A Series of Unfortunate Events 13 - The End

     “Some islanders thought the passage was a wonderful idea,” Ishmael continued. “Your parents wanted to carry all of the documents that had washed up here to Anwhistle Aquatics, where they might be sent to a sub-sub-librarian who had a secret library. Others wanted to keep the island safe, far from the treachery of the world. By the time I arrived, some islanders wanted to mutiny, and abandon your parents on the coastal shelf.” The facilitator heaved a great sigh, and closed the heavy book in his lap. “I walked into the middle of this story,” he said, “just as you walked into the middle of mine. Some of the islanders had found weapons in the detritus, and the situation might have become violent if I hadn't convinced the colony to simply abandon your parents. We allowed them to pack a few books into a fishing boat your father had built, and in the morning they left with a few of their comrades as the coastal shelf flooded. They left behind everything they'd created here, from the periscope I use to predict the weather to the commonplace book where I continue their research.”

     “You drove our parents away?” Violet asked in amazement.

     “They were very sad to go,” Ishmael said. “Your mother was pregnant with you, Violet, and after all of their years with V.F.D. your parents weren't sure they wanted their children exposed to the world's treachery. But they didn't understand that if the passageway had been completed, you would have been exposed to the world's treachery in any case. Sooner or later, everyone's story has an unfortunate event or two—a schism or a death, a fire or a mutiny, the loss of a home or the destruction of a tea set. The only solution, of course, is to stay as far away from the world as possible and lead a safe, simple life.”

     “That's why you keep so many items away from the others,” Klaus said.

     “It depends on how you look at it,” Ishmael said. “I wanted this place to be as safe as possible, so when I became the island's facilitator, I suggested some new customs myself. I moved the colony to the other side of the island, and I trained the sheep to drag the weapons away, and then the books and mechanical devices, so none of the world's detritus would interfere with our safety. I suggested we all dress alike, and eat the same meals, to avoid any future schisms.”

     “Jojishoji,” Sunny said, which meant something like, “I don't believe that abridging the freedom of expression and the free exercise thereof is the proper way to run a community.”

     “Sunny's right,” Violet said. “The other islanders couldn't have agreed with these new customs.”

     “I didn't force them,” Ishmael said, “but, of course, the coconut cordial helped. The fermented beverage is so strong that it serves as a sort of opiate for the people here.”

     “Lethe?” Sunny asked.

     “An opiate is something that makes people drowsy and inactive,” Klaus said, “or even forgetful.”

     “The more cordial the islanders drank,” Ishmael explained, “the less they thought about the past, or complained about the things they were missing.”

     “That's why hardly anyone leaves this place,” Violet said. “They're too drowsy to think about leaving.”

     “Occasionally someone leaves,” Ishmael said, and looked down at the Incredibly Deadly Viper, who gave him a brief hiss. “Some time ago, two women sailed off with this very snake, and a few years later, a man named Thursday left with a few comrades.”

     “So Thursday is alive,” Klaus said, “just like Kit said.”

     “Yes,” Ishmael admitted, “but at my suggestion, Miranda told her daughter that he died in a storm, so she wouldn't worry about the schism that divided her parents.”

     “Electra,” Sunny said, which meant “A family shouldn't keep such terrible secrets,” but Ishmael did not ask for a translation.

     “Except for those troublemakers,” he said, “everyone has stayed here. And why shouldn't they? Most of the castaways are orphans, like me, and like you. I know your story, Baudelaires, from all the newspaper articles, police reports, financial newsletters, telegrams, private correspondence, and fortune cookies that have washed up here. You've been wandering this treacherous world since your story began, and you've never found a place as safe as this one. Why don't you stay? Give up your mechanical inventions and your reading and your cooking. Forget about Count Olaf and V.F.D. Leave your ribbon, and your commonplace book, and your whisk, and your raft library, and lead a simple, safe life on our shores.”

     “What about Kit?” Violet asked.

     “In my experience, the Snickets are as much trouble as the Baudelaires,” Ishmael said. “That's why I suggested you leave her on the coastal shelf, so she wouldn't make trouble for the colony. But if you can be convinced to choose a simpler life, I suppose she can, too.”

