Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  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 buildings, performing their never-ending tasks.

  Dumas took him in a small boat out to an isolated island in the center of the estate’s largest artificial pond. “Here, my friend, is where I do my writing, where no one can disturb me. I require complete silence to do my work.”

  Verne could see at a glance that the large gazebo was designed for creating literary masterpieces. Dumas stood at the doorway to his writing abode. “I must have concentration, you see. I’ve produced over four hundred short stories, plays, and novels in the last twenty years. I have a reputation to maintain—as well as my momentum!”

  Dumas had been called a “fiction factory,” and in order to maintain his prodigious output, he hired other writers to complete many scenes in his books. He concocted the stories and the characters himself, but sometimes he needed others to bother with the details.

  “I admire you, Monsieur Dumas.” Verne raised his chin. “I study law at my father’s insistence, but I have literary ambitions of my own. Someday, I hope to be as successful as you are. I will work very hard at it.”

  Dumas laughed, dark chins jiggling. His chuckles echoed across the placid water. One of the swans stirred, then settled down as if it had heard the booming laughter many times before. “Oh, ho! I respect a young man with ambition and drive.” Dumas raised eyebrows on a dusky forehead. “But do you have the necessary discipline and persistence, mmm?”

  “I do,” Verne said, then surprised himself with his own brazenness. “Would you help me, Monsieur? Would you show me how to become a great writer like yourself?”

  Dumas laughed again, but looked more seriously at his guest. “That remains to be seen, my friend. Many novices make the same request, but few are willing to do the necessary hard work.”

  “Oh, I will work. I’ve already completed two major historical plays and one comedy.” He chastised himself for not having brought them along, for just such an opportunity.

  “Oh, ho! Then I should like to read them.”

  Verne couldn’t tell if the huge author truly meant it, or if he had simply expressed the sentiment out of a perceived obligation to his guest. He hoped for some advice—or better yet, connections. Dumas had it in his power to introduce him to the important publishers in Paris. Verne prayed the famous man might even hire him to help draft some of his scenes. He imagined how it might be: “I can promise you a verb in every sentence, Monsieur, a character in every scene, and all the punctuation you could possibly desire!”

  Verne looked around the isolated island study surrounded by beautiful trees, well-maintained gardens, and the fancifully decorated buildings of Monte Cristo. He longed for such fame and fortune. How could he ever hope for such luxury as a . . . as a country lawyer?

  Many had aspired to similar success, but as he looked into the sepia eyes of the “fiction factory” himself, Verne also knew that he was different from all those others. He would work hard enough. He would be disciplined so that one day he could make a living by writing stories and plays.

  The thought excited him vastly more than the prospect of an unending future as a small-town attorney, no matter what his father said. Verne vowed to stay close to Alexandre Dumas and learn everything he could from the master.

  X

  With the force of trapped pressure from below, the steam vent blasted Nemo into open air like a geyser. Stunned but protected inside the tough mushroom cap, Nemo was hurled high into the sky—a blue sky studded with real clouds—only to tumble down in a shower of sulfurous-smelling rain.

  Around him, like a stark dream, he saw rough lava rocks and the curved wall of a volcanic crater. And snow . . . snow everywhere.

  Then he slammed into the ground with an impact that knocked the wind out of him and drove all the senses from his brain.

  Nemo awoke to find himself sprawled in a desolate caldera among the chunks of his shattered fungus lifeboat. At least the spongy mushroom flesh had cushioned his fall.

  Groggy, he raised his head and looked at his surroundings, a rocky wasteland frosted with ice and snow. Brimstone-smelling fumaroles hissed from the inner walls of the volcanic crater.

  When he sat up, shaking his head to clear the fuzziness of pain and unconsciousness, he was startled to see a man dressed in warm clothes standing behind him up the slope. The man, with spectacles and a neat white beard, furrowed his brow in perplexity as he appraised this strange and unexpected offering from the volcano.

  He spoke in a nasal, looping language that Nemo did not understand. The young man shook his head, and the stranger spoke again in a different language, one he recognized as German. When finally the man attempted French, Nemo understood him. “I certainly hope you can explain your presence, Monsieur,” the stranger said. “I am most curious.”

  These were the first friendly words Nemo had heard in more than seven years—since the day he had climbed to the lookout post of the Coralie under Captain Grant’s orders and saw a pirate ship approaching.

  “I . . . can explain myself.” His little-used voice sounded rusty and hoarse in his throat. “But I don’t know if you’ll believe me.”

  XI

  Disappointingly, Alexandre Dumas found both of Verne’s historical plays—his “serious work”—to be forced and tedious. Without promise.

