The Vanishing Island (9 page)

B
ren didn't tell Mr. Black what he'd remembered. It would only have worried him. After all, the sailor did have the look of a ruffian, like the constable said. He also could have been delusional in his dying state. And Bren had never seen an autopsy—for all he knew, it was supposed to look like a hog-butchering.

Besides, he had bigger worries. He knew the Netherlanders were in Map to play politics with Rand McNally, but he still didn't know how long they would be here, and how much time he had to figure out a way to get on that ship.

Bren hurried to the Emporium the next morning, anxious to finish his work so he could get back to Black's. It was feast night and there would be a full house later. Bren washed, mopped, scrubbed, and hauled, and was almost done, but on his last trip to the river, he came upon a familiar sight: Duke Swyers and his gang, surrounding some unfortunate orphan from the West Anglia Home for Wayward Children.

At least, Bren assumed he was an orphan; he had never seen the child before. Tormenting these kids was one of Duke's favorite sports, since orphans had no one to stick up for them.

Bren had managed to avoid Duke since the haircut incident, but he was tired of being scared. And he was armed—with two buckets of puke. He advanced.

“I guess it takes four beef-heads to beat up one small orphan.”

The circle parted, and Bren could see the boy they were picking on. He was small, maybe eight years old, with vaguely Eastern features and black hair cropped even worse than Bren's.

“Well, this is even better,” said Duke, and he and his friends slowly began to surround Bren.

Bren didn't really have a plan. He just figured he'd get one good lick in on Duke with a bucket, and with any luck Duke's friends would show their true colors and run away.

“Nice hair, Owen,” said one of the boys.

Bren self-consciously touched the top of his head. It had been a month since Duke assaulted him, but his hair had grown back in odd tufts.

“Yeah,” said Duke. “If I were you, I'd get a wig.”

“Why don't
you
fetch me one,” said Bren. “That's your job, isn't it?”

He could tell by the bright red blotches on Duke's face that his Sunday morning valet job was a secret from his friends. Or at least, they knew better than to speak of it. Bren was prepared to go on at some length when he felt the blow to the back of his head, and then the ground took the air out of his lungs. One of the boys had sneaked up behind him.

From the ground he could hear people talking. It was like his head was underwater—all the sounds were muffled. His vision was blurry but his sense of smell was apparently just fine, as a rotting odor filled his nostrils. That's when he realized the ground was slimy, and as he tried to push himself up his hands slipped on a pond of undigested food. He was lying in his own vomit, so to speak. Bren could feel the rubbery lumps of oysters and mussels under his palms, and it was all he could do not to be sick himself.

His hearing was fine too; he could hear boys laughing at him. He felt an egg-shaped knot growing on the back of his head.

“You fell in something,” said Duke.

It was four against one, and Bren was already down, but he couldn't help himself. He figured his best chance was to just make Duke's head explode from anger.

“I still smell better than you,” he said.

That did it. Duke raised his fists, his feet pawing the ground like a charging bull. Bren flinched, and in the split second that he shut his eyes, he heard a loud
thud
, followed by a cry of pain. He grabbed his head, before realizing he wasn't the one hit or the one who had cried out. When he opened his eyes, the small orphan was standing there, holding the other waste bucket. It was empty, and Duke was standing there in shock, vomit dripping from his massive head and shoulders.

He turned on the orphan. “You little freak!” His friends surrounded the boy again, prepared to attack.

“No!” said Bren, scrambling to his feet but feeling queasy as he did so. Everything went blurry again.

“No what?” Duke sneered at him.

Despite his build, Bren reasoned that his long arms would give him a reach advantage over the stockier Duke. He let his eyes focus and took two steps forward, unleashing a left jab that glanced off Duke's granite jaw. Duke put him on his back with one punch.

Blinded by pain and bleeding from his nose, Bren heard footsteps along the stone path near the river, coming
toward them. When the dark clouds parted, he beheld a magnificent pair of tall black leather boots.

