The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (47 page)

A search of his clothes
proved what he already suspected — his Abacand was gone. Now he had cause to
wish he had taken up the subdermal kind of machine, but he had never fancied a
permanent link to the digital world until this moment. Its loss made him feel
twice as naked and a thousand times more vulnerable.

The giant squid thing must
have taken it before abandoning him here. Riba didn’t like to think of it as a
thing, but without a name or a clade to place it in he couldn’t help thinking
of it that way. Of him. Of her. Whatever.

Riba sat back and tried
to think. What had the blond man promised? Ah yes, this was not personal and
not forever. So he had some hope of returning to his old life after all, even
if he was the subject of a peculiar kidnapping as it was beginning to seem.

Riba waited impatiently
for his clothes to dry so that he could make a full inspection of what he
guessed might be an island. He hoped that even without the Abacand he might
remember some of the very clever survival skills he’d so often admired in
documentaries and that maybe he would outfox his captors and figure out where
they were holding him before they picked him up again. Even so, could the squid
have carried him all the way from near Ireland to the Caribbean? Squid had
prodigious powers of speed and agility in the water and it had been a mighty
monster but, even with the potential of extra powers from engines and the like,
it was no quick journey.

He set off on his
reconnaissance at an eager pace which soon became more cautious. The sandy
lagoon rim gave way to rocky headlands which required a lot of effort and
patience to climb over. Soon he was very hungry and very tired. He took another
drink from one of the many rivulets escaping to the sea and lay down in the
shade beneath two palm trees for a rest.

When he woke it was late
afternoon. He found a green stick and went digging for clams in the sand.
Within an hour or so he had collected a reasonable plateful — enough for a
paella — and he had also, pleased with his cunning, decided that if he couldn’t
get them out alive he would get them out roasted and hot after baking them in a
fire.

There followed a most
trying several hours. There was no dry wood. There was no dry tinder. Stupidly
he had been travelling without a magnifying glass. After two hours of failed
efforts at making fire he gave up and, one by one, began to fling the shellfish
back into the sea. Halfheartedly he tried to crack one in his teeth but his
teeth would have cracked first.

Riba wrote in his head, “Without
his tools to help him Man loses the evolutionary arms race to a humble mussel.”
But it was hard to laugh.

A moment or two later he
began to hear unmistakable sounds of the progress of something inside the woods
that backed on to the sand. Too tired to feel very afraid just yet Riba turned
to watch, thinking of pigs or deer.

To his complete surprise
what emerged from between the palm trees was a man with white hair and a thick
white beard. He wore a rather severe suit and a high white collar tied up with
a white cravat. All the white things stood out clearly against the darkness of
the forest and the indigo of the sky behind him. What interested Riba most
about him however, was not his clothing, or his cane, with which he had parted
the last fronds of green before emerging, but the fact that in his other hand
he was holding what looked like a china plate with something on it.

The old man waved his
stick at Riba in a friendly way. “Hello there,” he called out. “You must be
Arnau Riba. A tricky man to find it seems. Don’t trouble yourself so much, dear
fellow. Here, I’ve brought you a sandwich.”

Riba would remember for
the rest of his life the taste of that sandwich — it was cheese and pickle —
and the way it felt to eat it, so salty and tangy and indescribably wholesome
as he stood and studied the face of this peculiar stranger. The eyes beamed at
him. The tweed suit — he did not know how to explain the mirage of colours in
that lovely wool or how prickly and hot it seemed, or how it sat upon the
cotton shirt beneath the thick beard or how the sandwich and the man both
merged into a curious saving grace that was quite ridiculous to him in the same
instant that it was perfect.

“Forgive me,” said the
man with another smile, “I have you at a disadvantage. I am Jules Verne, the
Right Hand of Pelagic Bathysaur Island Iukina. At your service.”

Riba stared at him, eyes
bulging, cheeks bulging, chewing. He thought about asking the obvious questions
— who?, why?, what? — but took another bite instead. It seemed likely that
answers would appear in time and they were less important right now than eating.

