The Vanishing Island (6 page)

“I have orders to shoot you on sight if I catch you down here,” he said, his hand nearly pulling Bren's shirt over his head.

“From whom?” said Bren. “Rand McNally? My father? Mr. Black?”

Mr. Hannity looked shocked. “How many different folks are you in trouble with, boy?”

“A lot,” said Bren.

The harbormaster let go and pulled a letter from inside his jacket. “Here, you work for McNally . . . save me a trip. Tell him it's a message for Admiral Bowman.”

“What is it?” said Bren, remembering that the drunk man had called the tall man Bowman.

“It's none of your business, that's what,” said Mr. Hannity. “Just deliver it. And I'll know it if you don't!” He wagged a finger in Bren's face, close enough for Bren to see the flecks of earwax and mucus on the tip.

Bren turned and ran to McNally's, hoping he was right—that this Bowman was the admiral of the Dutch yacht. Before he went inside, he examined the note, but it was sealed. It would be obvious if he snooped.

Skipping the lift, he ran upstairs to McNally's office, which was down a hallway from the drafting room. The
hall was dimly lit, and Bren didn't see the short, fat man standing in the doorway until it was too late—he ran square into him.

“What the . . . ,” the man exclaimed, cursing, and turning like a lopsided top on Bren. It was the drunk man with the fancy waistcoat. “You nearly ran up my backside!”

When he moved from the doorway, Bren could see Rand McNally behind his desk, and Rand McNally could see him.

“What are you doing here?”

Bren brandished the note to prove his innocence. “Mr. Hannity sent me.”

“What were you doing at the harbor?”

Bren had no good answer for this, and McNally let him squirm.

“Well, bring it here,” he said finally, waving Bren into the office.

McNally's office was surprisingly spare considering how lavish the rest of the Emporium was. Just a large table that functioned as a desk, another table along one wall piled with books and maps, and a small table under the one window, upon which sat a half-empty bottle of Scotch whisky and four glasses.

When Bren was all the way in, he saw the man in the high black boots standing there, a warm smile on his face.

McNally took the letter and gestured to the grumpy
fat man. “Bren, these are my most honored guests: Mr. Richter, vice president of the Dutch Bicycle and Tulip Company. And this,” he said, nodding toward the tall man, “is Admiral Bowman, who commands the
Albatross
, the company's flagship.”

Admiral Bowman removed his hat and gave a small, courteous bow. If he recognized Bren, he didn't let on. Mr. Richter was already at the whisky table with the cork out of the bottle.

“May I offer you a drink?” said McNally, sarcastically.

Mr. Richter looked at the admiral. “Bowman?”

The admiral waved away the request with his hat.

Bren was speechless. Had McNally really just introduced him to an admiral of the world's most famous navy?

“Oh, the letter's for Admiral Bowman,” said Bren, hearing McNally break the seal. The top of his boss's bald head flushed red.

“Why the bloody aich didn't you say so?” he said, passing the letter to the admiral.

“Is the boy touched?” said Mr. Richter. He asked the question in Dutch, but Bren understood him. Dutch was the international language of trade. One couldn't live in a town like Map without picking up a bit of it. And Bren had picked up more than a bit.

“No, he just acts that way,” said McNally.

Bren glanced at a long table along the wall, covered
with maps. McNally noticed. “You may scram now,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Bren, and after bowing politely to both guests he walked calmly from the office, down the back stairs, and out of the building, then ran back to the harbor.

How long would it be before another Far Easter docked in Map? More important, how long would the
Albatross
be here before setting sail? Bren decided then and there he had to find out, because whenever the
Albatross
left, he was determined to be on it.

B
ren woke up to find Mr. Grey staring at him from the foot of his bed, as if Bren were the one who didn't belong there.

“Standing guard, are you? Good boy, come here,” he said, extending his hand. Mr. Grey was unmoved.

“So I have a plan,” said Bren, “to figure out what those Netherlanders and McNally are up to. But it will require the stealth of a cat. Have any pointers for me?”

“. . .”

“Breakfast?”

“Meow.”

“Okay, wait here.”

Bren went downstairs, where his father was sitting at their table, finishing his porridge. “Who are you talking to up there?”

“No one,” said Bren.

“You're not feeding that cat, are you?”

“No.”

They ate in awkward silence for a few minutes before his father asked, “How's work?”

