lock slipped out of his hand and he brought the hammer down on his fingers, causing him to curse loudly. He put the injured finger in his mouth and looked around to make sure no one had heard him.

Before he could strike another blow, Cook came down from the galley, almost sliding down the ladder. “What are you doing, Otto, you damned fool! The admiral will hang you for stealing!”

Otto said nothing, but brought the hammer down with even greater force. He raised it again and Cook grabbed his arm. Wordless and growling, Otto struck Cook across the face and returned to the lock.

“Don't make me fetch someone, Otto,” said Cook, now on his knees but not daring again to try and overpower him.

“Give me the key,” snarled Otto.

“I can't!” said Cook. Suddenly he looked around, to make sure they were alone, but Bren and Mouse were well
hidden. “We've all been rationed . . . I can't let you have extra.”

“Not extra!” shouted Otto. “My fair share!”

Cook was pleading now. “It ain't me, it's the admiral. You know that. Once we're out of here, I promise.”

Otto stopped hammering and stared at him. Every muscle in his body was tensed. He held the hammer up to Cook's face.

“You see this? The soul-sellers gave it to me the day they signed me up. Along with steady pay, food and drink, the Orient is full of treasure, they said. Rocks encrusted with jewels in every port, they said. You'll be using the claw end of this hammer to fill your pockets with rubies and emeralds.”

Otto slammed the claw end of the hammer into the deck, causing Cook to jump back. The wild man then climbed through the hatch above, leaving his hammer buried in the wood and a terrified Cook on his backside.

Bren's heart thumped so hard it was a wonder Cook couldn't hear it. Finally Cook picked himself up and slunk away, and Bren and Mouse ran as fast as they could in the other direction.

“S
hould we tell the admiral, Mouse?”

They were back in their cabin, in the dark, and he could hear both of them still breathing hard. Most of the crew disliked Otto, and were afraid of him, but they would not look kindly on Bren for ratting him out. Cook was the man to file a complaint, if he dared.

But what if Cook didn't? Was that really for the best, or just some outdated sailor's code at work? Or was he just as scared as Bren was?

“Maybe we should tell Sean at least,” said Bren. “We can trust him.”

“Mr. van Decken is the one in charge of discipline,” said Mouse.

Mouse knew he wouldn't go to van Decken, and Bren guessed that she was trying to tell him to say nothing. Either that or she was just as confused as he was. But if Otto were truly dangerous, he could jeopardize their entire voyage—a voyage Bren very much wanted to complete now that he felt closer than ever to solving the riddle of the map.

In the end Bren told himself he was doing the right and proper thing—warning Admiral Bowman of a possible threat.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Bren,” said the admiral, when they were alone in the chart room. “I'm impressed that you understand the difference between being a tattle and sharing information that's in all our best interests.”

“What will you do to him?” said Bren. He was embarrassed to admit to himself that he hadn't considered this before. He didn't want to be responsible for seeing a man hanged.

“I'm not sure,” said the admiral. “Attempting to steal rations is a serious offense, I don't have to tell you. As is threatening crew members. And yet, a trial and punishment will not help morale. I'll have to give this careful thought.”

“I thought it especially important to tell you . . .” Bren started to say, before faltering. Had he really figured out the map, or would the admiral think his theory was foolish?

“Yes, Bren?”

He didn't answer right away, instead fishing for a piece of parchment, and when he found one he started drawing.

“Watch this,” he said, and he drew the hidden symbols again, but instead of using their Chinese logograms, he drew each one as a picture, in the same position as they were on the back of the paiza: the plowman on the left and the cloud maiden on the right; but instead of the silver river between them, he drew an eagle instead.

Then, next to each image, he drew a pattern of dots, connected by lines, so that the geometric image roughly matched the shape of the pictures.

The admiral came closer, stroking his beard.

“I'll be damned. Constellations?”

Bren nodded eagerly. “I think so. It came to me when I was remembering a story Mr. Tybert told me about the North Star, and something he said about looking at the right sky, and then it all made sense—the part of the tale about the plowman having to climb into heaven but in the end, only being able to reunite with his wife once a year.”

The admiral took the paper from Bren, his face flushed. “How did I not see it?”

“Because we don't have these constellations in the
West,” said Bren. “I mean, we do, but our mythology is different. Look . . .”

Over the Chinese constellations, Bren roughly sketched the Lyre and Cygnus, the swan. “The plowman was a musician, and the cloud maiden disguised herself as a swan,” Bren explained. “I think the Silver River is the Milky Way, created by the empress, after she transformed herself into an eagle.”

