Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [76]
An enormous funnel bore down on him, howling and buzzing like a million souls in pain. The pillar of wind and water extended from the sea at the center of the Earth, high up out of sight to the distant cavern ceiling: a waterspout with all the titanic strength of the greatest cyclone. It came churning across the sea -- and drew Nemo inexorably toward it.
The mushroom cap spun around. Nemo clung to its sides as the waves churned, and whitecaps splashed over the rim. More fluid lightning skittered through the air. Nemo hung on for his life as he stared in awe.
The whirlpool hurled him around as if in an aquatic game of crack-the-whip. The waterspout drew him into its core like a grain of sand sucked into a hollow reed. He felt as if the wet skin was being torn off his bones. His eyelids were drawn open, his lips stretched back by centrifugal force.
The mushroom boat whirled and spun, and Nemo barely managed to hang on. Suffocation from the surrounding spray and the crushing weight of gravity filled him with black unconsciousness. He had no way to fight this.
He let out a long wordless cry of defiance, but even that sound was torn from him by the fury of the cyclone. . . .
ix
Alexandre Dumas had designed his “Monte Cristo” chateau to resemble a fairy-tale castle, complete with turrets and Gothic towers. Across the expansive grounds, elm trees surrounded the main buildings and bordered artificial lakes that looked like sapphires. Swans drifted in the water, and raucous peacocks strutted across the manicured lawns. Topiary hedges and exquisite flowers added a filigree of colors to the landscape.
It all seemed like a fantasy to Jules Verne, which was no doubt the impression the great author wanted to cultivate.
Inside the main building, the writer’s kitchen was immense (as was Dumas himself). The heavyset man waited for Verne, already wearing an apron; he held out another for his guest. Every imaginable cooking instrument lay strewn across an oak table, along with tomes of recipes that Dumas had compiled from all over the world.
Verne took deep breaths to calm himself in the face of such extravagance. He had never cooked in such a kitchen before; in fact, he’d made little more than cabbage soup for a long time. He had lost sleep for days -- first out of amazement from reading Nemo’s incredible journal, and now terrified that he might make a poor impression on the literary master. Too much was happening at once, and his studies were beginning to suffer.
If he ruined this family-recipe omelet he had bragged about, Verne might as well maroon himself on a deserted island.
But when he began cooking, he relaxed, cracking four eggs into the hot pan. With a smile on his face, he took out the secret packet of herbs he’d compiled in his room. He did not intend to show Dumas the exact ingredients, since he wanted to maintain a mysterious air. The enormous writer seemed amused by the pretense and brushed his thick, ring-heavy fingers on his apron strings, watching the preparations carefully.
Verne finished his fluffy creation and, beaming with pride, served it on a plain white plate. Despite his worries, the omelet neither stuck to the pan nor turned brown, nor did it break when his shaking hands used a spatula to remove it. He had added just the right amount of butter, sliced the mushrooms perfectly, added the precise dash of pungent herbs.
With minimal conversation, Dumas and Verne shared the omelet at a small servant’s table inside the kitchen. Then the big man insisted Verne cook him a second one, which he devoured by himself. “Delicious!”
Later, Dumas showed the aspiring author around the chateau buildings and across the grounds. Verne grinned with delight, absorbing every detail, already promising himself that he, too, would live in a similar chateau someday (when he was a literary master as well). Servants worked in the various