“That seems like an awfully passive way to travel,” Fiona said.
“Aye!” her stepfather agreed. “It does! But there is no other solution! And we should not hesitate!” He stopped and pointed to his plaque. “He or she who hesitates is lost!” he reminded them.
“It’s a little hard not to hesitate,” Violet said, “before doing something like this.”
“It’s not too late to draw straws!” the captain said. “Aye! You don’t all have to go together!”
“The three of us prefer not to be separated,” Klaus said. “We’ve had too much trouble that way.”
“I should think you’ve had too much trouble in any case!” the captain said. “Aye!”
“The Baudelaires are right, Stepfather,” Fiona said. “This way makes the most sense. We may need Violet’s mechanical expertise, or Klaus’s knowledge of the tidal charts. And Sunny’s size may come in handy, if the grotto gets even smaller.”
“Ulp,” Sunny said, which meant something like, “I don’t like the idea of drifting by myself in a diving helmet.”
“What about you, Fiona?” the captain asked. “Aye! You could stay here with me!”
“My skills might be needed as well,” Fiona said quietly, and the Baudelaires shuddered, trying not to think about the Medusoid Mycelium and its poisonous spores.
“Aye!” Captain Widdershins admitted, and smoothed his mustache with one gloved finger. “Well, I’m going to tell V.F.D. all about this! Aye! All four of you volunteers will receive citations for bravery!”
The Baudelaires looked at one another as best they could through the small circular windows. A citation for bravery is nothing more than a piece of paper stating that you have been courageous at some time, and such citations have not been known to be very useful when confronted by danger, whether deep underwater, or, as the Baudelaires would eventually learn, high up in the air. Anyone can write up a citation for bravery, and I have even been known to write one for myself from time to time, in order to keep my spirits up in the middle of a treacherous journey. The three siblings were more interested in surviving their voyage through the Gorgonian Grotto than in receiving a written statement complimenting them on their courage, but they knew Captain Widdershins was trying to keep their spirits up as he led them down the corridor and into the room where they had first encountered the captain of the Queequeg.
“To get into the water,” the captain said, “you just climb up that same ladder and give a holler when you’re at the hatch. Then I’ll activate a valve down here, so the submarine won’t flood with water when you open it. Then, as I said, you’ll just let the current carry you. You should end up in the same place as the sugar bowl.”
“And you still won’t tell us why the sugar bowl is important?” Violet couldn’t help asking.
“It’s not the sugar bowl,” Captain Widdershins said, “it’s what’s inside it. Aye! I’ve already said too much! Aye! There are secrets in this world too terrible for young people to know! Just think—if you knew about the sugar bowl and you somehow fell into Count Olaf’s clutches, there’s no telling what he’d do! Aye!”
“But look on the bright side,” Phil pointed out. “Whatever terrible things may be lurking in that cave, you won’t find Count Olaf. There’s no way that octopus submarine could fit!”
“Aye!” the captain agreed. “But we’ll watch for him on the sonar, just in case! We’ll watch you too! Aye! We’ll be right here watching you the entire time! The oxygen systems in your helmets make enough noise that you’ll appear as four tiny dots on our screen! Now, off you go! Good luck!”
“We’ll be wishing you the best!” Phil said.
The adults gave each of the children a pat on the helmet, and without any further hesitation, off went the Baudelaire children with Fiona behind them, following the ladder up to the hatch through which they had come aboard. The four volunteers were quiet as they made their way up, until Violet reached up with one hand—the other hand was clutching Sunny’s helmet—and grabbed the handle that opened the hatch.
“We’re ready!” she called down, although she did not feel ready at all.
“Aye!” replied the voice of the captain. “I’m activating the valve now! Wait five seconds and then open the hatch! Aye! But don’t hesitate! Aye! He who hesitates is lost! Aye! Or she! Aye! Good luck! Aye! Good fortune! Aye! Good journey! Aye! Good-bye!”
