Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History Of A Dark Genius Part 7

Soon, he saw shark fins cutting the surface, circling and approaching the floating bodies. Many of the fresh corpses were slain pirates, and he wanted nothing more than to see them devoured by the aquatic predators. But other human forms floating here -- like Captain Grant himself -- had been his mates aboard the Coralie Coralie. These brave men, his friends, his teachers, were now nothing more than fish food. Nemo hoped they gave the sharks indigestion. . . .

With so many sharks in the water, he didn't dare leave his meager refuge on the tilted crates. Using a broken slat of wood, he paddled his c.u.mbersome raft away from the scene of carnage. For hours, he watched as the voracious sharks fought over the floating casualties of the battle. Standing above the water, he shouted his rage and helplessness at them, but they ignored him. . . .

All that night Nemo huddled on the raft, knees drawn up against his chest in a darkness lit with silver light from the southern constellations Captain Grant had taught him. In the quiet darkness, he heard only the sounds of water lapping against his makes.h.i.+ft raft, and the ferocious tearing and splas.h.i.+ng of sharks devouring the last sc.r.a.ps of human meat.

He sat and listened and thought about his boyhood in Nantes, his days exploring the world in his imagination with young Jules Verne . . . and flirting with Caroline Aronnax. Nemo kept seeing the face of kindly Captain Grant, thinking of how the man had used his last pistol shot to save him him before falling prey to Captain Noseless. before falling prey to Captain Noseless.

Nemo spent the entire night wide awake in grief and despair. He faced the overwhelming fear that clamored to rule his consciousness, and by dawn he had come through the worst of it. After much contemplation, Nemo decided to live. Somehow #.

During the worst heat of the blistering day, Nemo covered himself with the wet canvas and curled up under it.

Sometime during the second day he devoured the dead chicken raw. Hunger and weakness drove back his natural reluctance to eat the uncooked meat, since his survival was more important than his preferences. Before long, the chicken would rot and do him no good. So he sucked every drop of moisture from the flesh, chewed the fat for every sc.r.a.p of energy it could provide.

Finished, he made the mistake of tossing the entrails over the side, which attracted the sharks again. One persistent shark circled, sensing more food atop the lashed crates. Its fin traced a spiral, coming closer and closer. Looking into the water, Nemo could see its sleek torpedo form; it reminded him of what Captain Grant had told him about Robert Fulton's sub-marine boat, which had been designed to move underwater like an armor-plated fish.

The shark finally grew tired or impatient -- and rammed Nemo's rickety raft. Hastily knotted ropes strained as the crates lurched.

The impact nearly threw Nemo overboard, but he grabbed the rough ropes to keep his balance. His left foot splashed into the water, but he yanked it back onto the wooden raft. The shark returned for another lunge, its soulless black eyes filled with obsession and hunger.

The shark rammed again, cracking some of the boards. Knowing the crates wouldn't last long under such an onslaught, Nemo spread his feet apart on the uneven surface and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the splintered wooden pole. It wasn't much of a spear, but it was the only weapon he had.

On the Coralie Coralie Ned Land had caught several sharks along the coast of Madagascar. Nemo knew that such a fish had tough hide, reminiscent of chain-mail armor with overlapping scales, rough like sandpaper. He also knew that the snout was the shark's most sensitive spot. Ned Land had caught several sharks along the coast of Madagascar. Nemo knew that such a fish had tough hide, reminiscent of chain-mail armor with overlapping scales, rough like sandpaper. He also knew that the snout was the shark's most sensitive spot.

As the killer fish came at him again, Nemo braced himself and jabbed with the spear. The jagged point sc.r.a.ped the shark's head, missing the sensitive nose and sliding off the hard scales between its eyes. Startled, the fast-moving creature swerved, missed the crates, and dove deep before it could cause further damage to the raft. Nemo withdrew his spear, held it tighter . . . waiting.

The shark came up from below and rammed the crates. They creaked, but held. Nemo hoped the bottoms of the boxes hadn't burst, or he would lose whatever resources he had managed to salvage.

Again, the shark returned. Its head and snout protruded from the water, jaws wide open like a two-man saw wrapped into a circle. Seeing the sharp teeth and wet, red mouth, Nemo fought off disorientation. One slip could send him head-first into that hungry maw. With a weird clarity, he recalled the three-fingered sailor at the docks of Ile Feydeau whose s.h.i.+pmate had been swallowed whole. He forced the thought away.

