The Unmapped Sea (17 page)

“Ahoy there, lad! How do I look?” His voice was gruff, older, perfectly admiral-like, she thought. And truly, with his long, sloping nose made of putty, thick side whiskers, and drawn-on wrinkles, he hardly looked like himself at all, save for the unruly lock of hair that had escaped from his hat and tumbled poetically over his forehead.

“The nose is pure Ashton. But the hair is Simon Harley-Dickinson, through and through,” she replied. Without thinking, she reached out and tucked the stray lock beneath the brim of his hat. The two of them stood there and gazed at each other, and for a moment Penelope was sure she was about to get the clue she was looking for.

But Simon was already in character. “Come along, then, my boy!” he said, in his admiral's voice. “It's time to go talk to my old friend Pudge.”

I
N HIS UNIFORM
S
IMON CUT
a dashing figure, and the residents of the HAM saluted sharply and greeted him with nods of respect as he and Penelope walked to
Pudge's room. One old salt gave Penelope a sour look. “It's bad luck to have a woman aboard ship,” he said, addressing Simon.

“Mind your manners, sailor,” Simon replied. “This is Pete, the cabin boy.”

The man glared at her. “Like I said. It's bad luck,
miss
.”

“Bad luck for you, maybe!” Penelope spoke with all the growl she could muster. She shoved a fisted hand on each hip and stood wide legged, as she imagined a sailor might. “One more word and I'll have no choice but to challenge you to a—”

“Mind your temper there, young Pete!” Simon interrupted, stepping between them. “Hot heads sink ships, how many times must I tell you?” He clapped the old sailor on the back. “As for you, my good man, better get those eyes checked!”

“If you say so, Admiral,” the man muttered, and slunk off.

Penelope was disappointed, for she had thought her disguise was quite convincing. “Do I really look so much like a girl?” she whispered.

“Do I really look so much like a girl?” she whispered.

“It's nothing to complain about. But maybe this'll help.” In a flash he drew a mustache on her lip with one of his grease pencils. “Much better! You're still Pete
the cabin boy, only a few years older. Here's Pudge's room. Ready?”

“Aye aye, sir!” She saluted and nearly knocked off her cap.

Simon gave a rap on the door, but there was no answer. “His hearing's not what you'd call shipshape,” he explained. He listened at the door for a moment, and slowly pushed it open. Pudge was in his rocking chair, gazing out the window.

“Ahoy, lad!” Simon bellowed, swaggering in. “Why, if it isn't my favorite cabin boy, Pudge!”

The old man turned his head. Without question, he was the oldest person Penelope had ever seen. His leathery skin, nearly bald pate, and thin, wide smile reminded her of a tortoise. Even so, there was something familiar about the gleam in his eye, not to mention the remaining shock of pure white hair that tumbled over his creased, permanently sun-browned forehead.

“Don't you recognize me, Pudge?” Simon went on. “It's me! Your old friend and commander, Admiral Percival Racine Ashton. It's been a few years since our last voyage, but I'd know you anywhere. Why, you haven't changed a bit.”

The shadow of some kind of understanding passed over the old man's face, and a smile broke out across
his wizened features “Why, so it is!” he exclaimed. “Admiral Ashton, as I live and breathe. You look well, sir. Very well. And who's the young lad?”

It took Penelope a moment to realize he meant her. “Pete the cabin boy, at your service!” she said huskily.

“Aye, Pete the cabin boy! Fancy that. Looks like you could use a bit of a shave, son.” Pudge struggled to stand up, and Simon quickly caught his elbow.

“No need to get up, Pudge. We've just come for a visit. I thought it would be amusing to sit and talk about the old days. Spin a few yarns, as it were.”

“The old days, yes! Nothing beats looking back on the old days.” Pudge settled back in his chair. It made a rhythmic squeaking sound as he rocked.

Simon sat on the edge of Pudge's cot. “I'll bet you remember them better than I do. You always were a sharp one, Pudge, my lad!”

“That's what you always said, Admiral!”

The two men chuckled fondly. There was nowhere else to sit, so Penelope stood near the door. She could hardly believe how well it was going.

“Remember when we were shipwreck'd, Pudge, my boy? That was our greatest adventure together!”