There was a distant clanging, presumably the sound of the valve activating, and the four children waited for five seconds, just as you may wish to wait a few seconds yourself, so all thoughts of the Baudelaires’ predicament will vanish from your imagination so that you will not be weeping as you learn several boring facts about the water cycle. The water cycle, to review, consists of three key phenomena—evaporation, precipitation, and collection—which are all equally boring and thus equally less upsetting than what happened to the Baudelaires when Violet opened the hatch and the icy, dark waters of the sea rushed into the passageway. If you were to read what happened to them in the moments that followed, you would find yourself unable to sleep as you wept into your pillow and pictured the children all alone in that grim grotto, drifting slowly to the end of the cavern, and yet if you read about the water cycle you would find yourself unable to stay awake, due to the boring description of the process by which water is distributed around the world, and so as a courtesy to you I will continue this book in a way that is best for all concerned.
The water cycle consists of three phenomena—evaporation, precipitation, and collection—which are the three phenomena that make up what is known as “the water cycle.” Evaporation, the first of these phenomena, is the process of water turning into vapor and eventually forming clouds, such as those found in cloudy skies, or on cloudy days, or even cloudy nights. These clouds are formed by a phenomenon known as “evaporation,” which is the first of three phenomena that make up the water cycle. Evaporation, the first of these three, is simply a term for a process by which water turns into vapor and eventually forms clouds. Clouds can be recognized by their appearance, usually on cloudy days or nights, when they can be seen in cloudy skies. The name for the process by which clouds are formed—by water, which turns into vapor and becomes part of the formation known as “clouds”—is “evaporation,” the first phenomenon in the three phenomena that make up the cycle of water, otherwise known as “the water cycle,” and surely you must be asleep by now and so can be spared the horrifying details of the Baudelaires’ journey.
The instant Violet opened the hatch, the passageway flooded with water, and the children drifted out of the submarine and into the blackness of the Gorgonian Grotto. The Baudelaires knew, of course, that the Queequeg had entered an underwater cave, but still they were unprepared for how very dark and cold it was. Sunlight had not reached the waters of the grotto for quite some time—not since Anwhistle Aquatics was still up and running, a phrase which here means “not destroyed under suspicious circumstances”—and the water felt like a freezing black glove, encircling the children with its chilly fingers. As Klaus had predicted after studying the tidal charts, the currents of the cave carried the youngsters away from the submarine, but in the darkness it was impossible to see how fast or far they were going. Within moments the four volunteers lost sight of the Queequeg, and then of one another. Had the grotto been equipped with some sort of lighting system, as it once had, the children could have seen a number of things. They might have noticed the mosaic on the grotto floor—thousands and thousands of colorful tiles, depicting noble events from the early history of a secret organization, and portraits of famous writers, scientists, artists, musicians, philosophers, and chefs who had inspired the organization’s members. They might have seen an enormous, rusted pumping machine, which was able to drain the entire grotto, or flood it with seawater again, in mere minutes. They might have gazed upward and seen the sharp angles of various Vertical Flame Diversions and other secret passageways that once led all the way up to the marine research center and
rhetorical advice service, or even spotted the person who was using one of the passageways now, and probably for the last time, as she made her difficult and dark way toward the Queequeg. But instead, all the children could see through their small circular windows was darkness. The Baudelaires had seen darkness before, of course—darkness in secret passageways and tunnels, darkness in abandoned buildings and empty streets, darkness in the eyes of wicked people, and even darkness in other caves. But never before had the orphans felt so completely in the dark as they did now. They did not know where they were, although once Violet felt, very briefly, her feet brush up against something very smooth, like a tile fitted firmly against the ground. They could not tell where they were going, although after a while Klaus had a suspicion that the current had spun him so he was traveling upside down. And they could not tell when they would arrive, although from time to time Sunny saw, through her diving helmet, a tiny dot of light, much like the tiny dots Captain Widdershins said they would appear as on the sonar screen of his submarine.
The Baudelaires drifted along in cold, dark silence, feeling afraid and confused and strangely lonely, and when their journey finally ended, it was so sudden it felt as if they had fallen into a deep, deep sleep, as deep and dark as the cavern itself, and now were being jolted awake. At first, it sounded as if a bushel of broken glass were raining down on the children, but then the children realized they had drifted to the surface of the water, and in one curling, fluid motion, the tide pushed them onto something that felt like a beach, and the three siblings found themselves crawling on a slope of dark, wet sand.
“Klaus?” Violet called through her helmet. “Are you there? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” Klaus replied. He could just barely see his sister crawling alongside him. “We couldn’t have reached the surface of the sea—we were very, very deep. Is Sunny with you?”
