The Vanishing Island (3 page)

At the fall of the Roman Empire, a tribe rose out of the bogs of the North. They were led by a powerful king who claimed the lowlands from the sea by marshaling earth against water. Thus was he called Rotter van Dam, or Rotter of the Dams.

King Rotter unified all the tribes of the lowlands, and having conquered the waters once, he launched an ambitious plan to build a navy and plunder his neighbors by sea. They turned the waters red with the blood of their enemies and ground their bones to make
garden paths. Their long-distance raids from parts unknown eventually gave a name to their people—the Netherlanders.

Among the first plunder brought back for King Rotter was a very young orange tree—the first of its kind ever seen in the West. Forever after, the orange became the symbol of the royal house of the Netherlands.

“B
ren! Are you getting ready up there?”

Bren ignored his father and returned to his book,
The Conquering Orange
, which he had read so many times the binding was falling apart. He knew the real story wasn't quite so sensational, but for once the truth was plenty good. The Netherlanders had claimed the jewel coveted by all ever since Marco Polo had returned from his travels through the empire of Kublai Khan—colonies in the Far East, and an absolute monopoly on trade there.

He was on the small cot in his sleeping loft. He had been under house arrest since the “accident,” his left arm bandaged from his forearm past his elbow. Besides the cot, the alcove was empty save for a small writing desk and a flowerpot that sat in the one window. The pot was filled with dirt, and buried there was a tulip bulb. Bren had purchased it for a shilling from a grab bag at a fair during the Dutch tulip frenzy. Given the price people were paying for tulips at the time, Bren was sure he'd hit the jackpot, that
some rare species would flower and make him rich. But the bulb had never sprouted.

Suddenly a large cat flew through the window, brushing the small flowerpot and sending it on a wobbly orbit along the sill.

“Mr. Grey, where have you been!” said Bren. “Have you forgiven me for trying to run away?”

He reached out to pet the cat, now on the end of his cot, who purred contentedly for several seconds before chomping down on Bren's hand and jumping off the bed.

“Ow! I guess I deserved that.”

“Bren, it's time!” his father called from below.

Bren sighed and closed his book. As he put his boots on, he glanced at his walls, which were covered with parchment he had pinched from Rand McNally's Map Emporium. His father worked there as a mapmaker and had long planned for Bren to follow in his footsteps, but so far the only maps Bren had drawn were those from his imagination.

Britannia didn't even exist in this room. Only the fantastical lands of the Orient and the Far East: the Mogul Empire, with its tigers and elephants; the Dragon Islands and Dutch Siam; the Island of the Orange Apes. And of course China itself, the Forbidden Kingdom, populated with monkeys, leopards, and lions, as well as unicorns, dragons, basilisks, and beasts half man and half dog—all creatures described by Marco Polo in his famous travel
book. Bren had drawn the legendary palace of Xanadu, with its gold roof and gold floors, and the red pearls that floated like jellyfish in the South China Sea.

“Bren!” his father called again, and Bren turned away from his childish drawings.

“Hear that, Mr. Grey? It's time for my trial. If they execute me, I leave all this to you.”

Mr. Grey yawned.

Map's Royal Court of Justice was one of three large stone buildings that surrounded the town square. To its left was the Church of the Faithful, the state church of Britannia. And facing the church from across the wide lawn was the largest building of all: McNally's Map Emporium. This was where sailors from all over came to buy and sell the newest, most valuable, and rarest maps of the world. The church offered salvation, but McNally's offered prestige. It had put Map on the map, and given it its name.

Bren and his father approached the court along a path still festooned with Chinese lanterns, left over from the Exhibition of Oriental Wonders that had been held in the spring. Bren had spent every penny he had to see the exhibition twice, but it was worth it. He had gotten to see a coconut, elephant tusks, the hide of a snow leopard, and a machine that hurled rocks. He had held chopsticks and flown a kite. And he had seen a real dragon skeleton. He
knew it was real because it didn't have wings like the fake dragons of Western mythology.