     The Baudelaires looked at one another doubtfully. They already knew that Kit wanted to return to the world and make sure justice was served, and as volunteers they should have been eager to join her. But Violet, Klaus, and Sunny were not sure they could abandon the first safe place they had found, even if it was a little dull. “Can't we stay here,” Klaus asked, “and lead a more complicated life, with the items and documents here in the arboretum?”

     “And spices?” Sunny added.

     “And keep them a secret from the other islanders?” Ishmael said with a frown.

     “That's what you're doing,” Klaus couldn't help pointing out. “All day long you sit in your chair and make sure the island is safe from the detritus of the world, but then you sneak off to the arboretum on your perfectly healthy feet and write in a commonplace book while snacking on bitter apples. You want everyone to lead a simple, safe life—everyone except yourself.”

     “No one should lead the life I lead,” Ishmael said, with a long, sad tug on his beard. “I've spent countless years cataloging all of the objects that have washed up on these shores and all the stories those objects tell. I've repaired all the documents that the storms have damaged, and taken notes on every detail. I've read more of the world's treacherous history than almost anyone, and as one of my colleagues once said, this history is indeed little more than the register of crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.”

     “Gibbon,” Sunny said. She meant something like, “We want to read this history, no matter how miserable it is,” and her siblings were quick to translate. But Ishmael tugged at his beard again, and shook his head firmly at the three children.

     “Don't you see?” he asked. “I'm not just the island's facilitator. I'm the island's parent. I keep this library far away from the people under my care, so that they will never be disturbed by the world's terrible secrets.” The facilitator reached into a pocket of his robe and held out a small object. The Baudelaires saw that it was an ornate ring, emblazoned with the initial R, and stared at it, quite puzzled.

     Ishmael opened the enormous volume in his lap, and turned a few pages to read from his notes. “This ring,” he said, “once belonged to the Duchess of Winnipeg, who gave it to her daughter, who was also the Duchess of Winnipeg, who gave it to her daughter, and so on and so on and so on. Eventually, the last Duchess of Winnipeg joined V.F.D., and gave it to Kit Snicket's brother. He gave it to your mother. For reasons I still don't understand, she gave it back to him, and he gave it to Kit, and Kit gave it to your father, who gave it to your mother when they were married. She kept it locked in a wooden box that could only be opened by a key that was kept in a wooden box that could only be opened by a code that Kit Snicket learned from her grandfather. The wooden box turned to ashes in the fire that destroyed the Baudelaire mansion, and Captain Widdershins found the ring in the wreckage only to lose it in a storm at sea, which eventually washed it onto our shores.”

     “Neiklot?” Sunny asked, which meant “Why are you telling us about this ring?”

     “The point of the story isn't the ring,” Ishmael said. “It's the fact that you've never seen it until this moment. This ring, with its long secret history, was in your home for years, and your parents never mentioned it. Your parents never told you about the Duchess of Winnipeg, or Captain Widdershins, or the Snicket siblings, or V.F.D. Your parents never told you they'd lived here, or that they were forced to leave, or any other details of their own unfortunate history. They never told you their whole story.”

     “Then let us read that book,” Klaus said, “so we can find out for ourselves.”

     Ishmael shook his head. “You don't understand,” he said, which is something the middle Baudelaire never liked to be told. “Your parents didn't tell you these things because they wanted to shelter you, just as this apple tree shelters the items in the arboretum from the island's frequent storms, and just as I shelter the colony from the complicated history of the world. No sensible parent would let their child read even the title of this dreadful, sad chronicle, when they could keep them far from the treachery of the world instead. Now that you've ended up here, don't you want to respect their wishes?” He closed the book again, and stood up, gazing at all three Baudelaires in turn. “Just because your parents have died,” he said quietly, “doesn't mean they've failed you. Not if you stay here and lead the life they wanted you to lead.” Violet thought of her mother again, bringing the cup of star anise tea on that restless evening. “Are you sure this is what our parents would have wanted?” she asked, not knowing if she could trust his answer.

