The Vanishing Island (11 page)

Bren's father was dumbfounded.

Admiral Bowman smiled broadly and stepped back, extending his hand as if to invite the queen herself aboard his ship.

“Well, Bren? It's up to you.”

B
ren thought about how often he had sat on the bluff above Map's harbor, longing to see the inside of a ship. He had pictured himself striding the decks, climbing the masts, capturing the wind with a turn of the sails, breathing the fresh sea air. He had imagined his cozy bunk and the fellowship of the men, the hot meals prepared by a real cook, and the sense of purpose that came from serving as part of a crew.

Now, finally, he was inside a ship—and not just any ship, but the flagship of the world's greatest navy—and he
couldn't see a thing. He was in total darkness, confined by iron bars, and the only smell was the foul stench of the bilgewater sloshing just below him.

Bren was in the brig, the small prison cell in the hold of the ship. He had been there for . . . he had lost track of how long he had been there, actually. As the
Albatross
had pulled away from Map, Bren had watched his father fade into the background, a look on his face that filled Bren with sadness and robbed him of every ounce of joy he had expected to feel when he finally left home on a ship. He had called out, “I'll be back! You'll see!” at least once. Maybe more. But then the other man—the one the admiral had called Mr. van Decken—had grabbed Bren and pulled him away from the rail.

“We'll see, indeed,” Mr. van Decken had said. “Now tell us where you hid the map.”

Swallowing a lump of fear that threatened to choke him, Bren had refused. Not until they were out at sea. Far enough away that they couldn't bring him back to Map.

“You may regret that when the only place to leave you is the open sea,” was Mr. van Decken's reply. And then he had promptly rewarded Bren's insubordination by ordering him to be held in the brig. The admiral didn't object.

Down there, in the total darkness, the rocking of the ship, instead of thrilling Bren, made his head swim and turned his stomach sour. The smell of the bilgewater didn't
help. In all the seafaring adventures he'd read, none of the heroes had ever been seasick.

At one point Bren heard a hatch open and saw a faint light descend into the hold. He hoped it was someone coming for him, but no, it must have been the cook or the purser. He watched the light move away again, and soon the hatch slammed shut and Bren was once again in complete darkness. He lost count of how many times this happened before he began to lose hope he would ever be set free.

“What have I gotten myself into,” he said to the darkness.

The waves of nausea came and went, and in between, he slept. A day, a week, a month, he wasn't really sure. He dreamed that a small boy kept coming to his side and giving him water and broth.

Another time, Bren woke from sleep, not knowing whether it was day or night, to find seawater sloshing along the floor and the ship rolling violently. He heard the faint sounds of yelling and running from above, and of hatches being closed.
A storm
. He tried to stand but hit his head on the iron ceiling. He had forgotten he was in the brig. The throbbing pain atop his head combined with the lurching ship brought his seasickness back full force, and he sat back down and closed his eyes.

This can
'
t be happening. This wasn
'
t how it was supposed to be.

The next time the ship pitched upward, Bren was thrown against the bars of the brig, and up came his last meal. And with it came the bronze paiza.

The round medallion hit the deck and rolled through the bars of the brig before Bren could stop it.

No!

He stuck his thin arms through the bars as far as he could, until his shoulder ached from pressing against iron, frantically searching the floor in all directions in hopes of finding it. His heart sank. It was no use.

And then one day, with the seas calm and the ship steady, Bren noticed a light shining next to him, and behind it, the face of the boy he'd been dreaming about. The one who had fed him. His face was round, and vaguely Asian. Bren sat up and took a better look.

He was real. And it was the orphan from Map, the one Duke and his gang had been bullying.

“You? You're part of the crew?”

The boy nodded and held out a cup of water. Bren thanked him and drank it lustily.

The hatch opened again and the boy snuffed his light and ran off into the darkness as another light came toward Bren. A moment later Mr. van Decken was squatting next to the brig.

“Are you ready to give the admiral the map?” he said.

