Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [40]
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 shingle, 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 shore. The island’s coastline spread out on either side of him, covered with rocks and sand. In the center of the land mass towered the tall cone of a steep, smoldering volcano.
Nemo got to his feet, brushed sand and broken shells 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 grass 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 scum 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 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.