     “If they didn't want to keep you safe,” he said, “they would have told you everything, so you could add another chapter to this unfortunate history.” He put the book down on the reading chair, and put the ring in Violet's hand. “You belong here, Baudelaires, on this island and under my care. I'll tell the islanders that you've changed your minds, and that you're abandoning your troublesome past.”

     “Will they support you?” Violet asked, thinking of Erewhon and Finn and their plan to mutiny at breakfast.

     “Of course they will,” Ishmael said. “The life we lead here on the island is better than the treachery of the world. Leave the arboretum with me, children, and you can join us for breakfast.”

     “And cordial,” Klaus said.

     “No apples,” Sunny said.

     Ishmael gave the children one last nod, and led the children up through the gap in the roots of the tree, turning off the lights as he went. The Baudelaires stepped out into the arboretum, and looked back one last time at the secret space. In the dim light they could just make out the shape of the Incredibly Deadly Viper, who slithered over Ishmael's commonplace book and followed the children into the morning air. The sun filtered through the shade of the enormous apple tree, and shone on the gold block letters on the spine of the book. The children wondered whether the letters had been printed there by their parents, or perhaps by the previous writer of the commonplace book, or the writer before that, or the writer before that. They wondered how many stories the oddly titled history contained, and how many people had gazed at the gold lettering before paging through the previous crimes, follies, and misfortunes and adding more of their own, like the thin layers of an onion. As they walked out of the arboretum, led by their clay-footed facilitator, the Baudelaire orphans wondered about their own unfortunate history, and that of their parents and all the other castaways who had washed up on the shores of the island, adding chapter upon chapter to A Series of Unfortunate Events.

CHAPTER

Eleven

 

     Perhaps one night, when you were very small, someone tucked you into bed and read you a story called “The Little Engine That Could,” and if so then you have my profound sympathies, as it is one of the most tedious stories on Earth. The story probably put you right to sleep, which is the reason it is read to children, so I will remind you that the story involves the engine of a train that for some reason has the ability to think and talk. Someone asks the Little Engine That Could to do a difficult task too dull for me to describe, and the engine isn't sure it can accomplish this, but it begins to mutter to itself, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,” and before long it has muttered its way to success. The moral of the story is that if you tell yourself you can do something, then you can actually do it, a moral easily disproved if you tell yourself that you can eat nine pints of ice cream in a single sitting, or that you can shipwreck yourself on a distant island simply by setting off in a rented canoe with holes sawed in it.

     I only mention the story of the Little Engine That Could so that when I say that the Baudelaire orphans, as they left the arboretum with Ishmael and headed back toward the island colony, were on board the Little Engine That Couldn't, you will understand what I mean. For one thing, the children were being dragged back to Ishmael's tent on the large wooden sleigh, helmed by Ishmael in his enormous clay chair and dragged by the island's wild sheep, and if you have ever wondered why horse-drawn carriages and dogsleds are far more common modes of travel than sheep-dragged sleighs, it is because sheep are not well-suited for employment in the transportation industry. The sheep meandered and detoured, lollygagged and moseyed, and occasionally stopped to nibble on wild grass or simply breathe in the morning air, and Ishmael tried to convince the sheep to go faster through his facilitation skills, rather than through standard shepherding procedures. “I don't want to force you,” he kept saying, “but perhaps you sheep could go a bit faster,” and the sheep would merely stare blankly at the old man and keep shuffling along.