Bren glanced around the floor, as much as he could see
anyway in the lamplight. He didn't see the paiza anywhere. Would this horrible man even help him look? Or would he be more than happy to throw Bren to the sharks? But he remembered what the admiral had said to him on deck, back at the harbor.
I'm not leaving here without that map.
It was truly the map he was interested in, not the paiza. As Bren and Mr. Black had discovered later, Admiral Bowman wasn't lying when he said that thousands of paizas had been issued during Kublai Khan's reign. It was worthless to him except as the tablet upon which the treasure map was drawn.

Bren looked at the first mate, struggling to meet his cold eyes. “Yes, I'm ready.”

Bren's legs were stiff and his arms ached, but he managed to haul himself up two sets of ladders to the deck above, out of the shadows and into a glare so strong, it was like those illustrations from Bible stories where God appears before a terrified sinner. He covered his eyes but still the bright white light shone through his hands, and Bren stumbled blindly into a wooden barrier, falling face-first onto the deck. He heard laughter.

“I've heard of needing to get your sea legs,” someone said, “but I've never heard of sea eyes!”

More laughter. Bren felt a strong hand hook his elbow, and he was back on his feet. When he could finally see
again, what he saw took his breath away: glittering blue water stretching to the horizon in all directions. It was as if a jeweled robe had been shrugged off by some king, rumpled but royal. He heard the snap of canvas and looked up in awe at a full set of sails on three masts, inhaling and exhaling.

The crew was storing tackle, cleaning the decks, climbing in and out of the rigging. Others were mending sails, adding tar to the ropes, and repairing part of the gunwale—the raised edge of the ship. It had obviously been a fierce storm. They all looked at Bren—the outsider—but then went back to work.

Admiral Bowman appeared at the quarterdeck rail, looking down at Bren.

“Ah, Master Owen. You're looking . . . well? Shall we have a chat?”

Bren nodded, and Mr. van Decken grabbed him by the arm and led him up from the ship's waist to the quarterdeck, past the wheel, and into a large cabin with a gallery of windows that looked out over the sea.

“Mr. van Decken, take over my watch, will you?” said the admiral.

The first mate nodded, giving Bren a not-so-gentle nudge in the back as he left.

“We call this the chart room,” said the admiral, perching
on the edge of a large desk. Sitting on a sofa along the wall was Mr. Richter, a glass of whisky in hand. And standing next to a table covered with maps was a one-eyed man.

“You've met Mr. Richter, of course.” Bren nodded at the company man, who responded by taking a swig of his drink. “And over there is my exceptional navigator, Mr. Tybert.”

Bren had seen plenty of one-eyed sailors come through Map, but they all wore eye patches. Mr. Tybert wasn't wearing one, and Bren tried hard not to gawk at his empty socket, nothing more than a fleshy web of tissue.

“Try not to stare,” said the admiral. “He's
incredibly
sensitive.”

Bren glanced at Admiral Bowman to see if he was kidding, and when he turned back, Mr. Tybert was right in front of him.

“You only need one good eye to tell where you're going,” he said. “Or to tell when a
jongen
is up to no good.”

Bren stood frozen until the cabin door opened again and the small boy came in, carrying a tray of tea.

“And I believe you have also met Mouse,” said the admiral, moving so the boy could set the tray down. “My ship's boy.”

Mouse poured two cups of tea, and the admiral offered one to Bren.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You can thank him by giving him the doohickey,” said Mr. Richter, making the shape of the medallion with his free hand.

“The paiza,” corrected the admiral.

Bren set his tea down. His hands were trembling, and he felt his fingers getting damp against the porcelain cup. He didn't want to drop it. “There's nothing to hand over,” he said. “I don't have the paiza. Not anymore.”

Mr. Richter swore a blue streak, causing Bren's ears to turn red. He held his breath, waiting for the admiral to respond. Bowman's blue eyes stayed on Bren for what felt like minutes, but as clear as they were, Bren could see nothing behind them.

“Well?” said Mr. Richter, breaking the trance. “Are you just going to stand there admiring him, or run a dagger through his heart for trying to swindle us?”

The admiral stroked his beard, his eyes never leaving Bren.