Marshalling his strength, Nemo raised the splintered end of his spear -- and jabbed. The sharp wooden point plunged deep into the fish's nose. The rough spear gouged a jagged wound in its tough skin.

The shark thrashed, tearing the weapon from Nemo's grip. Splinters sliced open the young man's slick palms, but he felt no pain. Not yet. The wooden rod clattered onto the crates, and he scrabbled for it, but the spear bounced off into the sea.

Without thinking, heedless of the blood on his own hand, Nemo dropped to his belly and s.n.a.t.c.hed the wooden pole back out of the water. He dared not lose his only weapon. The shark flailed about in pain, bleeding into the water.

Just then the other sharks converged on it, sensing more food. Smelling fresh blood.

Shuddering with adrenaline and exhaustion, Nemo watched five of the predators tear the wounded shark into strips of meat, devouring it alive. Nemo huddled on the raft without moving, clutching his spear as if it were a religious artifact. Even with his ordeal, though, he had enough presence of mind to press part of his torn s.h.i.+rt against the cuts on his palm, slowing the blood, keeping it from dripping into the water, which would send the sharks into a greater frenzy. He sat for so long his joints seized up and his muscles cramped until the turmoil in the reddened water faded away.

He didn't move for the rest of that afternoon. After many drawn-out hours, the ocean became quiet and empty again. The sharks had gone, every sc.r.a.p of food consumed.

And Nemo was more alone than ever.

The vast blue sea stretched forever around him, for days and miles. He had no maps, no idea of his position. The nearest land could be just over the horizon, or it could be a thousand miles away. Nemo had no way of knowing. On his voyage with Captain Grant, he had already seen the immensity of the Earth.

The sun went down, and the sky was as empty as the sea. Curling his fingers in the water, Nemo caught a few sc.r.a.ps of floating seaweed. He chewed on it, but the leaves tasted bitter. Later, he endured abdominal cramps that could have come from the seaweed, or just from deep hunger.

He thought of how the sharks had fed and wished that he had managed to rip some sc.r.a.ps of meat from the shark he had injured. He deserved some of the spoils of his hunt, but the other predators had consumed the entire carca.s.s.

Nemo looked in vain over the edge of his raft. He trailed the empty chicken cage like a sieve, trying to catch an unlucky, curious fish. He ended up with only a few more strips of seaweed and one tiny crab, which he ate in an eyeblink, crunching the sh.e.l.l and swallowing before he could taste anything.

Desperately thirsty, still huddled under the canvas, he finally spotted a line of clouds at the horizon. He sat up sluggishly, shading his eyes. Over hours, he realized this was no illusion, that he was indeed seeing a blurry line. A circling bird high overhead rea.s.sured him that he must indeed be close to land.

His weary heart swelled. With a glimmer of hope, he realized he had to set course for this distant strip of dry ground. He planted his wooden spear in the crack between the crates and threaded the tattered canvas onto the pole like a crude sail. He tugged on one side, using his weight and s.h.i.+fting position until he managed to catch a few breaths of wind. Though he couldn't see any change in his position, Nemo knew he had begun to move. Toward the island, he hoped. He tilted the makes.h.i.+ft raft, used the sail to tack in the proper direction, and aimed for the misty gray clouds and the land that seemed infinitely far away.

Now that he had a goal, he could focus his being. Nemo lost all sense of time. The sun pa.s.sed in a parabola overhead from an undistinguished horizon in the east, hovering overhead with pounding rays, and then falling toward the west. All the while, Nemo grasped the shreds of the sail in his raw fingers and rode the raft onward behind whatever power the wind could give him.

The clouds gradually thickened, rising taller in the air. At first, Nemo took great delight in recognizing that he was moving closer to the land ma.s.s. Then he also realized that the clouds were getting larger. Darker.

Before long, the wind began gusting, and the sea grew choppier. With the sky so dark, he could no longer see the distant island. When the clouds finally burst, Nemo stared into the downpour, turning his face toward the sky in ecstasy as cool water poured onto his cracked lips, filling his parched throat. He swallowed every drop as if it were a pearl, lapping the little bit that managed to pool in the cracks on the crates, and turned up to drink more. He took off his s.h.i.+rt, wrung the moisture into his mouth, and tried to sop up every drop of rain.