     But the Baudelaire orphans were on board the Little Engine That Couldn't not only because of the sheep's languor—a word which here means “inability to pull a large, wooden sleigh at a reasonable pace”—but because their own thoughts were not spurring them to action. Unlike the engine in the tedious story, no matter what Violet, Klaus, and Sunny told themselves, they could not imagine a successful solution to their difficulties. The children tried to tell themselves that they would do as Ishmael had suggested, and lead a safe life on the colony, but they could not imagine abandoning Kit Snicket on the coastal shelf, or letting her return to the world to see that justice would be served without accompanying her on this noble errand. The siblings tried to tell themselves that they would obey their parents' wishes, and stay sheltered from their unfortunate history, but they did not think that they could keep themselves away from the arboretum, or from reading what their parents had written in the enormous book. The Baudelaires tried to tell themselves that they would join Erewhon and Finn in the mutiny at breakfast, but they could not picture threatening the facilitator and his supporters with weapons, particularly because they had not brought any from the arboretum. They tried to tell themselves that at least they could be glad that Count Olaf was not a threat, but they could not quite approve of his being locked in a bird cage, and they shuddered to think of the fungus hidden in his gown and the scheme hidden in his head. And, throughout the entire journey over the brae and back toward the beach, the three children tried to tell themselves that everything was all right, but of course everything was not all right. Everything was all wrong, and Violet, Klaus, and Sunny did not quite know how a safe place, far from the treachery of the world, had become so dangerous and complicated as soon as they had arrived. The Baudelaire orphans sat in the sleigh, staring at Ishmael's clay-covered clay feet, and no latter how many times they thought they could, they thought they could, they thought they could think of an end to their troubles, they knew it simply was not the case.

     Finally, however, the sheep dragged the sleigh across the beach's white sands and through the opening of the enormous tent. Once again, the joint was hopping, but the gathered islanders were in the midst of an argy-bargy, a word for “argument” that is far less cute than it sounds. Despite the presence of an opiate in seashells dangling from the waists of every colonist, the islanders were anything but drowsy and inactive. Alonso was grabbing the arm of Willa, who was shrieking in annoyance while stepping on Dr. Kurtz's foot. Sherman's face was even redder than usual as he threw sand in the face of Mr. Pitcairn, who appeared to be trying to bite Brewster's finger. Professor Fletcher was shouting at Ariel, and Ms. Marlow was stomping her feet at Calypso, and Madame Nordoff and Rabbi Bligh seemed ready to begin wrestling on the sand. Byam twirled his mustache at Ferdinand, while Robinson tugged his beard at Larsen and Weyden seemed to tear out her red hair for no reason at all. Jonah and Sadie Bellamy were standing face-to-face arguing, while Friday and Mrs. Caliban were standing back-to-back as if they would never speak to each other again, and all the while Omeros stood near Ishmael's chair with his hands held suspiciously behind his back. While Ishmael gaped at the islanders in amazement, the three children stepped off the sleigh and walked quickly toward Erewhon and Finn, who were looking at them expectantly.

     “Where were you?” Finn said. “We waited as long as we could for you to return, but we had to leave your friend behind and begin the mutiny.”

     “You left Kit out there alone?” Violet said. “You promised you'd stay with her.”

     “And you promised us weapons,” said Erewhon. “Where are they, Baudelaires?”

     “We don't have any,” Klaus admitted. “Ishmael was at the arboretum.”

     “Count Olaf was right,” Erewhon said. “You failed us, Baudelaires.”

     “What do you mean, 'Count Olaf was right'?” Violet demanded.

     “What do you mean, 'Ishmael was at the arboretum'?” Finn demanded.

     “What do you mean, what do I mean?” Erewhon demanded.

     “What you mean what you mean what I mean?” Sunny demanded.

     “Please, everyone!” Ishmael cried from his clay chair. “I suggest we all take a few sips of cordial and discuss this cordially!”

     “I'm tired of drinking cordial,” Professor Fletcher said, “and I'm tired of your suggestions, Ishmael!”

     “Call me Ish,” the facilitator said.

     “I'm calling you a bad facilitator!” retorted Calypso.

     “Please, everyone!” Ishmael cried again, with a nervous tug at his beard. “What is all this argy-bargy about?”

     “I'll tell you what it's about,” Alonso said. “I washed up on these shores many years ago, after enduring a terrible storm and a dreadful political scandal.”

     “So what?” Rabbi Bligh asked. “Eventually, everyone washes up on these shores.”

     “I wanted to leave my unfortunate history behind,” Alonso said, “and live a peaceful life free from trouble. But now there are some colonists talking of mutiny. If we're not careful, this island will become as treacherous as the rest of the world!”

     “Mutiny?” Ishmael said in horror. “Who dares talk of mutiny?”

     “I dare,” Erewhon said. “I'm tired of your facilitation, Ishmael. I washed ashore on this island after living on another island even farther away. I was tired of a peaceful life, and ready for adventure. But whenever anything exciting arrives on this island, you immediately have it thrown into the arboretum!”