Pudge cackled. “Do you mean, on the island of Ahwoo-Ahwoo?”

“I do indeed. Do you remember?”

“Like it was yesterday.” The old man closed his eyes and rocked faster in his squeaking chair.

“What a shipwreck it was!” Simon went on, trying to draw him out. “It was—quite a wreck, wasn't it?”

“Aye, that it was. It was a miracle we made it to that curséd island! And a tragedy so few of us escaped,” Pudge said with relish. “Meaning, only two. You and me.” He rocked and squeaked, clearly enjoying himself.

“That's right! We were the only ones to escape. How did that happen, Pudge, my boy?”

“Surely you remember, Admiral!”

“Not as well as you do, Pudge! Your memory's sharp as a tack!”

“That it is. But even if it weren't, I'd still know the tale. For I wrote it all down in my cabin boy's diary.” He paused and looked at them both. “I wrote it in the form of a poem.”

Simon snuck a look at Penelope. “A poem, you say? That's impressive! Pete, next time you set sail, try to be as clever as Pudge, here, will you?”

“Aye aye, sir!” Penelope barked. “I'd like to hear that poem, sir!”

“Me, too,” Simon said, and smiled. Penelope smiled. Pudge smiled too.

“It's a long one,” the old man warned. “Any particular part you'd like to hear?”

“We'd like to hear the part about—” Simon caught himself. “I mean to say . . . well, I do recall, vaguely, something about a curse.”

“A curse! Yes. A dreadful curse!” The old salt cackled merrily.

Simon slapped his knee. “Let's hear that part, then. What say you, Pete?”

“I'd like to hear the part about the curse, too, sir!” Penelope piped up.

“I bet you would, boy.” Pudge cackled and rocked. “But the curse is not in the poem.”

“Wait. The curse is not in the poem?” Simon asked in disbelief.

“That's just what I said, Admiral. The curse is not in the poem. I tried to put it in, but it wouldn't fit the poetic meter.”

Simon was momentarily stumped. “Ah! Well.” He looked at Penelope for help.

She cleared her throat. “Bad luck about the poetic meter, Mister Pudge, sir! Could you just
tell
us what the curse was, then? The exact words of it? In prose?”

Pudge cocked his head to the side, as if to listen with his other ear. “Crows? I heard a poem about
crows once. By a Mr. Poe. ‘Nevermore!' That's what it was called.”

“Actually, it is called ‘The Raven,'” Penelope corrected, for she knew the poem quite well.

“Not crows, my boy! Prose!” Simon said. “Prose with a P. Could you tell us the curse in prose?”

Pudge's thin, close-lipped smile spread from ear to ear. “Ah, prose with a P! P as in pirate. Well, I don't know anything about prose, but I could tell you in plain speech.
If
you were the admiral.”

Simon faltered, but only for a moment. He scowled and puffed up his chest. “I beg your pardon, lad! I
am
the admiral!”

Pudge rocked and laughed until he had to wipe a tear of mirth from his eye. “Oh, come on, Simon! I'm old, and one of my ears is worse than the other, but I'm not blind, and I've more wits than most. I've played along with your little game. But now I'm thirsty, so that's enough. Let's go to the mess hall and have a wee glass of punch.” He squinted at Penelope. “And who's the young lady, eh?”

Blast! The ruse had failed, and there was no need to go on pretending. Penelope summoned what dignity she could. “I am Miss Penelope Lumley,” she replied. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She had
no idea how to curtsy in trousers, so she gave a small bow instead.

Simon took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair. “All right, Uncle. You found us out. We shouldn't have tried to trick you. You're too sharp for that.”

“You shouldn't try to flatter me, either,” Pudge said, sounding annoyed.

“Sorry! You're right as ever.” Simon perched on the edge of the cot, a hand on each knee. “Here's the plain truth, on my honor as a Harley-Dickinson: Miss Lumley and I need to know what happened on Ahwoo-Ahwoo. We're asking you, please, to tell us.”

“I swore an oath to the admiral. I'll discuss it with no one but him.”

“I know you swore an oath, Uncle. But it's important. The fates of—well, quite a few people depend on it.”

“Including the admiral's own great-great-great-great-grandchild, who is soon to be born,” Penelope added.

Pudge was unmoved. “Like I said. Bring me the admiral, and we'll have a nice chat all about it.”