Before he had his fill, though, before he could enjoy the sensation of being satisfied, the storm grew worse. The squall turned cold and violent, spinning the raft around so that Nemo had no idea which direction to sail. The waves thrust him up and down, battering him worse than the persistent shark had. The rain revived him from his daze -- just in time for him to realize the danger he faced.

The frayed rope holding his raft together creaked, half rotted through. The small keg of wet gunpowder bobbed and clattered against the wooden crates. A gust tore the sailcloth out of Nemo's hands, so that the tattered canvas flapped like a banner in the wind. He tried to clutch the rough fabric in a desperate effort to steer, but the wind yanked the sail from his trembling fingers a second time. Nemo let it go as the raft rode up and crashed down in a surge of whitecaps.

Drenched and choking, he grabbed the rope and the corners of the crates with his last strength. He could do nothing more than hold on. Rain pounded on his skin like tiny nails. The wind moaned with the cries of sailors lost at sea. Nemo clung as the waves crashed against him from all sides.

Minute by minute the storm grew worse. . . .

When Nemo awoke again he found himself cast upon a rocky, jagged beach. The splintered remains of his crates had been tossed high up on the s.h.i.+ngle, and the blue waters of the lagoon behind him were calm as a mirror now, a taunting apology for the storm.

He blinked, amazed to be alive even on this forbidding sh.o.r.e. The island's coastline spread out on either side of him, covered with rocks and sand. In the center of the land ma.s.s towered the tall cone of a steep, smoldering volcano.

Nemo got to his feet, brushed sand and broken sh.e.l.ls from his skin, and looked around. As the sun rose he took an inventory of his resources.

He could see forests and streams farther inland, so he knew he could survive here. Water and then food would be his immediate priorities. Nemo swallowed a hard lump in his still-parched throat and began to explore this mysterious island.

It would be his home until he could find a way to rescue himself.

Part III

THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND.

i

Nantes, 1842.

As he stood at the rotting dock, Jules Verne couldn't guess the last time anyone had taken the weathered sailboat out onto the river. His reddish hair purposely unkempt (to look more worldly wise and savvy than his lanky frame implied), he lifted his eyebrows and appraised the vessel's chipped gray wood.

"I'm not convinced, Monsieur," he said to the pot-bellied owner. "It doesn't look entirely . . . seaworthy."

The plump owner leaned against the moss-grown retaining wall. "She's only one franc, boy." He spat out the chewed end of a gra.s.s stem. "Go on, take her for the day. You look like an adventurous boy." His smile showed gapped brown teeth. "I used to have a lot of fun with her when I was your age."

Verne didn't want to think about how long ago that had been.

A sc.u.m of algae rode at the water line, with drying clumps higher up to show that the boat had sunk even deeper when filled with rainwater. Larger boats went by on their business down the Loire, stopping at Nantes or continuing to Paimboeuf. His friend Nemo had departed two years earlier, riding the Coralie Coralie out into the wide world. But Verne was still stuck in Nantes and waiting to make something of himself. out into the wide world. But Verne was still stuck in Nantes and waiting to make something of himself.

Today, the warm water was green and summer calm -- just like the afternoon when Nemo had experimented with his underwater breathing apparatus. Sunlight shone, making it a beautiful day for sailing. Considering the single patched sail on the boat's short mast, Verne wondered how far downriver this vessel could manage.

He pointed an accusing finger at the craft, as if trying to talk himself out of the escapade. "She doesn't even have a keel."

The old man shrugged. "Never bothered me."

Verne had never stopped dreaming about a life of travels to exotic lands. He longed for when he'd been able to share those hopes with Nemo, and Caroline too. Perhaps this sailboat was the best he could do for now. A river outing on this ramshackle rented boat might be just what he needed.

In his pocket, his fingers rubbed a franc coin. He pretended to be more concerned about the money than taking the boat by himself without telling his father. But at his age, he should be making his own choices, whatever the consequences. It wasn't so much money, really. Not for a grand adventure.