     “It depends on how you look at it,” Ishmael protested. “I don't force anyone to throw anything away.”

     “Ishmael is right!” Ariel cried. “Some of us have had enough adventure for a lifetime! I washed up on these shores after finally escaping from prison, where I had disguised myself as a young man for years! I've stayed here for my own safety, not to participate in more dangerous schemes!”

     “Then you should join our mutiny!” Sherman cried. “Ishmael is not to be trusted! We abandoned the Baudelaires on the coastal shelf, and now he's brought them back!”

     “The Baudelaires never should have been abandoned in the first place!” Ms. Marlow cried. “All they wanted to do was help their friend!”

     “Their friend is suspicious,” claimed Mr. Pitcairn. “She arrived on a raft of books.”

     “So what?” said Weyden. “I arrived on a raft of books myself.”

     “But you abandoned them,” Professor Fletcher pointed out.

     “She did nothing of the sort!” cried Larsen. “You helped her hide them, so you could force those children to read!”

     “We wanted to learn to read!” Friday insisted.

     “You're reading?” Mrs. Caliban gasped in astonishment.

     “You shouldn't be reading!” cried Madame Nordoff.

     “Well, you shouldn't be yodeling!” cried Dr. Kurtz.

     “You're yodeling?” Rabbi Bligh asked in astonishment. “Maybe we should have a mutiny after all!”

     “Yodeling is better than carrying a flashlight!” Jonah cried, pointing at Finn accusingly.

     “Carrying a flashlight is better than hiding a picnic basket!” Sadie cried, pointing at Erewhon.

     “Hiding a picnic basket is better than pocketing a whisk!” Erewhon said, pointing at Sunny.

      “These secrets will destroy us!” Ariel said. “Life here is supposed to be simple!”

     “There's nothing wrong with a complicated life,” said Byam. “I lived a simple life as a sailor for many years, and I was bored to tears until I was shipwrecked.”

     “Bored to tears?” Friday said in astonishment. “All I want is the simple life my mother and father had together, without arguing or keeping secrets.”

     “That's enough,” Ishmael said quickly. “I suggest that we stop arguing.”

     “I suggest we continue to argue!” cried Erewhon.

     “I suggest we abandon Ishmael and his supporters!” cried Professor Fletcher.

     “I suggest we abandon the mutineers!” cried Calypso.

     “I suggest better food!” cried another islander.

     “I suggest more cordial!” cried another.

     “I suggest a more attractive robe!”

     “I suggest a proper house instead of a tent!”

     “I suggest fresh water!”

    “I suggest eating bitter apples!”

     “I suggest chopping down the apple tree!”

     “I suggest burning up the outrigger!”

     “I suggest a talent show!”

     “I suggest reading a book!”

     “I suggest burning all books!”

     “I suggest yodeling!”

     “I suggest forbidding yodeling!”

    “I suggest a safe place!”

     “I suggest a complicated life!”

     “I suggest it depends on how you look at it!”

     “I suggest justice!”

     “I suggest breakfast!”

     “I suggest we stay and you leave!”

     “I suggest you stay and we leave!”

     “I suggest we return to Winnipeg!”

     The Baudelaires looked at one another in despair as the mutinous schism worked its way through the colony. Seashells hung open at the waists of the islanders, but there was no cordiality evident as the islanders turned against one another in fury, even if they were friends, or members of the same family, or shared a history or a secret organization. The siblings had seen angry crowds before, of course, from the mob psychology of the citizens in the Village of Fowl Devotees to the blind justice of the trial at the Hotel Denouement, but they had never seen a community divide so suddenly and so completely. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny watched the schism unfold and could imagine what the other schisms must have been like, from the schism that split V.F.D., to the schism that drove their parents away from the very same island, to all the other schisms in the world's sad history, with every person suggesting something different, every story like a layer of an onion, and every unfortunate event like a chapter in an enormous book. The Baudelaires watched the terrible argy-bargy and wondered how they could have hoped the island would be a safe place, far from the treachery of the world, when eventually every treachery washed up on its shores, like a castaway tossed by a storm at sea, and divided the people who lived there. The arguing voices of the islanders grew louder and louder, with everyone suggesting something but nobody listening to anyone else's suggestions, until the schism was a deafening roar that was finally broken by the loudest voice of all.

