The Vanishing Island (20 page)

“S
tand up,” said the admiral. Bren obeyed. “You too, Mouse, wherever you are.”

Mouse came out from behind a dressing mirror, and looking in her direction, Bren caught a glimpse of his reflection for the first time in as long as he could remember. He was shocked by his ragged appearance. Was this really the same twelve-year-old boy who had left Map? Then it occurred to him that, given how long they'd been at sea, his birthday may have come and gone.

“It was my idea to break in,” said Bren. “Mouse had nothing to do with it.”

“Come with me,” said the admiral.

Bren and Mouse followed him up the ladder connecting his cabin to the chart room, and once they were all inside, the admiral kicked the hatch closed. The sound was like a pistol shot, and Bren flinched.

“What are you going to do to me?” said Bren.

“What you deserve,” said the admiral, and he grabbed a leather sack from his desk and threw it at Bren, who barely caught it. “Open it.”

Bren fumbled to untie the leather string binding the pouch, but when he finally got it open he was surprised to find a backstaff, a compass, and a few other navigational tools. He looked back up at the admiral. “Mr. Tybert's?”

“The ship requires a navigator. Even the Devil needs his minions.”

“Me?”

“You
were
his apprentice,” said the admiral. When Bren didn't react right away, he said, “You do still want to help me find the vanished island, don't you? To find your fortune?”

“I thought we were after buried treasure,” said Bren, feeling more foolish now than he could ever remember.

“We are,” said the admiral. “It's just that what Marco Polo buried on that island wasn't gold and silver.”

“The girl?” said Bren, hardly believing his ears. He had seen bones in the Church of the Faithful in Map. Relics, they were called . . . physical remains of martyrs and saints. But they were sacred symbols, nothing more. And they gave him the creeps.

“The Shang—the ancient people you just read about,” said the admiral, “believed that even before the Ancients, the universe was created and ruled by demigods known as the Three Sovereigns and the Five Emperors. They had great power and were purely virtuous. But with the burdens of ruling Heaven and Hell, they decided to let mortals rule the Middle Kingdom, or the Realm of the Living.

“They made it possible for these mortals—the Ancients—to use magic. But it wasn't a sort of magic like we Europeans imagine, enchanted swords and wizards with wands. It was a magic more bound with the natural world: taming beasts, controlling rain and rivers for farming, music and art, divination, alchemy, healing, summoning, and soul-traveling. I have been exploring these lost arts ever since my first trip to the Far East.”

Bren's mind was immediately in the hold again, watching with horror as Otto attacked, and was killed by, something that Bren could only describe as supernatural. “Otto,” he said. “What happened with Otto . . .”

“Yes,” said the admiral. “You witnessed some of my
dark arts
, as others ignorantly call them. What you saw—what
Otto saw—was just an illusion. You're a mapmaker's son, Bren. You know well how men populate the unknown with all the bogeymen of their imaginations. He saw a threat where there was just a scarecrow disguising a meat hook, and impaled himself.”

Bren didn't know what to say. He thought he had seen the same thing as Otto. And these other things the admiral had mentioned . . . alchemy, summoning,
soul-traveling
? He looked at Mouse, and for one dizzying moment he wondered if the admiral called her Mouse because she was really a
mouse.

“So you believe this prophecy?” said Bren. “That this girl was a sorceress? You think she might still be . . .
alive
?”

“Unfortunately the Ancients began to betray their gifts,” the admiral continued, ignoring Bren's question. “That sort of spiritual magic is difficult to practice, and even more difficult to teach. How much easier to create magical artifacts. A mirror that lets you see the future instead of having to practice the art of divination. A golden silkworm that spins life, or death. A jeweled scepter of immense power.”

“A magic paiza?” said Bren. “Or a jade eye?”

The admiral smiled. “I'm sure you can see where this leads. Powerful magic that can easily fall into the wrong hands.”

“Are yours the wrong hands?” said Bren.

“I guess that depends on who you ask,” said the admiral. “These things exist, or at least I believe them to. As do many others. Would you rather they end up in the hands of the Church, which has tortured and killed millions in the name of faith? Or with Queen Adeline, who is trying to enlarge her empire the same way the Iberians have, or my own people, the Netherlanders? What do you think goes on in our so-called colonies? These people aren't our trading partners, they're our conquests. I can assure you there's already talk back in Amsterdam about the next great exported good—human slaves.”