“What's going on here?” came the voice from above, a voice with a distinctive Germanic accent.

“What's going on here is none of your business,” said Duke.

Bren rolled to his back to see the tall blond gentleman in the black and white clothes and the wide-brimmed hat. Bren noted the trim blond mustache and pointed beard, and the distinctive tall black boots, and realized it was Admiral Bowman. The admiral leaned casually on his walking stick, but Bren could see the muscles in his left hand working as his fingers curled around the nose and ears of the brass fox head.

“May I lend you a hand, young man?” said the admiral, bending over slightly and extending his right arm to help Bren up. As he did so, Bren noticed something on his arm through the sleeve of his white shirt, near the elbow . . . a tattoo.

“You have remarkably poor manners for a child,” said the admiral, turning back to Duke.

“I ain't a child,” said Duke, his face turning painful shades of red. “And what do I care what you think of my manners? You're not from here.”

“Come on, let's go,” said one of his friends. The others all shuffled their feet nervously.

“No,” said Duke. “There's four of us, and I ain't letting some knobby foreigner keep me from giving Owen the beating he deserves.”

“I strongly advise against the course of action you're proposing,” said the admiral, and Bren could tell that if Duke would let them, his three friends would be running off in all directions. Instead, Duke ordered them to circle the man.

One of the boys tried to sneak up from behind with an empty waste bucket. As soon as he raised it, the admiral thrust his cane through the bucket's handle and jerked the weapon from the stunned boy's hand. In one continuous motion he swung the cane 'round, the bucket attached to it like the head of a mace, and clocked the second boy square in the head, knocking him to the ground.

The bucket flew off the end of the cane after landing its blow, and before the disarmed boy could react, the admiral had swung the cane back in his direction and struck him with the brass head. The boy fell backward, the side of his head damp with blood.

“There's still two against one,” said Duke, but it was obvious his confidence was faltering.

“I know you can't count this high, but it's two against two,” said Bren, suddenly feeling inspired.

“You're counting yourself?” said Duke. But even as he said it, the orphan shoved Duke from behind, toward Bren,
who threw everything he had into one gut punch, his fist sinking into the startled boy's soft stomach. Duke crumpled forward, gasping for air. The other boy took one scared step forward, and that's all the admiral needed—he swung his cane down against the side of the boy's knee, crippling him with one blow.

With all four bullies writhing on the ground, the admiral straightened his cuffs and said, “English boys can be such little piglets.”

“That one can, for sure,” said Bren, nodding at Duke. Duke responded with several un-Christian oaths.

The admiral held up his cane. “My father used to discipline me with a walking stick very much like this one. He called it the Rod of Compliance.”

Perhaps fearing that the admiral wasn't done, Duke's friends didn't wait for his approval—they all staggered off as soon as they were able, and Duke followed.

“I'm lucky you happened to come by,” said Bren. “Thank you.”

The admiral laughed. “Some people believe we make our own luck.”

Bren looked up at him. His eyes were the clear, watery blue of a tide pool, and his face was remarkably unweathered for a seaman. The sun was setting behind him, and the effect was almost angelic. They were alone; the orphan had disappeared along with the boys.

“Will you walk with me back to town?” said the admiral. “I'm a bit turned around.”

Bren forgot all about Mr. Black. “Yes, of course! This way.”

As they got closer to town, Bren noticed that the fashionable ladies, with their elaborate cattle-hair wigs and expensive dresses, took time to admire the dashing admiral. And Bren imagined that some of this admiration reflected on him, walking at his side, until he realized that his shirt and trousers were covered in filth.

“So are you an orphan?” said the admiral.

“Oh no,” said Bren. “My mother died two years ago, but my father is alive. He's one of Rand McNally's draftsmen.”

“I just assumed . . . with your job, I mean . . .”

“Oh, that,” said Bren. “It's more of a punishment than a job. I tried to stow away. My father wants me to apprentice for McNally, but I want to be a sailor.”