The admiral remained speechless, but his eyes were darting excitedly across Bren's drawing.

“I think this is actually what Marco Polo saw when he looked into the sky that night,” said Bren. “I don't think he had any idea where he was, and this was his way of marking his surroundings, hoping to retrace his steps.”

“Yes, it's possible,” said the admiral. “In theory. Make a map of the stars from a particular vantage point on a certain day of the year, and you could figure out where you were.”

Suddenly Bren's sense of relief and joy evaporated, as he thought about what the admiral had just said. “But we don't know the date he saw this sky,” said Bren. “Not the exact date, anyway.”

“No,” said the admiral, his face now draining of color. “He would have known it, of course, which makes it a brilliant treasure map. One no else could ever solve.”

The next afternoon, the admiral remained below in his cabin for the entire morning and into the afternoon. He had Mouse leave him coffee and food outside his door. Bren began to worry. He knew how the revelation about the map affected him personally—that he had worked so hard to leave Map and come so far, only to learn that their reward might be hopelessly out of reach. How must the admiral feel, having been searching for this lost treasure for years now? To come so close, to feel you have a map to the vanishing island in your hands, only to realize it's hardly better than no map at all?

But around midafternoon, he emerged, and in much better spirits than Bren would have guessed. He called all hands on deck and reported that they were within a week of Cape Colony, and a celebration was in order. The announcement was met with great cheer, and within an hour much of the crew was dizzy with drink.

Bren was confused. “Are we really within a week of the cape?” he asked Sean.

“First I've heard of it,” Sean replied. “And even if we are, a lot can happen between here and there. That's why I'm not drinking. Too early to celebrate.”

“I didn't know you were superstitious,” said Bren. Sean had always struck him as a most practical man, a professional sailor, in it for the wages and because it was all he knew.

“I'm Eirish,” said Sean. “You won't meet a more
superstitious people if you sail to the ends of the earth, lad.”

The bell began to ring, and the admiral called the crew to attention again.

“I believe a celebration is incomplete without some entertainment,” he began, and Bren immediately felt ill. Surely they wouldn't bring out the loggerheads again, with the men already well into drink? He searched the crowd for Otto, and racked his brain for a good excuse to go below.

But it wasn't loggerheads the admiral had planned.

“In the Low Countries we tell of a mythical land called Luilekkerland. A place of luxury, where every comfort and pleasure is at hand. During the harvest festival we celebrate this Utopia with a game called the greasy pole, where a great reward is placed within reach, should you be determined enough to reach it.”

There was some rumbling of recognition among those in the crew familiar with the game. Others simply welcomed the diversion. But Bren finally spotted Otto by the port railing, staring at the admiral, his hands empty of drink. He looked even thinner than Bren remembered, his face bony and his eyes sunken.

“I believe we have our choice of tall, sturdy poles, do we not?”

The men cheered.

“Cook!” cried the admiral. “We'll use the slush fund and kill two birds with one stone!”

They struck the sails and the admiral sent Mouse up and down the mainmast, greasing it all the way to the crow's nest. And then for a prize, the admiral ordered Cook to provide an entire
porknokker
, which was dangled from the side of the crow's nest. It was an extravagant use of precious food, especially after their rationing. But the free-flowing beer and spirits had dulled everyone's judgment.

The admiral surveyed the crew, and before he said anything more Bren knew where his gaze would land. It was at that moment he understood: this wasn't a game, it was a punishment. The admiral had settled on public humiliation. “Otto, I'd wager you'd do just about anything for a bit of pork, wouldn't you?” Some of the men snickered, but much of the merriment drained from the deck.

“Reach it,” said the admiral, “and it's all yours.”

More tension spread along the ship's waist. The quarterdeck was all giggles, though. The admiral was smirking, and Mr. Richter and Mr. van Decken were looking on with malicious glee.

Otto stared back at the admiral, refusing to look at the sausage. Bren felt a sudden and unexpected wave of sympathy for the brute.
Say no
, he thought.
Don
'
t give him the satisfaction
.
Mouse can get you into the hold. I'll let her this time.
And then, to Bren's horror, Otto looked across the deck at him, as if he knew what was happening, and that Bren was responsible.

Otto turned back to the admiral: “I'm not hungry.”

The admiral turned to Mr. van Decken.

“Climb that pole, Mr. Bruun,” commanded the first mate, “or we cut your rations in half again.”