“Yes, Mr Riba,” said
Verne cordially, taking a deep, satisfied breath. “You are upon a living island
afloat on the breast of the Atlantic. Me, in fact. And as such you are my
guest. Welcome. I hope that you will forgive the delay in my locating you, but
my eyes and ears, the flies, are easily diverted, and by the time they had told
me of your whereabouts and I had made the journey, you were no longer at the
location they remembered. A fly’s memory, you know, is a strange and marvellous
. . . ah —” Verne glanced down at the empty plate as Riba took the second half
of the sandwich. Verne looked down, gently brushed off a few crumbs on to the
sand. “I wonder if the crabs here will enjoy bread? No doubt they will. The
water on this side is also very good of course, but many more refreshments are
available a short journey away at the Club. I hope you feel able to manage a
short walk?”

Riba, feeling the first
hit of sugars arriving in his bloodstream had concluded, by the time that Verne
began to speak of flies, that if the man were really a Hand — a physically
human component of a greater human composite being — then he could be as dotty
as he liked so long as there really were more sandwiches. Riba found it hard to
believe in Forged like this one; that is, he had known intellectually that they
existed, but he had never really thought about them in any practical fashion.
He could not bring himself to quite believe that what he had stood on,
sheltered on and been thwarted and restored by was a single being and not a volcanic
atoll. But it made sense — there were no islands like this anywhere near the
airship’s course.

To the old man’s
question about walking he simply nodded. The old man smiled and turned, beating
back stubborn bits of jungle with his walking stick as they retraced his steps.
In less than two hundred metres Riba found himself standing on a hard dirt
road. A small battery-powered car was parked there, looking neat and very red
against the darkening green of the jungle. As the sun went down, and Riba sat feeling
the roll of precision suspension carry him silently through the deep blue
twilight, his surprise began to turn to curiosity.

His astonishment was
completed when they rolled up towards the soft yellow lights of a large but
built on stilts. An expansive verandah ran all the way around it and the steps
down to the car were lit with the twinkle of many small citronella candles to
greet their arrival. Walking up and on to the smooth boards Riba felt a rush of
gratitude for civilization in general. As he turned in through the doorway he
saw a large room panelled in dark wood and furnished with the most beautiful
and expensive furniture he had ever seen. At the heart of the room a fire
burned within a stone bowl and near this fire a group of chairs were drawn
close, each different, and each supporting a different figure with the
exception of a tall wing chair which he assumed was Verne’s.

A soft breeze blew in at
their backs as Verne ushered him forward. As they approached Riba saw one of
the others stand up and draw another chair forward to place within the circle
next to the empty seat. This man then turned and came to greet them. He wore a
well-cut suit, like a uniform, and carried a cap beneath his arm. Like Verne he
had white hair and a white beard, but by contrast this man’s beard was clipped
neatly short and his hair was a great length that fell around his shoulders.
Dark walnut skin crinkled around brown eyes as he held Riba with his gaze.

“Arnau Riba, I am a
longtime admirer of your feature articles, if not your methods of
investigation. I regret you found your introduction to the ocean so traumatic.”
He held out his hand and Riba took it, shook it, felt its strength and
resilience as he wondered at the choice of words. He must mean Riba’s fall.

“Permit me to introduce
you,” Verne said, putting the sandwich plate aside. “This is my good friend
Captain Nemo, Hand of Bathysaur Nautilus Kalu.”

“Nemo?” Riba repeated,
finding the name ringing bells in his head. Then he began to understand. He
stared at the merry smile of the man whose hand he still held. He saw the great
eye of the huge tentacled monster that had churned the ocean up beneath him. It
was only with the greatest willpower that he managed to keep a semblance of
cool.