The old owner scratched his bulging belly, in no hurry for Verne to make a decision. Flies buzzed by, and the water smelled of fish and drying weeds. Some might have found the smells unpleasant, but Verne had lived on the riverfront all his life. To him, the Loire carried the scents of distant countries, treasures and trinkets, rich spices and unusual cuisine.

Right now, he supposed Nemo was having a fine time sailing the seven seas. Had he already gone around the world? Both Verne and Caroline had received a few dated letters from Nemo, but the last one had arrived some time ago. However, messages sent across such great distances were often delayed or lost. He was anxious to hear news, and it did not occur to him to worry.

Verne looked again at the small, forlorn boat. Though his friend lived a life of excitement, he would have to content himself with drifting downriver in a leaky sailboat. He looked at the questionable craft, then at the potbellied man, and yanked the coin out of his pocket. "I'll take it for the day."

With agonizing slowness the old man extended his hand to take the money. "Ride out with the descending tide, and then come back with the flood tide a few hours later. You can't get lost. Just follow the river."

Verne worked at the damp knots of the frayed tether rope. "I'm not worried, Monsieur. I have faced danger before."

Earlier, when Nemo's silence had stretched for eighteen months, Verne had screwed up his courage and gone to see Caroline Aronnax. He met her in the outdoor cafe where they stole a bit of conversation over cups of chocolat chaud and gooseberry pastries.

Looking at Caroline, Verne still felt the confusion of youthful love. Stranded here in Nantes while Nemo went around the world, Verne felt as if he had let her down. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there to take care of Andre, as I promised to do."

She dismissed his concern. "I'm sure he can take care of himself."

Verne shared his new stories and poems with her, glowing every time she laughed at one of his clever plot twists. He needed to show her that the son of a dull though modestly successful attorney was worthy of her love. Monsieur Aronnax was a friendly enough sort, though Caroline's mother always sniffed in disapproval when Verne came asking after her daughter. . . .

Hands trembling around the delicate porcelain cup in the outdoor cafe, he tried to meet Caroline's bright blue eyes. Verne noted how beautiful she looked in a lilac dress and a hat trimmed with fine lace from Chantille. She kept nudging the lace aside, as if it made her itch. "So, what did you want to see me about, Jules? Another new adventure story?" She laughed in antic.i.p.ation. "Pirates on the high seas? Explorers in Amazon jungles?"

"Not a story this time, Caroline, though I did write you a . . . poem. But I, uh, forgot to bring it with me." He flushed, remembering his heartfelt and embarra.s.sing expressions of undying love. He didn't dare let her read them, though. "I . . . you must be aware of my . . . feelings for you." He cleared his throat. "I'd like you to consider --" He drew a deep breath.

All the words drained out of his head: the beautiful speech, the lyrical love letters he had written but never sent, the pa.s.sionate sonnets. "I mean, would you wait for me wait for me? I realize you miss Nemo, but he's been gone for a long time."

Caroline looked up, startled. At least she didn't laugh at him. Instead, she clasped his hand. "Oh, Jules -- you dear, sweet, optimistic boy." He felt as if his heart might catch on fire. He hadn't dared to hope that she might say Yes Yes.

Then Caroline's face clouded. "You cannot think I I have any choice in the man I marry? Whether it is you, or Nemo -- or anybody else? There was a time when I had hoped . . . but that no longer matters." She tried to soften the blow. "Jules, my father is a wealthy merchant, already negotiating with other families to secure a proper husband for me. My mother began making plans years ago." have any choice in the man I marry? Whether it is you, or Nemo -- or anybody else? There was a time when I had hoped . . . but that no longer matters." She tried to soften the blow. "Jules, my father is a wealthy merchant, already negotiating with other families to secure a proper husband for me. My mother began making plans years ago."

Caroline hadn't said outright that he wasn't good enough for her, hadn't said that she still clung to a hope that Andre Nemo would return with chests full of gold and jewels from ports on the other side of the world.

She didn't need to. Verne understood it all too well.

He would have died for her touch at any other time, but now he withdrew his hand. "I thank you for hearing me out, Mademoiselle." He sounded much too formal.

Her face fell into sadness again. "Wait, Jules. Will you not stay a while and tell me one of your stories?"

With a slow shake of his head, he stood, tossed a few coins on the table without even counting them, and marched off in search of a place where he could be alone with his wounded pride. . . .