Simon looked at Penelope, who gave a regretful nod. There was no other way. He placed a hand on the old man's knee.

“Uncle, I'm sorry to be blunt, but the admiral's dead.”

Pudge tipped his head to the other side, making the question of which ear was his good one difficult to answer. “Fled, you say? Of course he fled! If you were being chased by cannibals, you'd flee, too.”

Simon leaned forward and his voice rose. “Listen here, Pudge. Admiral Ashton is no longer among us. He has passed through the realm of the living and now dwells Beyond the Veil!” Penelope could not help but admire how, even in dire straits, Simon surely had a way with words.

“No need to shout, lad! I'm right here.” Pudge's thin lips grew thinner still. “The admiral's dead, I know that. Dead as a dodo. Why'd you think I put ‘sole survivor' in the name of my book? Sole means only! If the admiral was alive, I'd not be the sole survivor, would I?”

His logic on this point was hard to refute. “But how can you insist on speaking to him when you know it is impossible?” Simon asked, exasperated.

Pudge stilled his chair. The squeaking stopped, and silence blanketed the room like snow. “Simon, my boy, I'm an ancient mariner. I spent my whole life aboard ship. There's much I've seen, and much I wish I hadn't seen. My word is my bond, an oath is an oath, and the older I get, the less your sort of logic means to me.
Impossible things happen all the time. If you were as old as me, you'd know that.”

His rocking resumed, back and forth, and so did the piercing, rhythmic squeak of wood on wood. “When the admiral comes, I'll talk a blue streak. Until then, I'm silent as a clam. I'm waiting for the admiral, and that, my boy, is that!”

T
HE
T
ENTH
C
HAPTER
The reading of difficult poetry gives Penelope an idea.

D
EFEATED
, S
IMON AND
P
ENELOPE HELPED
Pudge into his invalid chair and wheeled him to the sitting room for a glass of punch. All the ancient mariners looked forward to this afternoon refreshment, which was a daily ritual at the HAM. They stood in a long, bowlegged line, elbowing one another and making sly remarks about waiting their turn to “walk the plank.” (The old sailors were joking, of course, for to “walk the plank” was the most drastic punishment that could be doled out on a ship. Even the tastiest glass of punch
would hardly be worth such a gruesome end.)

The drinks were ladled out by a jolly serving woman in an apron made of patched sailcloth. She was tall and rotund, with a bulbous nose, round eyeglasses, and circles of red blush painted on her cheeks. She indulged the sailors' good humor by pouring imaginary spirits from an empty rum bottle into each glass before handing it over, all while singing in a deep alto voice.

“What do you do with a drunken sailor,
What do you do with a drunken sailor
What do you do with a drunken sailor
Earl-eye in the morning?”

The sailors found this hilarious, but the rum bottle made Penelope think of Simon's letters. Oh, the letters! Thank goodness she was still dressed as Pete the cabin boy. It made it easier to swagger about and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand and swear mild sailor oaths, like “Pickled herring, that's good punch!” instead of sitting morosely in a corner, wondering whether Simon was or was not in love with her. “Pickled herring!” she thought, losing patience. “If he is, he ought to say so, oughtn't he?”

The wind blew cold by the water, but Pudge insisted on being wheeled outside to drink his punch on the wide, sea-facing porch. He longed to hear the waves, gaze at the horizon, and take a few deep breaths of the frigid ocean air. “That's why there are so many ancient mariners, you know,” he said, as Simon and Penelope shivered in their sailor suits. “A life spent breathing that fine salt air! If you don't fall overboard, or die of scurvy, or get eaten by a shark, or slain by pirates, or killed in a mutiny or . . . well, any number of things . . . a sailor's life is bound to be a long one, yes sirree!”

Soon their visit was over. Simon and Penelope returned Pudge to his room and their costumes to the trunks in the storage area downstairs. “Talk about a knack for the theatrical! Old Pudge put on quite a show for us. I'd say his performance put mine to shame,” Simon groused as they trudged along the boardwalk back to the hotel. He was again dressed in his fortune-teller outfit but made no attempt to walk or talk “in character.” As the saying goes, that ship had sailed.