Bren didn't know what to say. Five minutes earlier he hadn't thought he could ever feel like a bigger fool, but now he did. “So what is it exactly that you expect to find on the island? If we even get there?”

“The chance for power of our own,” said the admiral. “I know you've seen injustice firsthand, Bren. Aren't you tired of men like Rand McNally building thrones on the backs of men like your father? Or what about our courageous Mr. Richter? You must know men like this in Map. Those who pretend that inherited wealth and accidents of birth entitle them to power?”

Bren immediately pictured the bewigged Cloudesley Swyers, his ridiculous wife, and his horrible son.

“I'm the one who has braved these treacherous seas year after year, for the profit of the Dutch Bicycle and
Tulip Company and the glory of the king,” said the admiral. “Mr. Richter could buy and sell me, and what's worse, believes it is his right to do so. I think it's time for men of real initiative and courage to rule the world, don't you?”

Admiral Bowman stood next to Bren and put his hand on his shoulder. “Even losing one's mother at such a young age is a form of injustice, isn't it?”

Bren looked him squarely in the eye, but said nothing. He didn't know what to say without sounding childish. Was the admiral suggesting that with the power he sought, he could bring Bren's mother back?

“We've come so far,” said the admiral, returning to his desk. “I refuse to believe we can't decode the map. We've overlooked something, I know it. You already saw something I missed with the constellations. Work your magic again, Bren, and I promise, you can have anything you want.”

T
he next day Bren took readings on his own for the first time, and it was as if he had learned nothing from Mr. Tybert. He knocked the hourglass over, and forgot which end was up. When he cast the log line into the water, he nearly threw the whole spool overboard. He poked himself in the eye with the backstaff. He looked forlornly at the now empty birdcage, wishing for help from anyone, or anything. He hadn't felt this scared and helpless since his first days on the ship.

“It's okay,” said Mouse. “We're not really lost.”

He knew what she meant. They had already committed to sailing east, and as long as they didn't sail below the latitude of Cape Colony, Africa would be in front of them eventually. The danger of not knowing how far east or west they were was that they were in uncharted waters, as far as they knew. They could sail headlong into an unknown island cliff hidden by darkness or fog. And Otto had reduced their rations to scraps. They fashioned a drag net to try and catch fish, but came up with little. If they didn't reach the cape within a fortnight, they might all be dead.

“You were brave,” said Mouse. “Fighting Otto.”

“Not really,” said Bren. “Stupid.” He pulled the paiza from inside his shirt and looked at it. “I guess I thought he couldn't hurt me.”

Mouse reached up and touched the paiza, cupping it in her small hand. And then her hand went to the black stone next to it.

“Mouse, do you believe . . . do you believe the things the admiral believes?”

“You mean, do I believe the story of where I came from?”

“Or the story about the girl?” said Bren. “The sorceress?”

“Would you have believed some of the things that have happened if you hadn't seen them yourself?” said Mouse.

Bren shook his head. “No.” He thought back to his
conversation with the admiral in McNally's Explorers' Club, about the Order of the Black Tulip, their commitment to belief in the extraordinary. Faith in the supernatural, some would say. Yet Bren couldn't bring himself to believe in things that had happened right in front of him.

Work your magic again, Bren, and I promise, you can have anything you want.

So what did he really want? He thought he knew, once, but now he wasn't sure, and the uncertainty scared him.

To make matters worse, Bren sat down to a sparse evening meal in the officers' saloon that night and felt a hard nugget of bone on his tongue. He almost retched, and when he reached into his mouth, he pulled out a tooth—a human tooth.

Mr. Leiden looked at it. “It's a molar,” he said. “Let me see.”

Bren opened his mouth and a trickle of blood appeared on his lips. Mr. Leiden frowned.

“It's yours all right.”

“Boys your age lose teeth for lots of reasons,” said the admiral.

Bren looked at Mr. Leiden, who made him open wide again.

“He's right,” said the surgeon, probing Bren's gums. “I don't see any undue bleeding, and we've had oranges until recently. Probably not scurvy.”

“Probably,” said Bren.

Mouse took the tooth from him, turning it over and over in her small hands. “Can I have it?”

“By the time we reach Cape Colony you may be able to make a necklace from my teeth,” said Bren, and though Mouse didn't say anything, Bren could tell she thought that would be amazing.