“Yes,” Sunny said, from inside her helmet. “Fiona?”
“I’m here,” came the voice of the mycologist. “But where are we? How can we still be below the surface of the sea, without any water around us?”
“I’m not sure,” Klaus said, “but it must be possible. After all, a submarine can be below the sea and stay dry.”
“Are we on another submarine?” Violet asked.
“I dunno,” Sunny said, and frowned in her helmet. “Look!”
The elder Baudelaires looked, although it took them a few moments to realize what Sunny was talking about, as they could not see what direction their sister was pointing. But in a moment they saw two small lights, a short distance from where the volunteers were crawling. Hesitantly, they stood up—except for Sunny, who remained curled up in her helmet—and saw that the lights were coming from a place many lights come from: lamps. A short distance away, standing against the wall, were three floorlamps, each with a letter on its shade. The first lamp had a large V, and the second had an F. The third floorlamp had burnt out, and it was too dim to read the shade, but the children knew, of course, that it must have had a D.
“What is this place?” Fiona asked, but as the children stepped closer they could see what kind of place it was.
As they had suspected, the currents of the Gorgonian Grotto had carried them to a beach, but it was a beach contained in a narrow room. The youngsters stood at the top of the slope of sand and peered at this small, dim room, with smooth tiled walls that looked damp and slippery, and a sand floor covered in an assortment of small objects, some in piles and some half-buried in the sand. The children could see bottles, some still with their corks and caps, and some cans still intact from their journey. There were a few books, their pages bloated as if soaked in water, and a few small cases that looked locked. There was a roller skate, turned upside down, and a deck of cards sitting in two piles, as if someone were about to shuffle them. Here and there were a few pens, sticking out of the sand like porcupine quills, and there were many more objects the children could not identify in the gloom.
“Where are we?” Fiona asked. “Why isn’t this place full of water?”
Klaus looked up, but could not see past a few feet. “This must be a passage of some sort,” Klaus said, “straight up to dry land—an island, maybe, or maybe it curves to the shore.”
“Anwhistle Aquatics,” Violet said thoughtfully. “We must be underneath its ruins.”
“Oxo?” Sunny asked, which meant “Does that mean we can breathe without our helmets?”
“I think so,” Klaus said, and then carefully removed his helmet, an action for which I would have given him a citation for bravery. “Yes,” he said. “We can breathe. Everybody take off their helmets—that way, our oxygen systems will recharge.”
“But what is this place?” Fiona asked again, removing her helmet. “Why would anybody build a room way down here?”
“It looks like it’s been abandoned,” Violet said. “It’s full of junk.”
“Someone must come to change the light-bulbs,” Klaus pointed out. “Besides, all this junk was washed up here by the tide, like us.”
“And like sugar bowl,” Sunny said.
“Of course,” Fiona said, looking down at the objects in the sand. “It must be here someplace.”
“Let’s find it and get out of here,” Violet said. “I don’t like this place.”
“Mission,” Sunny said, which meant “Once we find the sugar bowl, our work here is done.”
“Not quite,” Klaus said. “We’ll still have to return to the Queequeg—against the current, I might add. Looking for the sugar bowl is only half the battle.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, and the four volunteers spread out and began to examine the objects in the sand. Saying that something is half the battle is like saying something is half a sandwich, because it is dangerous to announce that something is half the battle when the much more difficult part might still be waiting in the wings, a phrase which here means “coming up more quickly than you’d like.” You might think learning how to boil water is half the battle, only to learn that making a poached egg is much trickier than you thought. You might think that climbing a mountain is half the battle, only to find out that the mountain goats who live at the top are vicious, and heavily armed. And you might think that rescuing a kidnapped ichnologist is half the battle, only to discover that making a poached egg is much trickier than you thought and that the entire battle would be much more difficult and dangerous than you ever would have imagined. The Baudelaires and their mycologist friend thought that looking for the sugar bowl was half the battle, but I’m sorry to tell you that they were wrong, and it is lucky that you fell asleep earlier, during my description of the water cycle, so you will not learn about the other half of the Baudelaires’ battle, and the ghastly poison they would end up battling not long after their search through the sand.
“I’ve found a box of rubber bands,” Violet said, after a few minutes, “and a doorknob, two mattress springs, half a bottle of vinegar, and a paring knife, but no sugar bowl.”