“Great?” said Bren. “I mean, I guess I'm being the best Assistant Puke Boy I can be.”

“All work should be done with pride,” said his father, repeating one of his favorite sayings.

“What about your work?” said Bren.

“My work?” His father immediately perked up, as if Bren had never asked him about his work before. Then again, thought Bren, he probably hadn't. Not on purpose, anyway.

“I'm working on a very old atlas,” said his father. “So old, it doesn't have any maps, per se.”

“How is it an atlas if it doesn't have any maps?”

“Ah, there's the rub,” said his father. “The original maps were lost, you see, but the mapmaker left detailed descriptions of how to draw the maps and where to place things. I know you think my job is all about copying
existing maps, but this is actually quite challenging.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maps can take many forms,” his father continued. “It's what they represent, not necessarily what they look like.” And then his father went on about proportion, representation, and triangulation—all part of the exciting vocabulary of a mapmaker.

When he finished, Bren asked, “Is the atlas by any chance for the Netherlanders who are in town?”

“Netherlanders?”

“Yes!” said Bren. “There's a Dutch ship in Map's harbor right now. I ran into the ship's admiral and his boss in the vomitorium, and then again in McNally's office. I thought you must've seen them, too.”

His father chuckled. “You know I don't meddle in Mr. McNally's business.”

“It wouldn't be meddling for you to notice that two especially important members of the Dutch Bicycle and Tulip Company were in the office.”

His father just looked at him. “I'm sorry, Bren. I don't know anything.”

Bren finished his porridge and took his bowl to the sink, wishing he'd never come down for breakfast.

“I'll see you tonight?” his father said as Bren opened the front door.

“Okay,” said Bren, muttering
“eventually”
under his
breath. Why did he even bother trying to talk to his father about the Netherlanders? If it didn't have to do with a map or Map, he wasn't interested. No matter; Bren had a plan, but it would have to wait until he finished his chores.

It turned out to be a rare clear day in Map, with the sun peeking out from behind grey fingers of cloud. By noon a large crowd had gathered at the town square, but it wasn't the fair weather that had brought them there. There was an execution today, an event that appealed to all—the men and women in dull, well-worn laborers' clothes; those in wigs and finery; sunburned seamen representing dozens of nations, all jostling with each other to get closer to the front of a makeshift stage decorated with red, white, and blue bunting.

Rand McNally would be watching from his balcony, and before slipping into the Emporium, Bren glanced up to make sure his boss was already out there. He was, standing at the railing with his Dutch guests, gesturing over the crowd and no doubt explaining how he had made Map what it was.

When Bren reached the second floor, he glanced back across the drawing room, toward the balcony. The draftsmen, including his father, were all hunched over their work. McNally and the Netherlanders had their backs to him. Now was his chance.

He darted down the hallway and into the office. Surely there would be some clue as to why the Dutch Bicycle &
Tulip Company was here. It didn't take a genius to figure out McNally was in the middle of it, but why? What maps would McNally have that a Netherlander needed?

On the table were plates he recognized—maps of the New World, some of which his father had worked on, including New Britannia, the British settlement on the new continent's northeast coast. Others he wasn't familiar with. In fact, they didn't look like maps from the Emporium at all, and they didn't have McNally's logo. They were of the northern part of the Indian Ocean, and of India proper, and the Middle East. They had to be Dutch.

And then Bren saw it . . . lying open across the long table against the wall. A very official-looking document, featuring two royal symbols side by side. On the left was Britannia, a female warrior carrying a shield and a trident, with a lion beside her. On the right, a badge of two gold lions rampant, supporting a blue shield with a gold crown. Inside the shield, another lion, with a sword in one paw and seven arrows in the other, representing the Seven Provinces of the Netherlands.

Beneath the seal of Britannia was printed the name of Queen Adeline, House of Pelican, and under the other, the name of King Maximilian, Prince of Orange and Steward of the Seven Provinces. And writ large across the top, the words
Articles of Alliance
.

All that was missing were the monarchs' signatures.

An alliance?
thought Bren, and his imagination immediately began to churn with the possibilities of what that could mean. British colonies in the Far East? Would any Brit be able to move there? Or just the privileged? Were children on the Asian continent any nicer than British kids?

He heard a commotion from the drawing room that snapped him out of his daydream. One of the draftsmen had just dropped something. Bren needed to get out of there. But just as he was about to escape, Rand McNally turned around and noticed him in the hallway.