     “SILENCE!” bellowed a figure who entered the tent, and the islanders stopped talking at once, and stared in amazement at the person who stood glaring at them in a long dress that bulged at the belly.

     “What are you doing here?” gasped someone from the back of the tent. “We abandoned you on the coastal shelf!”

     The figure strode into the middle of the tent, and I'm sorry to tell you that it was not Kit Snicket, who was still in a long dress that bulged at the belly on top of her library raft, but Count Olaf, whose bulging belly, of course, was the diving helmet containing the Medusoid Mycelium, and whose orange and yellow dress the Baudelaires suddenly recognized as the dress Esmé Squalor wore on top of the Mortmain Mountains, a hideous thing fashioned to look like an enormous fire, which had somehow washed onto the island's shores like everything else. As Olaf paused to give the siblings a particularly wicked smile, the children tried to imagine the secret history of Esme's dress, and how, like the ring Violet still held in her hand, it had returned to the Baudelaires' story after all this time.

     “You can't abandon me,” the villain snarled to the islander. “I'm the king of Olaf-Land.”

     “This isn't Olaf-Land,” Ishmael said, with a stern tug on his beard, “and you're no king, Olaf.”

     Count Olaf threw back his head and laughed, his tattered dress quivering in mirth, a phrase which here means “making unpleasant rustling noises.” With a sneer, he pointed at Ishmael, who still sat in the chair. “Oh, Ish,” he said, his eyes shining bright, “I told you many years ago that I would triumph over you someday, and at last that day has arrived. My associate with the weekday for a name told me that you were still hiding out on this island, and—”

     “Thursday,” Mrs. Caliban said.

     Olaf frowned, and blinked at the freckled woman. “No,” he said. “Monday. She was trying to blackmail an old man who was involved in a political scandal.”

     “Gonzalo,” Alonso said.

     Olaf frowned again. “No,” he said. “We'd gone bird-watching, this old man and I, when we decided to rob a sealing schooner owned by-”

     “Humphrey,” Weyden said.

     “No,” Olaf said with another frown. “There was some argument about his name, actually, as a baby adopted by his orphaned children also bore the same name.”

     “Bertrand,” Omeros said.

     “No,” Olaf said, and frowned yet another time. “The adoption papers were hidden in the hat of a banker who had been promoted to Vice President in Charge of Orphan Affairs.”

     “Mr. Poe?” asked Sadie.

     “Yes,” Olaf said with a scowl, “although at the time he was better known under his stage name. But I'm not here to discuss the past. I'm here to discuss the future. Your mutineering islanders let me out of this cage, Ishmael, to force you off the island and crown me as king!”

     “King?” Erewhon said. “That wasn't the plan, Olaf.”

     “If you want to live, old woman,” Olaf said rudely, “I suggest that you do whatever I say.”

     “You're already giving us suggestions?” Brewster said incredulously. “You're just like Ishmael, although your outfit is prettier.”

     “Thank you,” Count Olaf said, with a wicked smile, “but there's another important difference between me and this foolish facilitator.”

     “Your tattoo?” Friday guessed.

     “No,” Count Olaf said, with a frown. “If you were to wash the clay off Ishmael's feet, you'd see he has the same tattoo as I do.”

     “Eyeliner?” guessed Madame Nordoff.

     “No,” Count Olaf said sharply. “The difference is that Ishmael is unarmed. He abandoned his weapons long ago, during the V.F.D. schism, refusing to use violence of any sort. But today, you'll all see how foolish he is.” He paused, and ran his filthy hands along his bulging belly before turning to the facilitator, who was taking something from Omeros's hands. “I have the only weapon that can threaten you and your supporters,” he bragged. “I'm the king of Olaf-Land, and there's nothing you and your sheep can do about it.”