After dinner Bren gathered up Mr. Tybert's old logbooks and charts and began the process of trying to figure out just how far off course they might be. After what had happened with Otto, there was a real sense of desperation about food and water, and suddenly the admiral's flip comment about how they would “reach the cape or die trying” seemed all too likely. They had to consider alternatives.

Bren also searched the admiral's personal archive of maps, along with one potentially more valuable—McNally's historical maps, which Bren could recall in his mind's eye if he had ever seen them once. Was there possibly another island where they might make land and gather resources? Had anyone ever claimed that there was, even if it was disputed now?

But as the days passed, it became clear that any choice they might make other than sailing for Cape Colony would just be a stab in the dark. As dismal as it was, their present course was the best one.

Mouse had taken over Cook's duties, and also spent much time in the crow's nest. It was from there, nearly two weeks after the burials, that she began shouting excitedly from the top of the mast.

“Land?” said the admiral.

“No,” she said, scampering down to the deck. “But the birds are flying directly overhead now. We're close.”

It was what they all longed to hear. And not a moment too soon. They navigated to the latitude of Cape Colony and sailed due east for two more days, until finally the
Albatross
limped into sight of their destination. Bren went to the rail, hardly able to believe they were within a few hundred yards of land. He prided himself on never crying—not even when his mother died—but he couldn't help himself. He wept. And he wasn't the only one.

They prepared the ship to dock within rowing distance of the shallow harbor, and then waited for someone from the colony to come meet them. Governor van Loon himself was among the welcoming party, and he greeted the admiral like a long-lost son.

“Bowman, you rascal! We were expecting you weeks ago! Worried sick! What happened?”

The beaming governor looked around the ship's waist, at the filthy men with drawn faces and sunken eyes, and his smile retreated. The governor himself was a tall, well-fed man whose ruddy complexion was likely from drink, Bren
guessed, not from hard work in the sun, and he suddenly seemed embarrassed by his prosperity.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Let's get you men fed and watered.”

They spent the next two hours loading fresh supplies onto the
Albatross
: meat, fruit, vegetables, water, wine, and spirits. Before going back to shore, the governor spoke to Mr. van Decken and Mr. Richter and the admiral, and that's when Bren overheard something that gave him new hope.

“One happy circumstance of your delay, Bowman—the DB and T
Dolphin
ported here just yesterday, on their way back to Amsterdam. Captain Kroeger. I think a feast is in order, celebrating two of our great ships crossing paths, don't you? Tomorrow night?”

“We shall look forward to it,” said the admiral.

With the supplies unpacked, every man who was left ate and drank until his stomach ached, and Bren had never tasted anything so good. He could only imagine how much better a banquet at the governor's residence might be. When he mentioned this to Sean, though, the bosun just laughed.

“I hate to disappoint you, little brother, but we stay with the ship.”

“We don't get shore leave?” said Bren. “Even for just a few hours?”

Sean's expression told Bren that his crushing disappointment must have been written all over his face.

“It's customary, on a trip like this,” Sean explained. “Desertion is always a risk, especially when things haven't gone smoothly. Now get some rest. There's more work to be done in port than you think.”

Sean was right. Despite their sorry state, all hands were on deck the very next morning, cleaning the deck, scraping and repainting the hull, slushing the masts, tarring the ropes, and mending sails. A knot of envy twisted in Bren's gut as he watched two small boats row out to the ship, one collecting the admiral, Mr. Richter, and Mr. van Decken, and the other loading two enormous padlocked trunks that had been hauled up from the hold.

It's not fair
, thought Bren, who had to remind himself that if his life to date had taught him anything, it was that fair had nothing to do with it. But he noticed that he wasn't the only one grumbling. With both Bowman and van Decken off-ship, the hobs weren't shy about expressing their doubts. Many wanted to convince the admiral either to return to Amsterdam, or to take their normal, familiar course to the Dragon Islands.

“I wouldn't bring it up,” said Sean. “It rots of mutiny.”

“We ain't plotting to take the ship,” said one. “Just abandon this cockamamie mission. Bowman's not thinkin'
straight. He's . . . he's possessed or somethin'.”

“And that should make a fine argument when you bring it to him,” said Sean.

And that was that, as far as a public airing of the crew's concerns. But the grumbling went on.