“Spoken like someone who's never lived on a ship,” said the admiral with a wry smile. “You really tried to stow away?”

Bren felt himself blush, but he didn't want to lie to the admiral. “Three times, actually. I know it's wrong.”

“I don't know about that,” said the admiral, which was about the last thing Bren expected. “Any seaworthy crew would surely appreciate having an eager young ship's boy.”

Bren was so excited to hear this that he failed to see a large pile of horse manure and stepped right into it. If his companion noticed, he didn't say so, and Bren didn't care. “Would
your
ship by chance have use for an eager young ship's boy?” Bren asked the question in Dutch to try and impress him.

“I already have a very able one, I'm afraid,” said the admiral. “But if I may ask, what exactly has thwarted your previous attempts?”

“My father. And Mr. McNally.”

“Ah, powerful forces indeed are allied against you,” said the admiral, and suddenly Bren's boots were made of lead. The admiral would have no desire to cross McNally, especially if they really were forging an alliance between Britannia and the Netherlands.

“Don't look so glum,” he continued. “McNally doesn't strike me as the type to suffer fools. He must estimate your talents quite highly.”

“I guess,” said Bren.

“But you'd rather explore the world than draw it, I take it?”

“Yes!”

“Would it surprise you,” said the admiral, “if I told you my first job on a ship came after I stowed away?”

“Really?”

“Indeed. My father was a descendent of the Frisians—the
Germanic people who first settled the Netherlands. His ancestors helped King Rotter build the first earthworks to hold back the sea, and every generation of Bowman after worked on the dikes. Backbreaking work, Bren, and dangerous, too. The dikes are the only thing keeping our empire above water. And yet, these laborers could never rise above second class, even as our country grew in wealth and stature. It was the men who conquered the waters by ship who earned fame and fortune. The seafarers who abandoned their families for the unknown, and returned with ships full of gems and spices, fabrics and exotic foods and flowers.”

“Like the orange and the tulip?” said Bren.

“Yes. The palace grounds of King Rotter were soon covered with boldly colored tulips, and in his private garden grew the West's first orange tree, transplanted from Southeast Asia. But that's ancient history. All I knew was what I could see with my own eyes, and I didn't want to dig ditches and shovel dirt my whole life. Now look at me.”

Bren did look at him. His stature, the way he carried himself, the way he confidently strode across the treacherous cobbled streets without the slightest stumble and without once stepping his magnificent black boots in a pile of dung. Here was proof that Bren's fantasies weren't so foolish after all. You
could
make something of yourself, something better than you even hoped, starting with nothing but a
dream. Bren wanted to know more—he wanted to know everything about the admiral—but they had reached the Emporium. Their walk was over.

“How long will you be in Map?” said Bren.

“That depends,” said the admiral. “Whenever our business is concluded. Not more than a few days, I hope. No offense to your fine town and its . . .
entertainments
.”

Bren couldn't tell if he was kidding or not.

“I don't mean to be rude,” said Bren, “but visitors from the Netherlands are quite rare.”

“Ah, you mean to ask me what business I have here!” said the admiral, laughing. “Why does anyone come to Map? For maps, of course.”

“Right,” said Bren, not daring to bring up things he wasn't supposed to know.

“Tell you what,” said the admiral. “Why don't you join me in the Explorers' Club?”

Bren looked at him, to make sure he wasn't joking. “The Explorers' Club?”

“You might want to get cleaned up first,” added the admiral, trying not to wince at Bren's appearance. “But if anyone stops you, you tell them Admiral Bowman has requested you personally.”

B
lack's Books was closer than home, so Bren ran there, throwing open the front door so hard he nearly toppled a stack of books. Mr. Black stood up abruptly, appearing to notice Bren's smell more than his appearance.

“What on earth?”