“I’ve found an earring, a broken clipboard, a book of poetry, half a stapler, and three swizzle sticks,” Klaus said, “but no sugar bowl.”
“Three can soup,” Sunny said, “jar peanut butter, box crackers, pesto, wasabi, lo mein. But nadasuchre.”
“This is harder than I thought,” Klaus said. “What have you found, Fiona?”
Fiona did not answer.
“Fiona?” Klaus asked again, and the Baudelaires turned to look at her. But the mycologist was not looking at the siblings. She was looking past them, and her eyes were wide with fear behind her triangular glasses. “Fiona?” Klaus said, sounding a bit worried. “What have you found?”
Fiona swallowed, and pointed back down at the slope of sand. “Mycelium,” she said finally, in a faint whisper, and the Baudelaires turned to see that she had spoken the truth. Sprouting out of the sand, quickly and silently, were the stalks and caps of the Medusoid Mycelium, the fungus Fiona had described back on the Queequeg. The invisible threads of the myc
elium, according to her mycological book, waxed and waned, and had been waning when the volunteers drifted ashore, which meant that the mushrooms had been hiding underground when the children had arrived at this strange room. But now, as time passed, they were waxing, and sprouting up all over the beach and even along the smooth, tiled walls. At first just a handful were visible—each one a dark, gray color, with black splotches on the caps as if they were spattered with ink—and then more and more, like a silent, deadly crowd that had gathered on the beach and was staring blindly at the terrified children. The mushrooms only ventured halfway up the slope of sand, so it seemed that the poisonous fungus was not going to engulf them—not yet, anyway. But as the mycelium continued to wax, the entire beach sprouted in sinister mushrooms, and until it waned the Baudelaires had to huddle on the sand, in the light of the floorlamps, and stare back at the venomous mycological crowd. More and more mushrooms appeared, crowding the strange shore and piling up on top of one another as if they were pushing and shoving to get a good look at the trapped and frightened children. Looking for the sugar bowl may have been half the battle, but now the Baudelaire orphans were trapped, and that half was much, much more troubling.
CHAPTER
Seven
The word “lousy,” like the word “volunteer,” the word “fire,” the word “department,” and many other words found in dictionaries and other important documents, has a number of different definitions depending on the exact circumstances in which it is used. There is the common definition of the word “lousy,” meaning “bad,” and this definition of “lousy” has described many things in my history of the Baudelaire orphans, from the sinister smells of Lousy Lane, along which the children traveled long ago, to their lousy journey up and down the Mortmain Mountains in search of theV.F.D. headquarters. There is the medical definition of the word “lousy,” meaning “infested with lice,” and this definition of “lousy” has not appeared in my work at all, although as Count Olaf’s hygiene gets worse and worse I may find occasion to use it. And then there is a somewhat obscure definition of the word “lousy,” meaning “abundantly supplied,” the way Count Olaf is lousy with treacherous plans, or the Queequeg is lousy with metal pipes, or the entire world is lousy with unfathomable secrets, and it is this definition that the Baudelaire orphans pondered, as they huddled with Fiona underneath the mysterious floorlamps of the Gorgonian Grotto, and watched more and more mushrooms sprout from the sand. As their surroundings became lousy with the Medusoid Mycelium, the children thought of all the other things in their lives with which they were abundantly supplied. The children’s lives were lousy with mystery, from the mysteries of V.F.D. to the mysteries of their own futures, with each mystery crowding the others like the stalks and caps of the poisonous fungi. Their lives were lousy with danger, from the dangers they had encountered above mountains and underneath buildings, to the dangers they had faced inside the city and out in the hinterlands, from the dangers of villainous people to the dangers of kind people who did not know any better. And their lives were lousy with lousiness, from terrible people to horrible meals, from terrifying locations to horrifying circumstances, and from dreadful inconveniences to inconvenient dreads, so that it seemed that their lives would always be lousy, lousy with lousy days and lousy with lousy nights, even if all of the lousy things with which their lives were lousy became less lousy, and less lousy with lousiness, over the lousy course of each lousy-with-lousiness moment, and with each new lousy mushroom, making the cave lousier and lousier with lousiness, it was almost too much for the Baudelaire orphans to bear.
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