Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [3]
Reaching the selected docks, they dropped their bundles in the mud beside the thick pilings. Nemo removed a flexible bladder that had once been a wine skin. He had altered it by inserting a wide reed through a hole and sewing a narrow rectangle of thick glass fashioned from a broken pane. Near the mouth area he had added a one-way flap valve so he could exhale his used air. After the modifications, he had closed the skin with tight little stitches covered in gutta percha for a watertight seal.
Helping him, Verne fiddled with the tube that protruded from the bladder hood. Taking reeds, he and Nemo had dunked their heads under the Loire, wading around like the clever American Indians in the adventures by James Fenimore Cooper. But this experiment was much more complex.
Nemo paused in his preparations and extended the modified bladder helmet toward Verne. “We are in this together, my friend. You have as much right to be first as I do. Here.”
Verne backed away, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it, André. I’ll just stay here and help feed the tubes. You . . . you try it first.”
Not surprised, Nemo strapped a belt of heavy stones around his waist, then thrust a dagger into the sheath at his hip. In an emergency he could cut the weights free and rise to the surface.
Nemo tugged the bladder over his dark hair until he could see through the rectangle of glass. The flexible sides fit tight against his ears and temples, and it smelled of sour wine. He slathered his neck and the edge of the bladder with thick grease, then cinched a leather belt to seal the helmet against his skin to prevent air loss, though not so tight that it would strangle him. He knew this was risky -- but he refused to hold back with such an opportunity at hand.
Nemo adjusted the breathing reed and the exhale flap. When he tried to speak, the bladder muffled his words, so he turned to meet Verne’s eyes through the viewing plate. Verne clasped his friend’s hand and wished him good luck, as if he were a businessman about to embark on a journey.
Verne uncovered a pot of sun-warmed pitch and arranged the hollow reeds on the ground beside him. With quick hands, he dipped one end into the pitch and inserted it into the tube protruding from Nemo’s helmet, thereby extending the air line.
Nemo stepped into the water, moving slowly so as not to break the connection. Verne picked up a third reed, smeared the seam with pitch, and sealed it to the second segment. Nemo sank waist-deep and kept going until his shoulders disappeared beneath the greenish-brown river.
Just as his covered head entered the water, he took a careful breath, then exhaled through the exhaust valve. Everything seemed to be working. With one more step, he was submerged, walking along the silty riverbottom.
Verne attached reed after reed, careful to keep the pipes clear, feeling a tremendous responsibility. The line of joined reeds disappeared under the water like a long straw. He could see Nemo making his way toward the Cynthia’s construction quay, and envied him -- but only in a theoretical sense. He was glad to be safe and dry on shore.
Taking a break now that he was several reeds ahead of Nemo, Verne looked around to see if anyone had noticed what they were doing. Steep terraced gardens made a splash of green and wildflower colors by the facade of the Church of St. Martin. Seagulls spun overhead, dove down to snatch garbage from the water, and splattered bridges and rooftops with gray-white runnels. He kept an eye cocked to make sure the vindictive birds didn’t target him.
Then he saw a straight-backed young woman with strawberry-blonde hair tucked under a wide-brimmed hat. She walked along the cobblestone path above the riverbank, coming toward him. Her afternoon dress was blue moiré silk with a high-waisted bodice, trimmed with row upon row of white fringe, bows, and roses to conceal the restrictive stays beneath. Her leg-o-mutton sleeves looked long and hot