“Owen!” he called. “Not you,” he said to Bren's father when he looked up. And then David Owen noticed his son there, and a confused look clouded his face.

“Come here,” McNally said, motioning for Bren to join them on the balcony, which didn't seem capable of holding Rand McNally, let alone three other people. Admiral Bowman stood at the far end, taking in the scene with mild amusement. Mr. Richter had a drink in hand.

“Gentlemen,” said McNally, drawing their attention back to the square, “our grand entertainment is at hand.” Two hooded men were led to the scaffold, and the crowd buzzed. “Priggers of prancers,” McNally added. Horse thieves.

After a jailer stood before the crowd and read the official charges, the first man was made to put his head on a wooden block in front of a platform atop which sat three large stones. A barrel-chested executioner then climbed to
the top of the platform and dropped the first stone. The prisoner's head split open like a melon, all pulp and hairy rind. Bren flinched, turning his head away, but the gawkers who had pushed their way to the front got exactly what they wanted—the thrill of having their faces and clothes spattered with blood and brains.

The second thief took his stone in the shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain. The second stone hit him in the center of his back, cracking his spine. He moaned in agony, and the crowd cheered. “Finish him! Finish him!” The executioner, out of stones, climbed down and grabbed a maul, finishing the job with one messy blow. The crowd murmured its approval, and McNally gave Bren a knowing look.

The message was clear: Bad boys become bad men, and bad men become dead.

Bren had never had a stone dropped on his head, but part of him thought it might be preferable to spending the rest of the summer cleaning up an entire building filled with vomit. Or living out the rest of his days drawing maps to places other men would explore.

“We call it
braining
,” McNally explained to his guests.

“Savagery,” said Mr. Richter, throwing back the rest of his drink.

“What do they do with prisoners in the Netherlands?” said Bren.

“We make them join the navy,” said the admiral, smiling.

McNally gave Bren another look that told him in no uncertain terms that he was dismissed, which was fine with Bren. He slipped past his father and down the back stairs, running to Black's Books and nearly frightening his older friend to death when he threw open the door and yelled, “Guess what!”

“I don't guess,” said Mr. Black, once he had regained his composure.

“You must have seen the
Albatross
by now,” said Bren. “The Dutch yacht?”

“Indeed I have.” Mr. Black's face was toward the chessboard, but he was looking at Bren out of the corner of his eye. “You're not thinking of trying to run away again, are you?”

“No,” Bren lied. “But you
must
be curious to know why they are here, aren't you? How long they plan to stay? Wouldn't you love a chance to collect some more trinkets from the Far East?”

“I'll thank you not to refer to my hard-earned collection of Orientalia as
trinkets
,” said Mr. Black. “But yes, I am curious.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Do you want to know or don't you?” said Bren.

Mr. Black stood up straight and pushed his reading
spectacles on top of his head, where he was always forgetting them. “Well?”

“Articles of Alliance!” said Bren, with a theatrical flourish.

“Articles of Alliance?”

“Britannia and the Netherlands. All drawn up, just waiting for the king and queen to sign.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“I saw it myself,” said Bren. “McNally must be behind it. Although I do wonder why the Netherlands would need anything from him.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Black. “I suppose, with Iberia growing stronger, perhaps the Dutch fear they can't hold their monopoly on the Far East forever. Or perhaps they've taken note of the wealth being discovered in the New World, in which case McNally's maps would be of great use to them. I must say, if all this is true, I may have underestimated Rand McNally. This would immediately elevate Britannia, and Queen Adeline. And she would have him to thank.”

“And do you think this means British colonies in the Far East?” said Bren.

“Don't get ideas,” said Mr. Black. “I seriously doubt your father would be making that trip. And by the way, where exactly did you see this document, which I assume is highly confidential?”

“Don't get mad,” said Bren, “but I snuck into McNally's
office while he was out watching the execution.”

“You snuck into Rand McNally's office?” It was hard to tell when Mr. Black was scowling, because he never looked happy, but Bren was pretty sure he was scowling.

“That's not really the point of this story,” Bren protested.

“Exactly how much trouble do you want to be in?”

Bren thought about it. “I already work in the vomitorium. What else could they do to me?”

Mr. Black mimed a large rock falling onto a small head. “Splat! That's what.”