“He's not trying to swindle us, Mr. Richter. He
does
have the paiza. Or to be more precise, the map.”

Mr. Richter blustered a string of unkind words. “Well, where is it?”

The admiral motioned for Bren to tell him. Bren gently tapped himself on the chest.

“Oh dear Lord,” said Mr. Richter. “He stuck it up inside himself?”

“No, you imbecile,” said the admiral. “It's in his head. Did you not see him demonstrate his knowledge of the hidden map next to the harbor? I must admit, I didn't quite appreciate what I was seeing at first, etched roughly in sand. But then I remembered something Rand McNally said, after Bren brought us the letter from the harbor. McNally caught Bren glancing at the table, where our maps and Articles of Alliance were laid out, and quickly got rid of him. Something about his devilish memory. He can reproduce the images from memory, flawlessly. Right, Bren?”

“Yes, sir.”

This time Mr. Tybert joined Mr. Richter in cursing him.

The admiral stood up from his desk and walked over to a cabinet, taking from it a small leather portfolio. He returned to the desk, unfolded a good-size sheet of parchment, and motioned for Bren to sit down. He pushed a pen and inkwell toward him.

“And you'd better be right,” he added. “I'm sure I don't have to tell you that even small differences in the strokes of Chinese symbols can change meanings entirely.”

“No, sir,” said Bren.

“I said back in the harbor of Map that you needed to know what's at stake,” the admiral began, as Bren sat down to draw.

“Come now,” said Mr. Richter. “He doesn't need to know everything.”

“Oh, but I disagree,” said the admiral, now hovering over Bren like a vulture. “We need Master Owen's memory to be as good as advertised, and I think he'll be just as determined as we are if he knows where it leads.”

“Treasure,” said Bren eagerly. “That's what you said—the most extraordinary treasure map I can imagine.”

Admiral Bowman smiled. “Well, you must forgive me. I don't know the limits of your imagination. But would it interest you still to know that the map leads to the lost treasure of Marco Polo?”

Bren just stared at the admiral, and then looked at the company man, and the navigator, and finally at Mouse, to see if any of them were smiling at what had to be a joke at Bren's expense. But none were.

“The lost treasure of Marco Polo?” He thought he'd read or heard everything there was to know about the legendary explorer, but he'd never heard this.

“You know the basic story, I assume?”

“I think so,” said Bren. “He traveled around China for more than twenty years, and when he finally sailed for home, a terrible storm sank most of his ships before they
reached Persia. He finally made it back to Venice with barely more than the clothes on his back, but was imprisoned when war broke out. He had to dictate his famous book of travels to a fellow prisoner.”

And what a book it was. One that had launched a thousand ships. He thought again of Christopher Columbus's personal copy that Rand McNally now proudly owned.

Admiral Bowman nodded. “And each and every one of those lost ships was burdened with jewels, coins, and spices, to believe the stories.”

“And none of it has ever been found?” said Bren. “Not even the wrecked ships?”

“Not one piece of evidence in the three hundred years since,” said the admiral. “But I believe people have been looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place.”

“You think the hidden map will lead us to the sunken ships?” said Bren.

“I don't believe there are any sunken ships,” said the admiral. “I believe the whole story was a lie, devised by Marco Polo himself, to hide a very big secret.”

He left Bren hanging, and Bren nearly leaped from his seat in anticipation.

“Yeah? I mean, yes, sir?”

The admiral glanced at Mr. Richter before continuing. “The Dutch Bicycle and Tulip Company, because of our unique dealings in the Far East, long ago became privy to
some intelligence—some would call them rumors—about this lost voyage. I . . .
we . . .
believe Marco Polo stashed his treasure on the journey home, with every intention of returning for it at a safer time. After all, he knew better than anyone the bandits that plagued the Silk Road back then.”

The admiral sat down on the edge of the desk, next to Bren and the blank parchment in front of him, and tapped the paper with his index finger.

“You think Marco Polo himself made our hidden map?” said Bren, his head swimming again, but not from seasickness.

“I do,” said the admiral. “And I believe that once we crack it, it will lead us to an island that long ago vanished from any map.”