Later Bren stood at the side of the ship, bent over from exhaustion, and took a long look at the colony. It was a tidy arrangement of bright white buildings along the coast, surrounded by lush green pastures being grazed by horned cattle. Beyond the town sloped green grassy hills that surrounded an odd-looking flat-topped mountain, and farther still Bren could just make out a straw-colored tableland dotted with green trees and small, dome-shaped huts. At the foot of the mountain was a large, isolated house that Bren assumed to be that of Governor van Loon. Even from this distance Bren could see servants carrying provisions to the rear of the house, where the kitchen must be, in preparation for their banquet tonight.

Bren couldn't stop thinking about his conversation with the admiral. Was he in the service of a man who could change the world for good, or a lunatic? And was the object of Bowman's obsession even real? Was this so-called vanishing island real? The men were right to doubt, though he had read enough about mutinies to know he didn't want to partake in one.

Despite everything that had happened, Bren couldn't
bring himself to believe the Marco Polo story, or that Fortune might be real. For as long as he had tried to run away from Map, all he wanted now was to go home. He hadn't realized how much until he overheard the governor mention the ship going back to Amsterdam. Suddenly he knew, more than anything, that he wanted to be on the
Dolphin
.

But what choice did he have now, if he couldn't leave the ship? He wasn't a strong enough swimmer to make it to shore, or to where the
Dolphin
was anchored. He considered asking Mouse to send a message back to Map, by way of bird, but what good would that do? Neither his father nor Mr. Black could talk to birds.

“It's a funny-looking thing, isn't it?”

Bren jumped. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't heard Sean walk up.

“Sorry, Bren. I thought you were looking at Table Mountain.”

Bren realized he was talking about the odd flat-topped mountain that seemed to wall off Cape Colony from the rest of Africa.

“I bet Mr. Tybert had a story about it,” said Bren.

Sean smiled. “I know one; told by the Africans, though, not the Netherlanders.”

“Let's hear it.”

“I can't spin a tale like Mr. Tybert, but here goes.” Sean cleared his throat. “They say Africa was shaped by
a great battle between two bulls named Throw Mountains and Only One. Only One came first, and had no rivals until a young bull was born and hidden away by his keeper, a young boy who wanted the young bull to someday rule the herd. Every year as the young bull grew, the boy took him before a huge boulder and challenged him to move it.
How can you hope to throw Only One if you can't move the boulder?
the boy said.

“When the young bull had grown so large that his horns were like tree trunks, he smashed the boulder to pieces, and the falling rocks became the mountains of Africa. Only One saw this and demanded to know who would be so bold. Thus did the two bulls come face-to-face, the young looking to overthrow the old.

“
I am Throw Mountains,
said the young bull, for that is the name he had earned,
and I am here to take your herd
.”

“Mr. Tybert would have said it was just like a
jongen
to be impertinent,” said Bren. Sean laughed.

“The two bulls lowered their heads and pawed the ground, preparing to charge. Their massive hooves stripped the ground bare of grass and trees, creating the great deserts of the north. When they charged, their hooves and raking horns gashed the ground with deep furrows that became mighty rivers. Where one bull threw the other, their bodies created valleys and lakes where they hit the earth.

“Finally, Throw Mountains caught Only One under
his chest with one of those powerful horns and tossed him across the face of the sun, creating an eclipse that lasted until the next moon, until the old bull crashed atop Table Mountain, flattening it like a German pancake.”

Bren smiled in spite of himself. When he was a boy, his mother had sung him a rhyme that included the lyric “the cow jumped over the moon,” but he liked this wilder version of cow astronomy better.

“Sorry you're stuck on the boat, lad,” said Sean.

“At least the company is good,” said Bren, who thanked Sean for the story and said good night. He went below to his cabin, took out his journal, and began to write:

The Adventures of Bren Owen, apprentice cartographer and navigator of the Dutch Bicycle & Tulip Company flagship,
Albatross,
having left the port of Map, Britannia, the first of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1599, and having been at sea to date for . . .

Bren suddenly sat up, putting the journal aside and closing his eyes. He brought forth the image of the Marco Polo letter and began to read it in his mind's eye:

On the first day of October, in the year of our Lord 1292, we traveled overland to the City of Lions, on the northeast coast of the Indian Sea. . . . The girl and I
embarked on a small ship for the south, and . . . on our thirty-eighth day at sea . . .

That was it. The missing information was all right there. The admiral had missed it because the last time he had read the letter, who knows when, he hadn't known how important the dates were.