“Explorers' Club!” said Bren. “Oh, that—horse manure!” he added, running to the privy chamber and washing his clothes as best he could. When Mr. Black came knocking on the door for an explanation, Bren opened
the door and ran right past him. “Admiral Bowman! I'll tell you all about it later.”

The next adult to try and stop him was Rupert, who grew pale when he saw Bren approaching the gold doors of the club.

“Just a minute, young man! You can't be in here!”

“Tell that to Admiral Bowman,” said Bren, puffing out his chest to make himself look as assertive as he felt. He breezed by Rupert and threw open the doors.

He was in. He looked around the lounge, which was warmed by a stone fireplace that stood floor to ceiling in the middle. High windows cast a soft blanket of light over the room, and across a dark blue rug were thick leather chairs that made Bren think of ships at anchor. A banquet table was being set up at the far end for tonight's Explorers' Feast. He went in search of the admiral, winding past murmurs of conversation in at least ten different languages, half a dozen different brands of tobacco smoke, and huge portraits of illustrious men who had helped map the world.

Had all these men decorating the walls actually enjoyed the comforts of the club? No. It was part of McNally's presentation. If you wanted to be the sort of man they painted portraits of, one of the great men who ventured into the unknown, you needed to know Rand McNally. Bren's disappointment at learning that not
every
member of the club was a true explorer vanished. He was on hallowed ground.

At last, on the far side of the fireplace, Bren spotted a chair turned toward the window, a cloud of smoke hovering above and a wide-brimmed black hat on the table next to it.

“Admiral Bowman, sir.”

The admiral poked his head around the wing of the chair. “Ah, Bren, you made it past the guards. Good.”

“I must apologize that I didn't have time to change into new clothes.” He left off the part about not having any new clothes.

The admiral waved off his apology. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair next to his.

Bren did, and as the admiral raised his pipe to his mouth, Bren could once again see the dark shape under his white linen sleeve.

“Do you mind if I ask about your tattoo?”

Admiral Bowman looked at Bren, and then at his sleeve. He pulled it up to reveal the exact tattoo Bren had seen on the dead sailor—a black tulip, cupped by the large
V
with the smaller
Z
and
T
on each side. The admiral looked at it as if just now remembering it was there.

“
Volgorde van de Zwarte Tulp
,” he said. “The Order of the Black Tulip.”

Bren leaned closer.

“I'm afraid my tattoo has outlived the brotherhood,” he continued. “The Order was once an elite group of Netherlanders, committed to exploration of the extraordinary. You
see, in our culture, the black tulip is a sort of Holy Grail. All attempts to find or cultivate a truly black tulip, which would be the rarest of rare plants, have failed. Some say it is impossible, that nothing in nature can be black, except in death. Thus the black tulip has come to symbolize the impossible—things that defy nature and religion. Immortality, even. Needless to say, membership in the Order was not easily earned.”

“I'd love to hear how you earned yours,” said Bren, relishing the idea of swapping tales in the Explorers' Club.

The admiral said nothing for a minute, then began: “We were in the Sea of Norway. . . .” His tone was reflective, not boastful. “We were hunting narwhal—the wealthy pay handsomely for their tusks—when our boat was attacked by a two-tusked male. This was a light schooner, mind you, not like the sturdier yachts I sail now. I was belowdecks helping the cook fetch supplies when a pair of tusks came straight through the hull. One speared the cook through the gut, the other through the throat, impaling him against the hull. I went to him, but whatever his last words were to be, they drowned in blood. The narwhal began thrashing about, trying to free himself, threatening to shake the boat to timbers. In the cook's hand was his cleaver—we had gone below to get meat for supper. I grabbed the cleaver and the lower tusk and hacked at it viciously until I had
cut through. The enraged narwhal then wrenched itself violently away from the boat, breaking off the other tusk by accident, leaving it in the cook's throat.”

Bren's mouth was half open, vividly imagining the impaled cook spurting blood and the admiral battling the horned whale.