     “Don't be so sure about that,” Ishmael said, and raised an object in the air so everyone could see it. It was the harpoon gun that had washed ashore with Olaf and the Baudelaires, after being used to fire at crows at the Hotel Denouement, and at a self-sustaining hot air mobile home in the Village of Fowl Devotees, and at a cotton-candy machine at a county fair when the Baudelaires' parents were very, very young. Now the weapon was adding another chapter to its secret history, and was pointing right at Count Olaf. “I had Omeros keep this weapon handy,” Ishmael said, “instead of tossing it in the arboretum, because I thought you might escape from that cage, Count Olaf, just as I escaped from the cage you put me in when you set fire to my home.”

     “I didn't set that fire,” Count Olaf said, his eyes shining bright.

     “I've had enough of your lies,” Ishmael said, and stood up from his chair. Realizing that the facilitator's feet were not injured after all, the islanders gasped, which requires a large intake of breath, a dangerous thing to do if spores of a deadly fungus are in the air. “I'm going to do what I should have done years ago, Olaf, and slaughter you. I'm going to fire this harpoon gun right into that bulging belly of yours!”

     “No!” screamed the Baudelaires in unison, but even the combined voices of the three children were not as loud as Count Olaf's villainous laughter, and the facilitator never heard the children's cry as he pulled the bright red trigger of this terrible weapon. The children heard a click! and then a whoosh! as the harpoon was fired, and then, as it struck Count Olaf right where Ishmael had promised, they heard the shattering of glass, and the Medusoid Mycelium, with its own secret history of treachery and violence, was free at last to circulate in the air, even in this safe place so far from the world. Everyone in the tent gasped—islanders and colonists, men and women, children and orphans, volunteers and villains and everyone in between. Everyone breathed in the spores of the deadly fungus as Count Olaf toppled backward onto the sand, still laughing even as he gasped himself, and in an instant the schism of the island was over, because everyone in this place—including, of course, the Baudelaire orphans—was suddenly part of the same unfortunate event.

CHAPTER

Twelve

 

      It is a curious thing, but as one travels the world getting older and older, it appears that happiness is easier to get used to than despair. The second time you have a root beer float, for instance, your happiness at sipping the delicious concoction may be not quite as enormous as when you first had a root beer float, and the twelfth time your happiness may be still less enormous, until root beer floats begin to offer you very little happiness at all, because you have become used to the taste of vanilla ice cream and root beer mixed together. However, the second time you find a thumbtack in your root beer float, your despair is much greater than the first time, when you dismissed the thumbtack as a freak accident rather than part of the scheme of the soda jerk, a phrase which here means “ice cream shop employee who is trying to injure your tongue,” and by the twelfth time you find a thumbtack your despair is even greater still, until you can hardly utter the phrase “root beer float” without bursting into tears. It is almost as if happiness is an acquired taste, like coconut cordial or ceviche, to which you can eventually become accustomed, but despair is something surprising each time you encounter it. As the glass shattered in the tent, the Baudelaire orphans stood and stared at the standing figure of Ishmael, but even as they felt the Medusoid Mycelium drift into their bodies, each tiny spore feeling like the footstep of an ant walking down their throats, they could not believe that their own story could contain such despair once more, or that such a terrible thing had happened.

     “What happened?” Friday cried. “I heard glass breaking!”

     “Never mind the breaking glass,” Erewhon said. “I feel something in my throat, like a tiny seed!”

     “Never mind your seedy throat,” Finn said. “I see Ishmael standing up on his own two feet!”

     Count Olaf cackled from the white sand where he lay. With one dramatic gesture he yanked the harpoon out of the mess of broken helmet and tattered dress at his stomach, and threw it at Ishmael’s clay feet. “The sound you heard was the shattering of a diving helmet,” he sneered. “The seeds you feel in your throats are the spores of the Medusoid Mycelium, and the man standing on his own two feet is the one who has slaughtered you all!”

     “The Medusoid Mycelium?” Ishmael repeated in astonishment, as the islanders gasped again. “On these shores? It can't be! I've spent my life trying to keep the island forever safe from that terrible fungus!”

     “Nothing's safe forever, thank goodness,” Count Olaf said, “and you of all people should know that eventually everything washes up on these shores. The Baudelaire family has finally returned to this island after you threw them off years ago, and they brought the Medusoid Mycelium with them.”