“No, Simon. The failure of our scheme was my fault, not yours. I was being optoomuchstic to think you could fool your own great-uncle, despite your considerable talent and skill with stagecraft,” Penelope said, just as unhappy. The day had been a double failure
as far as she was concerned: Not only had they not learned the exact words of the curse upon the Ashtons, but she had not discovered a single clue one way or the other regarding Simon's feelings toward her! It was all quite disheartening.

Simon handed her a pocket handkerchief and tapped a finger to his upper lip. “Not that you don't look good in a mustache,” he said with a grin.

“Oh!” she blurted, embarrassed. She turned her head to hide her blush as she wiped off the grease pencil, and wondered if the compliment “You look good in a mustache” could be considered a reliable sign of a love-struck suitor. If only the rules of love were as simple and straightforward as, say, the rules of poetic meter. . . .

“Poetic meter!” she exclaimed. She stopped walking and turned to her friend. “Simon, surely you remember how badly Edward Ashton wanted to read Pudge's diary? So much so that he stole it away from us before we could read it ourselves?”

“Do I! That was a dark day. After all the work we'd done to visibilize the invisible ink that rascal Pudge had used to write down his tale! Sorry. I shouldn't call him a rascal, but I'm a bit cross with the old man at present.”

“Understandably so,” she said, though she was
impatient to get to her point, “but do you recall
why
Edward Ashton was so desperate to read it?”

“Sure I do. To end the curse on his family, he had to know exactly what happened on Ahwoo-Ahwoo. . . .” He looked at her, realizing. “I think I see what you're driving at here! Thanks to the rules of poetic meter, the curse—”

“—is not in the poem. The curse is not in the poem,” she muttered, thinking it through. “Which means that Edward Ashton must still be trying to find out what happened on Ahwoo-Ahwoo, just as we are. He, too, must discover the exact words of the curse. And your great-uncle Pudge remains the only living person, on land or at sea, who knows the answer.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes gray as a storm. “Simon, it is only a matter of time before Edward Ashton turns up in Brighton. When he does, he will use all his trickery to persuade Pudge to reveal to him what we were unable to learn.”

“Good luck to Edward Ashton, then! At least we know for sure that that stubborn old man will only talk to the admiral.”

“Whom Edward Ashton resembles far more than you do, I am afraid.” She resumed walking, so determined that Simon had to hop to keep up with her. “Nor
is he a stranger to costumes and disguises. Recall how he adopted the guise of ‘Judge Quinzy,' by the use of black hair dye and thick glasses to conceal his striking dark eyes, and was thus able to go unrecognized by Lord Fredrick, his own son.”

“Who's blind as a mole, but still . . .” Simon hoisted up his skirt in annoyance. “If only I looked less like a Harley-Dickinson and more like an Ashton. Edward Ashton fits the bill perfectly.”

“But so does his son.” Even in her familiar brown dress and warm winter cloak, there was no mistaking the confident swagger in Penelope's walk. “No hopeless case is truly without hope, Simon! Today our show flopped, but with a slight change of casting, I believe we can turn the ship around, so to speak. We simply have to beat Edward Ashton to the Pudge.”

P
ENELOPE STOOD BEFORE HER EMPLOYER
, her hands clasped before her like a soloist in a choir. Lord Fredrick played with his unlit cigar and considered her proposal.

“So let's see if I've got this right,” he said. “You want me to put on an admiral suit, pretend to be my own great-grandfather, and chat with an antique sailor named Pudge who knows more about the curse on my family than I do.”

“That is correct.” She paused. “There is a strong family resemblance among the men in your family, sir.”

“I was never much for acting at school,” he muttered, unconvinced. “Kept bumping into the scenery. My father had the knack, though! He could have gone on the professional stage. He liked to fool with putty noses and funny accents and so on.”

“You did ask me to discover how to undo the curse on your family,” she said, gently prodding. “If we can learn the exact wording of it, there may be a way to unravel it.”

He chewed the end of his cigar. “It's all in the wording, eh? Like a contract. Sounds like I need a lawyer. Or a judge!” He let out a sharp, rueful bark of a laugh. “Very well. We'll put on a little show for this Pudge character. Someplace private, if you please. The staff already thinks I'm an odd duck; no need to risk getting caught running around in a sailor suit. But I can't do it tomorrow. I promised Constance I'd take her sightseeing for the day. It'll have to be Monday. Tuesday will be . . . inconvenient.”

