The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [61]
"This is Victoria," Verne said.
"Victoria."
"My pet. Isn't she beautiful?" Orphan downed the rest of his wine.
TWENTY
The Nautilus
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.
– William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Orphan woke up to dim light streaming in through the open blinds. The black-velvet blinds; early-morning light; the cold breeze coming in through an open window, making him shiver: finally, Verne's full-moon face rising disembodied above him.
"Argh!" Orphan said, and shook himself awake. Above him, Verne grinned. "Good morning, young Orphan," he said. "You slept for a long time, and now it is time to set forth. It is time, Orphan." His smile melted away, leaving him looking solemn and introspected. "It is time," he said again, then fell silent.
Orphan rose, stood up, began hunting for his clothes. A fresh suit of clothing was lying neatly on a chair beside the bed. "Robur is serving breakfast in the kitchen," Verne said. "Meet me there in fifteen minutes. We sail with the tide."
He felt clear-headed that morning, and he stood in the centre of the room for a long moment and stretched, and breathed in the sea air and felt it whisper promises. To go on the sea: it conjured images from books he had read in his youth, of treasures and battles and tropical storms. He thought, There is a book of poems in that. But he had not written a poem since that day at the Nell Gwynne, and his poetry had been bottled up, locked away together with Lucy: neither of them were as yet coming back from the dead.
He dressed and went downstairs. Verne was sitting alone at the kitchen table, a plate heaped with food before him. Robur was cooking eggs and bacon on the stove.
Verne indicated a vacant seat with the tip of his butter-smeared knife. "Sit down."
Robur served him a plate to accompany Verne's. Eggs, bacon, slices of toast, a strong sweet coffee, butter and jam: they were a powerful wake-up tonic. "English cooking," Robur said with a shake of his head, and disappeared into the adjoining room.
"Orphan," Verne said, "you are very much thrown into this without direction. You are a brave man; an honourable man. I respect that. As you know, I had attempted to go to Caliban's Island before. In that I was not successful. I was unable to land. Consequently, you must understand I know little more than you do. I do not know what expects us there. But I do know how to pilot a ship, which I have, as I have the men to operate it. I will give you all the help I can, and will tell you what little I know." He stood and reached out for Orphan, took his hand awkwardly in both of his. "I will do everything in my power to bring you there, and bring you back alive, too. If I can. Do you believe me?"
Orphan looked at the writer. For all that he was mixed up in these conspiracies of the Bookman, and for all of his effusive theatricality and his way of filling in its entirety the space around him, he found himself liking Verne. There was something almost innocent about the man, mixed with a childish, wicked glee at everything, as if life was one big game, a puzzle put out there for him to fathom one section at a time. "I do," he said, and meant it. Verne smiled. "Good."
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. When it was over, Verne stretched, sighed in satisfaction, and rose from his seat. Orphan, knowing the time had come, rose too. He felt jittery, but expectant too. The books he'd read kept flittering through his mind. Adventure on the high seas. He smiled to himself. Verne looked at him and replied with a smile of his own. For a moment they were two boys together, and the future was a bright game that would last all afternoon.
"Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Then let's go."
And so they did.
The clipper ship was magnificent. Three masts rose high above their heads, a white canopy of sails growing out of them like the first