“No doubt you are
wondering at our choice of Hands, Mr Riba,” Nemo said. “Those who meet us often
remark upon it and perhaps, to a person not as keenly aware of their
intellectual and imaginative forbears as ourselves, it must seem strange. Jules
Verne was a Frenchman of the nineteenth century, one of the first great science
fiction writers. He also lived in a time of great change and his studies of
engineering and the natural world gave rise to stories of great adventure and
the heights of invention to which human minds might aspire. Kalu and I see
ourselves as the literal conclusion of the work of Verne and his contemporaries
including the architect of your hometown, Barcelona — the incomparable Antoni
Gaudi. In our physical forms you may witness the work of millions of scientists
and artists, designers and engineers inspired by the works of these great
minds. In our minds we hope you will discover the same unbridled imagination,
and in our hearts the same abiding wonder, curiosity and love of the Earth and
all her works. It is why we are here, Mr Riba, and it is also why you are here.”

Riba looked from one of
the old men to the other. “Jules Verne, the island’s voice. I see. But Captain
Nemo?”

“Why,” said the captain,
continuing in their peculiar and elegant way of speaking, “this is both by way
of an homage and a small joke in one. Captain Nemo is Verne’s most well-known
hero. Like myself, Nemo is a scientist-explorer. He is also the captain of a
submarine, named
Nautilus,
which is mistaken for a giant sea-monster
when it sinks ships bent on acts of war. I myself am a Nautilus Class Forged,
created to investigate and protect all the life of the oceans, in particular
its greatest depths and, like Nemo himself, I seek peace.”

“We appear as old men.
Although we are nothing of the sort we think of ourselves as Jules Verne and
Captain Nemo because the conceit has improved us and connects us by heart and
mind to both the past and the future, history and dream. But here,” Verne
continued, taking Riba’s arm and sweeping him onwards to the waiting circle. “Here
are our other friends also glad to make your acquaintance. Allow me to
introduce to you the illustrious Sinbad, Hand of the Wind-Drifter Velella of
the same name — he was always named after the hero of the seas.”

Riba shook hands with a
young man dressed in flamboyant pirate colours, his hair beaded and a
rapier-thin moustache on his top lip matched by a dagger of beard on his chin.
He had no idea what manner of creature a Wind-Drifter might be but as the young
man’s green eyes sparkled he grinned and whispered to Riba, “I am the sailor
and the boat, the crew and captain all in one. Look me up when you get home.”

He sat down then and
with a splash the lady of the group stood up from her rest, legs immersed to
the knee in a porcelain tub of salt water. She was taller and more willowy than
Riba, and looked like someone who has really gone to town on fancy dress for a
party themed around fish.

“This lady is WaveRider
Mermaid Silene, and she is here herself.” Verne said.

Silene inclined her head
regally, “Look, no hands!” she joked and then gave Riba her long, cool hand to
clasp. Against his palm he felt the slight roughness of scales. The soft
feather lines of gills on her neck lay demurely closed, like lines of paint.
Only her hair gave it away — it was not human hair at all but fleshy and
fibrous and deep crimson, like a kind of kelp. Then she sat and Riba moved
along.

“Here is Ahab, Hand of
MekTek Orca Moebius, fish-marshal.”

Riba was sure that there
was another joke in this, but he would have to look that up too. Ahab was a
rough-looking individual whose clothing wouldn’t have passed muster anywhere
Riba knew. He looked as though he spent his life beachcombing and living on
what he could find. He clapped Riba on the shoulder and gave him a stiff nod,
without getting up.

“And last but by no
means least the pioneering scientific documentary-maker and populist, Sir David
Attenborough, Hand of ArchaeoTek Legion Ketier. Ketier is like a kind of Hive,
Mr Riba — in the oceans, he is everywhere.”

Riba shook hands with an
ordinary looking kind of man in clothes much like his own. Then he was allowed
to sit in his own seat, at Verne’s right hand, and Verne sat also, completing
the circle. Riba felt strangely moved, without understanding why. His throat
was taut as Verne said, “Welcome, Journalist Arnau Riba, to the Adventurers’
League and Dance Club of the Ocean. We are of the sea and pledged to defend her
wealth and nurture her children. We adventure in body and spirit within her. We
dance to her music.”