Bren felt another wave of nausea. The heat . . . the smothering tropical air . . . the stench of the whole crew, who had gone weeks without water for bathing or a breeze to wick their sweat. He turned and vomited.

Bren heard a smattering of laughter and turned back around to find Sean smiling at him and some of the other men ribbing him, but all he saw was Otto. He had jumped onto the mast and started to climb. Soon the other men noticed as well.

“You can pause at the spars, but no help from the rigging,” the admiral shouted. Otto, who had stuck his foot out toward one of the ratlines, withdrew it. Up he continued to go, with excruciating slowness. Bren had seen this game played back home, with much smaller poles, and had rarely seen someone reach the top. The whole point of the game was its futility, and laughing at the person failing to gain purchase and ultimately sliding back down on their rear end.

But Otto was actually making progress. His technique was to twist his way up, like a powerful snake curling its way up the trunk of a tree. When he reached the top spar of the mainsail and stood a moment to rest, the men erupted into cheers.

“You're still quite a ways from your dinner,” said the admiral, and in response, the crew started encouraging Otto.

“Come on, Otto,”
Bren found himself muttering. “
Come on.”

The topsail was taller than the mainsail, and it felt as if Otto had a mile to go. But still he climbed.

Bren tasted blood in his mouth; he was biting his lip. For some reason he glanced at the admiral, who had been standing stoically at the quarterdeck rail, his hands clasped together in front of his mouth. Suddenly he separated his hands and Bren heard a scream, followed by a gasp from the crew. Bren looked up to see Otto falling through the rigging toward the deck.

His foot caught in the ropes and he swung there, to and fro, in a sickening imitation of a man just hung from the gallows. Sean and others immediately ran for the mast. Negotiating the greasy wood and ropes, it took them several minutes to reach the dangling man. Eventually they untangled his foot and got him to the deck, where he collapsed.

“Leave him,” said the admiral, when Sean tried to help him up.

“Can I give him some water at least?” Bren had never seen Sean so angry. The admiral waved a hand dismissively and walked away from the rail.

“I'll help you take him below,” said Bren, and with two other men, they carried Otto down and placed him in his
hammock. As they lay his limp body in the narrow bed, Bren wondered if he would ever see Otto alive again.

Two mornings later, Bren was awakened early by Mouse. He'd never seen her look so scared.

“What's wrong?”

“Cook's missing.”

“What?” Bren dressed and followed her to the galley. Cook was nowhere to be seen. Breakfast should have been on the stove and coffee brewing. The daily stockroom was empty. They went below to check the hold and immediately noticed that the lock was broken.

“Mouse, we need to tell the officers.” But Mouse didn't move. She was staring into a darkened corner next to the bulkhead, where Cook sat sometimes to take a nip of jenny. A gentle finger of fear began to trace the length of Bren's spine, and with Mouse at his heel, he crept over there and slowly reached out a trembling hand.

His fingers touched flesh and hair. Then the boards creaked, and Bren jumped back as the lifeless Cook rolled forward, facedown at Bren's feet. Sticking out of the back of his skull was a small hammer.

“Mouse, go to our cabin and stay there. Understand?” She nodded, and Bren ran to the officers' saloon, where the admiral and others were awaiting their breakfast. “Cook's dead, sir.”

They had scarcely pushed back their chairs when a pale-faced hob burst through the door and said, “Admiral, it's Mr. Tybert. . . .”

This time it was Bren who led the way, charging out of the saloon, up to the quarterdeck and then the poop deck. His foot slipped and he skidded face-first; he heard the men behind him gasp in horror. It wasn't water he'd slipped in; it was blood. Bird feathers floated on a crimson pond, but there were no birds. Their cages looked as if they had been torn open by a bear. Sean ran past Bren, who tried not to look as Sean knelt next to the still body of Mr. Tybert, everything except his legs hidden by his equipment locker.

“The hold,” said the admiral, ordering everyone down below. Bren struggled to stand, until someone pulled him up by his shirt.

Mr. Tybert couldn't be dead, Bren told himself, over and over again, as they ran below. He never should have ratted out Otto. This was all his fault.

The admiral only glanced at Cook, calling “Lamps lit!” to the gathered party of Bren, Sean, Mr. van Decken, Mr. Leiden, and Mr. Richter. Even still it took their eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of the hold. And then Bren couldn't believe what he saw. No one could.

“Dear God,” said one of the men up front.

The admiral said nothing as he walked among the overturned, empty barrels, the pried-open crates, and the
demolished sacks of flour and peas. He had brought his pistol and had it pointed in front of him.