  On his way back from his second trip to Monte Cristo two weeks later, Verne sulked in the carriage, staring at the piles of paper on which Dumas had scrawled his comments. The wheels crashed over a pothole, and Verne didn’t even look up. He flipped from page to page, eyes burning, face hot, as he read insult after insult. Did the great man think he had no talent at all?

  He picked up the next manuscript and tossed aside the romantic poetry—“pure drivel”—that he had also presented to Dumas. Verne wanted to just throw himself from the carriage and into the Seine. A man like Dumas couldn’t possibly be wrong in his opinion.

  Oddly, the enormous writer had actually found merit in a light romantic-farce Verne had written, called Broken Straws. Still stinging from the criticism of his more ambitious works, Verne reread the encouragement as if he were swallowing medicine. In his own mind, this piece was but a slight comedy, nothing respectable, nothing like the important works of Balzac or Hugo. . . . But it buoyed up his confidence to read the words, i
n Dumas’s own hand, that Broken Straws showed a bit of promise. “With appropriate fixing.”

  Then the most enthralling note of all: Dumas promised to stage the humorous production at his Theatre Historique, after Verne (and Dumas) had made the necessary revisions.

  Although Broken Straws was lost in the volume of plays and operas performed on the boulevard du Temple, it drew enough of an audience that it played for twelve nights running. This earned Jules Verne a few sous and, most important, paid back the production costs, so that it was not the utter failure he had feared it might be.

  Heady with success and delighted at the expansive future before him, Verne did everything that Dumas suggested to him, though the great novelist still didn’t ask him to join his stable of writing assistants. Verne would somehow have to make it on his own, work harder, try over and over again . . . and still maintain his legal studies, so that his father never knew.

  Dumas urged Verne to write articles for popular science magazines and the children’s publications of the day. Verne made only a little money at this, but even a few extra coins per month helped—and he was taking tentative steps down a glorious literary path that stretched in front of him. Seeing his name in print provided more excitement than the best passing grade in the most difficult of classes.

  Jules Verne decided he just might become an author after all . . . if only he could find something interesting enough to write about.

  XII

  Nemo’s bespectacled rescuer was named Arne Saknusemm, a cave explorer and amateur geologist, who enjoyed poking around in volcanic craters. He helped Nemo to his feet, steadying him on the steep slope of rubble.

  “Which island is this?” Nemo shivered in his tattered clothes that had been pieced together for use in a tropical climate. “Where am I? It’s so cold.”

  Saknusemm scratched his trim beard. “This is Iceland, Monsieur. You are inside the crater of the volcano Scartaris.”

  Nemo reeled. Iceland? He had come from his mysterious island in the South China Sea. Yet he had descended close to the center of the hollow Earth, drifted across a subterranean ocean, and emerged again at a different point on the Earth’s surface.

  As Saknusemm led him up a toiling path to the crater rim, the old mountaineer explained that he had studied countless texts in many languages. “There’s not much else to do on this island. The winters are long and hard, and I enjoy sitting by the fireplace.”

  Saknusemm had noticed a blast of steam venting from the volcano and had come to investigate. The mountaineer had witnessed any number of geological marvels—but never a bedraggled young man emerging from under the Earth.

  Nemo’s limbs trembled with relief. He was unable to believe he had reached human company in a place which, while not exactly civilized, was at least a recognizable point on a map. From here, he could find passage back to Europe—back to France.

  Back . . . home.

  The two climbed to the rim of the tall volcano, Nemo wearing a jacket that Saknusemm had sacrificed. The young man looked across the sparkling glaciers and the white peaks of the great island that had been settled by Vikings so long before. Despite the breathtaking scenery, the wonder that captivated Nemo most was simply the sight of the bright yellow sun in a blue sky—where it belonged.

  Saknusemm took Nemo back to his home, where the young man stayed for several months, recuperating and learning what had happened in the world during his absence (though Iceland was by no means privy to the most recent news, either).

  It took Saknusemm until late spring to arrange passage for his guest aboard one of the infrequent sailing ships. Over many quiet nights, Nemo repaid his host by recounting his strange adventures on the island and in the fascinating subterranean world. The geologist queried him about the fine points of his story, hearing Nemo’s tale with keen interest. The wise old mountaineer displayed far less skepticism than Nemo had expected.

  When at last it came time for Nemo’s ship to depart for Norway, the two made their way to the port of Reykjavik. Nemo embraced the mountaineer and said his farewells, then went aboard. He was a passenger this time, with a little spending money, fresh clothes—and a burning need to return to France. And Caroline. And Jules.

  Nemo waited on deck, facing into the blustery high-latitude winds as the crew prepared the ship for departure. The vessel sailed away from Iceland.

  Within a week after Nemo had gone, Arne Saknusemm gathered supplies and struck out for the mountains again, climbing the cone of Scartaris and intending to find a passage that would take him to the center of the Earth. . . .