“The cook gave his life, but I got all the credit. We plugged the holes and sailed home, and then I was honored to present our king with a real treasure for his Cabinet of Curiosities. Before then, the two-tusked narwhal was thought to be mythical, like the mermaid. I had proven what was thought impossible. The king had me describe the scene to one of his master painters, to commemorate the drama, and I got a small painting of my own,” he added, holding up the tattooed arm again.

They both relaxed back in their chairs, as if both the telling and the hearing of the tale had been exhausting. The admiral took two long draws on the pipe he was smoking, savoring the aroma.

“Funny you should ask about the Order,” said the admiral. “It's why I asked you to join me, actually.”

“It is?”

“Indirectly. I've been wondering, given your position . . . have you by chance attended to another man with a similar tattoo?”

Bren froze. His throat went dry, and he felt his hands begin to sweat. “Another man?”

He wasn't sure why he played dumb, but something made him hesitate. The admiral had to be getting around to the paiza. And yet he had told Mr. Black it was worthless.

“It's okay if you haven't seen him,” said the admiral, smiling. “I won't kick you out of the club.”

Bren relaxed. “Is he a friend of yours? I mean, I assume if he has the same tattoo that he is . . .
was
. . . in the Order as well?”

“No, not a friend,” said the admiral. “His name is Jacob Beenders, and he was expelled from the Order for, let's just say, failing to uphold its principles.”

Bren really wanted to know more now. But he didn't want to give away the fact that he knew too much. “There was a man . . . I didn't see a tattoo, but did this Jacob Beenders by chance have a scar across his neck?”

Admiral Bowman looked at him. “A scar? Quite possibly, why?”

“I don't think you have to worry about him anymore,” said Bren.

“Oh?”

“He's dead. He died in front of me, in the vomitorium.”

“That must have been quite traumatic for you,” said the admiral. “The cook I told you about was the first man
I ever saw die. There have been many more since. But it doesn't get much easier.”

Bren was strangely relieved to hear this. A small part of him had wondered, after the sailor died, whether he had the stomach for a truly adventurous life.

“Bren, when you attended to Jacob Beenders, did he give you anything? Or did you find anything among his possessions after he died?”

Out of habit, Bren nervously put his hand to the collar of his tunic before remembering that he'd left the whole necklace with Mr. Black. “Give me something?”

The admiral looked at Bren for what felt like a very long time. Bren tried not to let his face show what he was thinking: that he might have something the admiral badly wanted. Something he could use to bargain his way aboard the
Albatross
. Isn't that how Rand McNally had made his fortune? By having information people wanted?

Finally the admiral said, “It's not important. Beenders stole something that once belonged to the Order.”

“There was a break-in at the doctor's office,” said Bren.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The doctor's office where the body was. The constable said grave robbers are cutting corners and burgling morgues now. Maybe whatever Beenders had was stolen? Was it very important?”

“It was important enough to steal,” said the admiral, with a humorless laugh. “Anyway, I must return to my ship and make sure the men aren't enjoying themselves too much. If you will excuse me.”

He stood and put his hat on, said good-bye, and walked toward the gold doors. Bren felt he was so close to something . . . an opportunity . . . his big chance. Maybe his destiny. He felt as if he had rushed to the edge of a cliff, and looking down, felt both terror and an urge to leap, to feel himself falling.

“Admiral, wait. . . .”

He paused and half turned toward Bren. “Yes?”

“I could look around for you. Perhaps this Beenders dropped whatever it was in the vomitorium. Or maybe the doctor did find it but put it somewhere safe?”

The admiral came back to where Bren was sitting, hovering over him, his walking stick resting in the crook of his arm in a gesture that was at once gentle, like holding an infant, and somehow threatening.

“I would very much appreciate that, Bren. I could tell, the moment I met you, that you were special.” He paused for a moment. “But please, do me a favor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be very careful. This
thing
Jacob Beenders stole . . . there are some very dangerous men after it.”