Bren and his father were led inside by a bailiff who might have been as old as the court itself. Bren's father was wearing the only suit he owned; Bren was wearing a rough tweed jacket two sizes too large for him that his father had borrowed.

“This jacket itches,” said Bren, as they waited and waited.

“Hush now,” said his father.

Finally the chamber door opened and the judge took his seat. The elderly bailiff opened a scroll and stared at it, moving it closer to his face until he was able to read it. The judge drummed his fingers on the bench impatiently.

“We are summoned here, in the town of Map, of the county Cornwall, of the district of West Anglia, of the sovereign kingdom of Britannia, in the Year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and ninety-nine, in the Royal Court of Justice, under the protection of the laws of Queen Adeline, of the House of Pelican . . .” Here the bailiff had to pause and refill his lungs. “Summoned here for the disposition of Master Bren Owen, age twelve . . .”

The judge waved his hand and cut the bailiff off. “Very good, Mr. Chambers.”

The bailiff nodded and passed the scroll to the judge. Bren's father leaned over and whispered, “That's Judge Clower, a client of McNally's.”

Bren nodded. He had seen him a number of times, walking around town with what McNally called “Maps of Local Interest.” They were in fact official-looking maps that claimed to identify places where ancient Celts or Romans might have dropped, hidden, or abandoned valuable artifacts waiting to be discovered. Judge Clower could often be seen spending his Sunday afternoons with a forked instrument that supposedly vibrated when it detected buried gold, silver, or bronze. Bren guessed it was the only exercise Judge Clower got. He was a large man with hog-size jowls. His wooden seat groaned every time he shifted his leg.

“Master Owen, you may be seated,” said the judge. They all waited while he silently read over the charges for the first time. “So you're the one who blew up the queen's ship?”

“Not exactly, Your Honor,” said Bren.

The judge took another look.

“Ah, I see. Minor damage, crewman admitted to smoking, et cetera, et cetera . . . well, then,” the judge started to say, before the bailiff cleared his throat and motioned for him to flip the scroll over. “There's more?”

Judge Clower finished reading the reverse side and looked around, as if to make sure there were no other scrolls on the way. “So, Master Owen. This is not the first time you have tried something like this?”

It was true. When he was ten, Bren had tried to stow
away on a ship of religious zealots bound for America. He was discovered by a member who had gone belowdecks to flog himself, and had been sent home with stern warnings about the wrath of God. The ship was later destroyed in a storm. And last autumn he had tried to sneak aboard a research vessel that was off to investigate reports of cannibalism in the Seal Islands. They were never heard from again.

Judge Clower seemed to think there was a lesson to be learned here. “You must be counting your blessings, Master Owen, that fate has saved you from your own rebelliousness,” he said, leaning forward to look down on Bren, his chin pressed against the roll of fat around his neck.

Bren nodded obediently at the mention of those other ill-fated voyages. But what he was really thinking was that the odds must surely be in his favor the next time.

“And what are the remedies available to this court?” the judge asked.

The bailiff passed him another scroll. “The list of punishments, Your Honor.”

Judge Clower unrolled the parchment and began mumbling to himself. “Lashes . . . stocks . . . hard labor . . . beheading? That can't be right. . . .”

Bren drew in his breath. Lashes? Hard labor? He was a child! He nervously fingered the black stone around his neck.

Suddenly a tall, well-dressed man with a large nose stood up at the back of the courtroom: “I want to know
what happened to my wig! That was one of my most expensive models—the Continental!”

Bren craned his neck to behold Cloudesley Swyers, owner of Swyers' Fine Wigs, Powders & Pomades. He had hit it big by making “exotic” wigs from a local breed of shaggy cattle, and he generally looked down his prominent nose at people like Bren and his father. Apparently Bren had been spotted either sneaking into or out of his shop.

Judge Clower looked at Swyers, as if just now noticing he was there, and for a moment Bren hoped he would put the snoot in his place. After all, this had nothing to do with stolen wigs. Then he noticed that atop the judge's head was a snow-white tower of curls from Swyers' exclusive Judicial Collection. The judge instead turned to Bren for an explanation.