Now, trying to find a comfortable spot on the old sailboat's splintered seat, Verne paddled into the current and set the patched sail to catch a breeze. The potbellied man, who had not lifted a finger to help, plucked a fresh stalk of gra.s.s and stood chewing, still leaning against the stone wall. Verne was glad to sail out of sight so he no longer needed to pretend to know what he was doing.

Several times Verne nearly capsized, from either a misguided shove at the helm, a botched maneuver, or an ill-advised tug on the sail rope when a swell ruffled the Loire. It was truly dangerous.

He was having the time of his life.

In the doldrums of summer, the low water was treacherous because of occasional sandbars. The sailboat handled sluggishly, catching a breeze in its threadbare sail and lumbering about like a blinded ox. He shaded his eyes against the bright sun, hugging the sh.o.r.e as he enviously watched pleasure yachts skim past him. Someday, he wanted to purchase a boat like that.

The outgoing tide was strong and the current swift, and many miles of riverbank pa.s.sed by. Two years ago, while leaving home on the Coralie Coralie, he had felt himself a brave sailor on a tall s.h.i.+p cruising toward distant adventures. I really would have gone along! I really would have gone along! This was much different, of course. Verne navigated around sandbars and islands covered with willows and reeds despite periodic dunkings from seasonal high waters. He would never get far in this old hulk. This was much different, of course. Verne navigated around sandbars and islands covered with willows and reeds despite periodic dunkings from seasonal high waters. He would never get far in this old hulk.

But still, it was something.

Engrossed in this journey, he didn't notice the seeping water at his feet until it sloshed around his ankles. He scowled at the rising puddle, wondering if the old owner had duped him, or if the man had just overestimated the seaworthiness of his boat.

By now, Verne was many miles from home. Using his heel, he pushed down on the sideboard to determine the extent of the leak. With an alarming crack, one of the planks split. He placed his hands over his mouth in horror, then bent down, trying to hold the rotted wood together. But water gushed through the broken hull like wet fingers, prying the weakened boards apart.

Verne grabbed the sail as if he could turn the skiff around and flit homeward. The old boat, however, began to break apart, riding lower in the water, splitting at the sides. He waved and called for help, but saw no one to a.s.sist him, not even any pleasure yachts. His collapsing vessel sank deeper, until the water was up to his knees in the little boat. Not much better than being in the river itself.

He tugged the sail again, trying to angle the waterlogged craft toward a low, wooded island that protruded from the Loire. When the skiff broke apart completely, Verne abandoned s.h.i.+p and plunged into the warm, waist-deep water. He slogged through mud to the solid ground of the islet. He had no supplies, no resources -- and he was stranded.

On sh.o.r.e, he trudged through clawing willow branches to find a sunny spot where he could dry himself. "h.e.l.lo, is anyone else here?" He raised his voice again, but already he knew this would be a deserted island, a small refuge in the middle of the wide estuary.

No one lived here. He was alone . . . on an uninhabited island.

Verne sat down on a fallen tree, wondering what he should do, indignant that the rented sailboat had fallen into pieces on him. He certainly didn't intend to pay the old man for the damages. His father was a lawyer, after all -- in fact, the potbellied owner's blatant disregard for a young man's safety would look very bad in a court of law.

But Verne didn't want to think what his father would say about the whole misadventure. How would he get rescued? Would he ever see his home again? His loving mother, his sisters, his young brother Paul?

Around him, he found an unexplored world of trees and gra.s.s. This was the closest he'd ever been to reenacting his beloved "Robinson" stories. He allowed himself a wan smile . . . and then his imagination took over.

In clothes still wet and uncomfortable, Verne pushed his way through the clumps of willows, knocking aside gnarled branches that scratched his face. As his soggy shoes sank into the river gra.s.s that covered the ground, he thought that perhaps he might be the first person ever to walk here. These footprints -- like the footprints the man Friday had left on Crusoe's beach -- might be the first mark a human soul had ever made on this untamed land.

He studied the loose rocks piled by spring floodwaters and imagined firepits with blackened bones from cannibal feasts. But he found nothing more than a rat's nest and a worm-eaten plank washed up from some old s.h.i.+p.

His heart thumped, and a foolish grin crossed his face. This might be similar to some of the ordeals Nemo was enduring on his world-wide explorations. He couldn't wait to tell his friend about it.