Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (16 page)

On the
Coralie
Ned Land had caught several sharks along the coast of Madagascar.
 
Nemo knew that such a fish had tough hide, reminiscent of chain-mail armor with overlapping scales, rough like sandpaper.
 
He also knew that the snout was the shark’s most sensitive spot.
 

As the killer fish came at him again, Nemo braced himself and jabbed with the spear.
 
The jagged point scraped the shark’s head, missing the sensitive nose and sliding off the hard scales between its eyes.
 
Startled, the fast-moving creature swerved, missed the crates, and dove deep before it could cause further damage to the raft.
 
Nemo withdrew his spear, held it tighter . . . waiting.
 

The shark came up from below and rammed the crates.
 
They creaked, but held.
 
Nemo hoped the bottoms of the boxes hadn’t burst, or he would lose whatever resources he had managed to salvage.

Again, the shark returned.
 
Its head and snout protruded from the water, jaws wide open like a two-man saw wrapped into a circle.
 
Seeing the sharp teeth and wet, red mouth, Nemo fought off disorientation.
 
One slip could send him head-first into that hungry maw.
 
With a weird clarity, he recalled the three-fingered sailor at the docks of Ile Feydeau whose shipmate had been swallowed whole.
 
He forced the thought away.

Marshalling his strength, Nemo raised the splintered end of his spear -- and jabbed.
 
The sharp wooden point plunged deep into the fish’s nose.
 
The rough spear gouged a jagged wound in its tough skin.
 

The shark thrashed, tearing the weapon from Nemo’s grip.
 
Splinters sliced open the young man’s slick palms, but he felt no pain.
 
Not yet.
 
The wooden rod clattered onto the crates, and he scrabbled for it, but the spear bounced off into the sea.

Without thinking, heedless of the blood on his own hand, Nemo dropped to his belly and snatched the wooden pole back out of the water.
 
He dared not lose his only weapon.
 
The shark flailed about in pain, bleeding into the water.

Just then the other sharks converged on it, sensing more food.
 
Smelling fresh blood.

Shuddering with adrenaline and exhaustion, Nemo watched five of the predators tear the wounded shark into strips of meat, devouring it alive.
 
Nemo huddled on the raft without moving, clutching his spear as if it were a religious artifact.
 
Even with his ordeal, though, he had enough presence of mind to press part of his torn shirt against the cuts on his palm, slowing the blood, keeping it from dripping into the water, which would send the sharks into a greater frenzy.
 
He sat for so long his joints seized up and his muscles cramped until the turmoil in the reddened water faded away.
 

He didn’t move for the rest of that afternoon.
 
After many drawn-out hours, the ocean became quiet and empty again.
 
The sharks had gone, every scrap of food consumed.

And Nemo was more alone than ever.

#

The vast blue sea stretched forever around him, for days and miles.
 
He had no maps, no idea of his position.
 
The nearest land could be just over the horizon, or it could be a thousand miles away.
 
Nemo had no way of knowing.
 
On his voyage with Captain Grant, he had already seen the immensity of the Earth.

The sun went down, and the sky was as empty as the sea.
 
Curling his fingers in the water, Nemo caught a few scraps of floating seaweed.
 
He chewed on it, but the leaves tasted bitter.
 
Later, he endured abdominal cramps that could have come from the seaweed, or just from deep hunger.

He thought of how the sharks had fed and wished that he had managed to rip some scraps of meat from the shark he had injured.
 
He deserved some of the spoils of his hunt, but the other predators had consumed the entire carcass.

Nemo looked in vain over the edge of his raft.
 
He trailed the empty chicken cage like a sieve, trying to catch an unlucky, curious fish.
 
He ended up with only a few more strips of seaweed and one tiny crab, which he ate in an eyeblink, crunching the shell and swallowing before he could taste anything.

Desperately thirsty, still huddled under the canvas, he finally spotted a line of clouds at the horizon.
 
He sat up sluggishly, shading his eyes.
 
Over hours, he realized this was no illusion, that he was indeed seeing a blurry line.
 
A circling bird high overhead reassured him that he must indeed be close to land.

His weary heart swelled.
 
With a glimmer of hope, he realized he had to set course for this distant strip of dry ground.
 
He planted his wooden spear in the crack between the crates and threaded the tattered canvas onto the pole like a crude sail.
 
He tugged on one side, using his weight and shifting position until he managed to catch a few breaths of wind.
 
Though he couldn’t see any change in his position, Nemo knew he had begun to move.
 
Toward the island, he hoped.
 
He tilted the makeshift raft, used the sail to tack in the proper direction, and aimed for the misty gray clouds and the land that seemed infinitely far away.
 

Now that he had a goal, he could focus his being.
 
Nemo lost all sense of time.
 
The sun passed in a parabola overhead from an undistinguished horizon in the east, hovering overhead with pounding rays, and then falling toward the west.
 
All the while, Nemo grasped the shreds of the sail in his raw fingers and rode the raft onward behind whatever power the wind could give him.
 

The clouds gradually thickened, rising taller in the air.
 
At first, Nemo took great delight in recognizing that he was moving closer to the land mass.
 
Then he also realized that the clouds were getting larger.
 
Darker.

Before long, the wind began gusting, and the sea grew choppier.
 
With the sky so dark, he could no longer see the distant island.
 
When the clouds finally burst, Nemo stared into the downpour, turning his face toward the sky in ecstasy as cool water poured onto his cracked lips, filling his parched throat.
 
He swallowed every drop as if it were a pearl, lapping the little bit that managed to pool in the cracks on the crates, and turned up to drink more.
 
He took off his shirt, wrung the moisture into his mouth, and tried to sop up every drop of rain.

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.
 
“She doesn’t even have a keel.”

The old man shrugged.
 
“Never bothered me.”

Verne had never stopped dreaming about a life of travels to exotic lands.
 
He longed for when he’d been able to share those hopes with Nemo, and Caroline too.
 
Perhaps this sailboat was the best he could do for now.
 
A river outing on this ramshackle rented boat might be just what he needed.

In his pocket, his fingers rubbed a franc coin.
 
He pretended to be more concerned about the money than taking the boat by himself without telling his father.
 
But at his age, he should be making his own choices, whatever the consequences.
 
It wasn’t so much money, really.
 
Not for a grand adventure.