“A tiger ate it,” said Bren. “Or maybe a lion.”

The wigmaker looked at Bren as if he were insane. “You—you
rapscallion
! You're a liar!
And
a thief!”

“Now see here,” said Bren's father, standing up to defend his son. At least, he was mostly standing. David Owen was a head shorter than his twelve-year-old son, in part because he had a pronounced stoop, as if he were saddled with some invisible burden. Bren couldn't remember if he had always looked that way, or only since Bren's mother had died.

“Mr. Swyers, Mr. Owen—” began Judge Clower,
banging his gavel. But before he could go on, the doors to the courtroom opened, and in walked a man almost too big for the entryway.

“Oh dear,” muttered Bren's father.

His boss, Rand McNally, stood there, taking in the scene. He seemed less like a person than a monument—twice life-size, a head as bald as marble, and huge feet for a pedestal.

“Rand,” said Judge Clower, “I was just about to assign a remedy to this young man.”

McNally turned a pair of small, dark eyes toward Bren, the way an owl looks at a rabbit. “I'll take him,” he said. “He's owed to me anyway.”

Bren slumped in his seat, certain he could detect a faint smile on his father's face. Cloudesley Swyers was trembling with indignation, but seemed unable to think of a proper way to contradict Rand McNally. Judge Clower clapped his hands, eager to be done with it all.

“Very well,” he said. “Let it be so. Although I would like to add, Master Owen, that you are
not
to be seen at or near the harbor from this day forth. If you are, without a designated guardian, we will have to revisit that scroll of recommended penance. Do you understand?”

The judge looked to McNally as he said this, for his approval. McNally nodded.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Bren.

The judge stood, all grunts and popping knees. The bailiff was forgotten, left sitting upright in his chair, sound asleep. Cloudesley Swyers left the Royal Court in high dudgeon, still grumbling about his missing wig. And Bren tried to make a right turn as soon as they left the building, but his left arm was firmly in the bearlike grasp of Rand McNally. He wasn't going anywhere.

“You don't realize how lucky you are, do you?” said McNally.

“Would they really have beheaded me?”

“He's just being funny,” said his father. “He's grateful, really. We both are.”

McNally grunted. “Tomorrow. Ten o'clock, sharp. I'll show you how you can start paying off your debt.”

“Yes, sir.”

McNally walked away, and Bren turned to his father. “Can I go now?”

“To Black's?”

“It's been two weeks!” Bren pleaded.

“And we still haven't really talked,” said his father.

“Why do we have to talk about it?” said Bren. “I said everything in the letter.” How many times would he have to explain that he wasn't
really
running away?

“The letter, yes,” his father said. “I got it.”

The sky greyed and it began to drizzle. After a few more awkward moments, Bren's father seemed to decide
that dropping the issue was better than getting soaking wet, so he said good-bye and went back to work.

Bren was free. But as he worked his way through the throng of people near the square, he soon found his face pressed into the back of an unmoving object. The object turned to see what was nudging him in the back.

“Owen!”

“Duke,” said Bren, staring up at Duke Swyers, son of the wig master. He had three large friends with him. Duke was thick and had a head like a block of granite. He also had his father's large nose and overhanging upper lip. On his father, this presented a certain air of haughtiness. It made Duke look like a rhinoceros. As the official heir to the Empire of Wigs, Duke had been preparing for his reign of tyranny for years now among Map's other children.

“My father said that was an expensive wig you stole,” said Duke.

“It looked like a turd,” said Bren.

Duke's face turned all shades of red, and he and his friends closed in. Bren immediately took off running. He would have kept to the alleyways, but Duke and his friends knew those sly routes as well as he did. So he stuck to the main streets from the square to the Merchant Quarter, skidding along the damp cobblestones, vaulting piles of horse manure, narrowly missing at least one chamber pot being emptied out a window, and shamelessly using a group
of large, bewigged women as obstacles to slow Duke down.