At the mention of Tuesday, they both glanced out the window. The pale disk of the waxing gibbous moon shone faintly in the late afternoon sky. It was only slightly less than full.

“Too bad about the full moon,” he said. “Bad timing, what? It's been pleasant here at the hotel, with Constance in a good mood. She won't be pleased when I disappear for a day. But I'd rather she not see me carrying on like a hound with a bellyache. . . .” He looked up, his eyes uncharacteristically bright. “Miss Lumley! Where are the wolf children now?”

“In our room, sir, doing their lessons.” As far as she knew, they were still working on the panorama with Simon.

He sprang from his chair. “I'd like to see them. Take me to them, please.”

Startled, Penelope jumped up to follow. “Of course, sir, but if I may ask . . . why?”

“Call it an impulse.” He was already at the door. “Unlike most people, they've seen me in the worst of my full-moon fit. I'd like them to know what I'm really like. Just an ordinary fellow in most respects, despite this blasted curse and being absurdly rich, of course. Not sure which is more of a burden, frankly! Unless you think I'd frighten them?” He stopped, concerned. “Perhaps they only like me doggish? I realize I've hardly spent any time with them otherwise.”

“That is considerate of you to think of, my lord.” In fact, she was surprised by how considerate it was, but
Lord Fredrick was full of surprises lately. “I am certain the children would be pleased if you paid them a visit. All children thrive on attention.”

“Wives, too, so I've discovered,” he said, more to himself than her. “Curious! That I might frighten the wolf children never would have occurred to me before. Perhaps it's because I'm soon to be a father myself.” Abruptly, he toughened up. “Still, they are my wards, and I am their guardian, so they have to do what I say, no matter what. Finders keepers, eh? Now take me to them, if you please, Miss Lumley!”

P
ENELOPE GAVE A WARNING KNOCK
on the door of room fourteen before entering. At once she regretted not preparing Lord Fredrick for the strange scene within.

“Welcome to
The Secret World of Hermit Crabs
,” Simon announced, beaming. The panorama was coming along nicely. Floor-to-ceiling-sized illustrations had been tacked up on the walls to dry. The children's leaping imaginations had conceived all sorts of thrilling underwater vistas, and Simon's knack for theatrical scene painting and the use of perspective had added real verisimilitude to their efforts. (As the Latin scholars among you know, “verisimilitude” means “the appearance of truth,” which is not the same thing as
actually being true. The boldest lie can possess verisimilitude, if it is told well, while something that is true but highly unlikely might have no verisimilitude at all. Magicians know this, as do certain types of criminals and storytellers of all kinds.)

Lord Fredrick's blurry eyesight must have rendered the illusion even more convincing. He turned 'round slowly, to get the full effect. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “I feel quite underwater in here.”

“Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “I feel quite underwater in here.”

“Veronika is seaweed,” Cassiopeia pointed out. The older girl was wrapped in a dark green sheet and stood swaying in a corner. “And Boris and Constantin are barnacles.” This happy choice had been made by Simon; it meant the twins had to stay silent and still and cling to one side of the wardrobe, which represented the hull of a sunken schooner.

Penelope took two steps into the room and tripped over a lump on the floor. “Master Gogolev, are you unwell?” she asked, for it was the tutor, on his back on the carpet, his eyes closed.

“I am a coral reef,” Gogolev answered serenely. Julia had gone to care for the princess Popkinova. In her absence, a kind of peace had descended over the tormented tutor. Alas, the mere sound of his voice prompted the barnacles to come loose from their
moorings; soon they were attempting to bind themselves to the coral by jumping on it, over the forceful protests of the reef.

“Careful, lads, the paint's still wet! And look, I've taught the children how to make papier-mâché,” Simon said with pride. “That's French for ‘chewed paper.' It's an easy way to create small props, models, masks, and so on. A few three-dimensional effects will make any painted backdrop more convincing.” Beowulf, in particular, had taken the idea of chewed-up paper to heart (as you know, he loved to gnaw) and had created an ample supply. It was a messy business, but thanks to his efforts
The Secret World of Hermit Crabs
had gained in complexity, with the addition of underwater iguanodons and other fanciful creatures.