  XIII

  With its wooden siding and many narrow windows, the playhouse in Nantes seemed so much smaller and less impressive than even the minor theatres in Paris—but still, this was his home town. Jules Verne relished the thought of seeing Broken Straws performed for an audience he had known since childhood . . . and terrified as to what his parents would think. He attended every rehearsal, to ensure the best performance possible.

  While in Nantes, he stayed at his parents’ home, though Pierre Verne didn’t know what to say about his son’s unexpected literary ambitions. Surely, his parents would relish the fame as much as Verne did. “As long as you don’t get too serious about it, Jules,” Sophie had cautioned in the wake of her husband’s stern admonitions for him to continue his efforts in the legal profession. It meant little to them that he had the unflagging support of the literary master, Alexandre Dumas, but neither of his parents were readers of note.

  In high spirits after the successful run at the Theatre Lyrique in Paris, Verne had contacted Caroline Aronnax, back on Ile Feydeau. (He still could not bring himself to think of her as Mme. Hatteras.) The date had already been set for the performance in Nantes. Costumes had been made, and dress rehearsals had begun. Verne wanted Caroline to be there to share his moment of glory. It would be his finest hour, and he wanted her beside him, regardless of her marital status.

  Urged on by his free-loving literary friends, and embarrassed by his continued bachelorhood, Verne had taken the train back to Nantes for the local theater production of Broken Straws. Using expensive paper and his best penmanship, he sent Caroline a special invitation to join him in his private box.

  She had come to meet him at the train station, waving to welcome Verne back to Nantes. Cocking a parasol on her left shoulder, she allowed him to take her arm, which made Verne so giddy he could barely walk a straight line. She strolled beside him along the street toward the blossoming lime trees in front of the Church of St. Martin. “I look forward to your play, Jules, and I gladly accept your invitation to attend.”

  Behind them, the train let out a shrill whistle then began to chug away from the station. Loud bells clanged the hour at the distant dockyards.

  Even through misty eyes, Verne could see that Caroline’s smile looked friendly, but no more than that. “However, I believe it would be better if I sat a few rows away. Remember, I am a married woman, Jules.”

  In the two years Verne had been in Paris, Caroline’s husband had sent no word about his search for the Northwest Passage. No one had heard from Captain Hatteras or his crew. Granted, the Forward had undertaken a long and hard journey, and it was still possible that everything had gone as planned . . . but she had been with her husband for only a short time in the first place, and now Caroline lived as a veritable widow—in daily reality, if not in legal fact. . . .

  Some time back, when Verne had informed her of receiving Nemo’s letter and journal, Caroline had been overjoyed and vowed to do something about it. She had rallied support from her father’s merchant fleet, and M. Aronnax had sent letters to shipping companies and foreign ambassadors. The respected merchant had, after all, made the original arrangements to have Nemo ship out on Captain Grant’s last voyage. Everyone agreed to search for the mysterious island, using the best descriptions in Nemo’s handwritten journal—but there could be little hope of finding an uncharted speck of land in such a vast seascape.

  Ver
ne, however, knew never to underestimate his friend. Nemo had survived for years alone. He must still be alive. . . .

  On the opening night of Broken Straws, Nantes received Jules Verne as a minor celebrity, and he passed the hours in a daze. During the performance he looked across several rows of seats to catch Caroline’s sparkling eyes. His heart warmed when he saw her laugh at the witticisms in his play, at the farcical plot. When the curtain dropped, she was the first to surge to her feet and clap her hands, beaming with obvious pride.

  Blushing, Verne pretended to be humbled by the applause and adulation of his former townspeople. For just a brief moment, he felt as Famous as M. Dumas.

  Though it was a gloomy autumn day in Paris, Verne felt confined and stifled inside his chill room. He decided to eat his lunch outside, despite the rain.

  Though safely back among the literary salons and the intelligentsia, he continued to be troubled by unsettled digestion. As a student on a meager budget (much of which went to purchase books and library services), Verne ate far too much cabbage soup and far too little meat. After his success in the Nantes playhouse, he had hoped for a bit more extravagance and luxury in his life, but so far he had seen none of it.

  After buttoning his thin coat, Verne gathered a broken half of stale baguette he’d bought at discount the day before and the dregs of a cheap bottle of wine. Not quite the same as when he’d dined at Monte Cristo with Alexandre Dumas. . . .

  He planned to carry his umbrella and sit out in the damp, just breathing and thinking, allowing his imagination to roam. He could soak up the details of life and people around him—as the great Dumas had suggested he do. It would be fodder for his writing.

  Verne glanced out his narrow window and, looking down to the wet streets below, saw a huddled man facing the sidewalk. Paris had many vagrants and strangers, but they had never troubled him. As a student, Verne had few items worth stealing anyway.