Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [72]
“Certainly, Monsieur,” Verne said, trying to be formal as he recovered his pride. He searched for more lint to brush from his jacket. “Alas, I cannot give you the recipe. It is a family secret.”
“But of course,” the man said, then patted his stomach again. “You are fortunate that for me, the primary interest is in consuming the omelet.”
The man continued up the marble stairs toward the harpsichord music, but Verne stopped him. “Wait, Monsieur. You have not told me your name or your address.”
The big man stopped in genuine surprise and turned to look down at Verne. “You mean you do not know?” He clapped his hands, then smiled even wider, flashing bright white teeth. “Oh, ho! So many fawning people cling to me at all times. Rarely does anyone bump into me truly by ‘accident.’”
He extended a ring-studded grip; his palm could easily have folded around Verne’s entire hand. “I am Alexandre Dumas. You must come to my chateau at Monte Cristo. I believe anyone here can tell you the way.”
vi
After all he had been through, all he’d accomplished and suffered, Nemo refused to let a mere ocean stop him. So he decided to build a raft.
The monstrous mushrooms provided sturdy, woody stems that floated with ease. Squatting in the soft dirt, Nemo used a stick to sketch plans for building a simple, seaworthy craft. He took what he knew of engineering and added ideas he’d gleaned from Captain Grant’s library -- from the sketchbooks of Leonardo da Vinci to the designs of the steamboat inventor, Robert Fulton. It was a problem to be solved through time and ingenuity, and Nemo had both.
With his cutlass, he hacked down seven sturdy mushrooms. He removed the hemispherical caps, each one broader than his outstretched arms, and dragged the porous logs to a flat clearing at the shore of the sea.
Rather than using simple vines to lash the mushroom logs together, he took extra time to braid thin tendrils into a sturdy cord. He had no way of knowing how long he’d need this craft to last. He secured four of the large fungus caps together on the bottom of the raft to act as pontoons for extra flotation. Next he used his braided cord to tie the logs together on top.
After many hours of labor, Nemo stripped to swim in the leaden waters of the Earth’s central sea; then he went back to work again until, exhausted, he crawled under a mushroom canopy to sleep. . . .
Once the completed structure was firm and stable, he looked across the cavern ocean. Seeing no end to the water, he gathered fresh supplies: ripe fruit, hard roots, even the meat from a small plant-eating dinosaur he ambushed behind the thick ferns. He still had his two pistols taken from the pirates, but so far he’d found no need to use them.
Ready to undertake a long voyage, Nemo heaved his lightweight fungus boat into the water, using shaved mushroom logs for paddles and a tiller. The raft drifted along, carried by the strong subterranean current. Behind him, the underground shoreline faded into the distance, veiled by a mist that clung to the thick fungus forest.
Before long, Nemo found himself in the uncharted expanse of a featureless sea. The grotto ceiling above shone with pearly luminescence, far, far away, and Nemo had no stars or familiar land features to guide him. Only his dreams. . .
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The hardest part was coping with the sheer boredom. For so long, Nemo had been forced to spend every waking hour on the simple business of survival, occupying himself with essential tasks all day long to feed himself, improve his life, or reinforce his defenses.
Drifting in the open sea, Nemo had nothing to do but lie back and think. He tried to determine his velocity by tossing bits of flotsam over the side, but had no fixed point of reference. Smiling, he let himself enjoy memories of his childhood days and the port of Ile Feydeau, playing card games with his father, spending joyful times with Jules Verne, competing for the attentions of Caroline Aronnax,