     Ishmael's eyes widened, and he jumped off the edge of the sleigh to stand and confront the Baudelaire orphans. As his feet landed on the ground, the clay cracked and fell away, and the children could see that the facilitator had a tattoo of an eye on his left ankle, just as Count Olaf had said. “You brought the Medusoid Mycelium?” he asked. “You had a deadly fungus with you all this time, and you kept it a secret from us?”

     “You're a fine one to talk about keeping secrets!” Alonso said. “Look at your healthy feet, Ishmael! Your dishonesty is the root of the trouble!”

     “It's the mutineers who are the root of the trouble!” cried Ariel. “If they hadn't let Count Olaf out of the cage, this never would have happened!”

     “It depends on how you look at it,” Professor Fletcher said. “In my opinion, all of us are the root of the trouble. If we hadn't put Count Olaf in the cage, he never would have threatened us!”

     “We're the root of the trouble because we failed to find the diving helmet,” Ferdinand said. “If we'd retrieved it while storm scavenging, the sheep would have dragged it to the arboretum and we would have been safe!”

     “Omeros is the root of the trouble,” Dr. Kurtz said, pointing at the young boy. “He's the one who gave Ishmael the harpoon gun instead of dumping it in the arboretum!”

     “It's Count Olaf who's the root of the trouble!” cried Larsen. “He's the one who brought the fungus into the tent!”

     “I'm not the root of the trouble,” Count Olaf snarled, and then paused to cough loudly before continuing. “I'm the king of the island!”

     “It doesn't matter whether you're king or not,” Violet said. “You've breathed in the fungus like everyone else.”

     “Violet's right,” Klaus said. “We don't have time to stand here arguing.” Even without his commonplace book, Klaus could recite a poem about the fungus that was first recited to him by Fiona shortly before she had broken his heart. “A single spore has such grim power / That you may die within the hour,” he said. “If we don't quit our fighting and work together, we'll all end up dead.”

     The tent was filled with ululation, a word which here means “the sound of panicking islanders.”

     “Dead?” Madame Nordoff shrieked. “Nobody said the fungus was deadly! I thought we were merely being threatened with forbidden food!”

     “I didn't stay on this island to die!” cried Ms. Marlow. “I could have died at home!”

     “Nobody is going to die,” Ishmael announced to the crowd.

     “It depends on how you look at it,” Rabbi Bligh said. “Eventually we're all going to die.”

     “Not if you follow my suggestions,” Ishmael insisted. “Now first, I suggest that everyone take a nice, long drink from their seashells. The cordial will chase the fungus from your throats.”

     “No, it won't!” Violet cried. “Fermented coconut milk has no effect on the Medusoid Mycelium!”

     “That may be so,” Ishmael said, “but at least we'll all feel a bit calmer.”

     “You mean drowsy and inactive,” Klaus corrected. “The cordial is an opiate.”

     “There's nothing wrong with cordiality,” Ishmael said. “I suggest we all spend a few minutes discussing our situation in a cordial manner. We can decide what the root of the problem is, and come up with a solution at our leisure.”

     “That does sound reasonable,” Calypso admitted.

     “Trahison des clercs!” Sunny cried, which meant “You're forgetting about the quick-acting poison in the fungus!”

     “Sunny's right,” Klaus said. “We need to find a solution now, not sit around talking about it over beverages!”

     “The solution is in the arboretum,” Violet said, “and in the secret space under the roots of the apple tree.”

     “Secret space?” Sherman said. “What secret space?”

     “There's a library down there,” Klaus said, as the crowd murmured in surprise, “cataloging all of the objects that have washed ashore and all the stories those objects tell.”

     “And kitchen,” Sunny added. “Maybe horseradish.”

     “Horseradish is the one way to dilute the poison,” Violet explained, and recited the rest of the poem the children had heard aboard the Queequeg. “Is dilution simple? But of course I / Just one small dose of root of horse.” She looked around the tent at the frightened faces of the islanders. “The kitchen beneath the apple tree might have horseradish,” she said. “We can save ourselves if we hurry.”

     “They're lying,” Ishmael said. “There's nothing in the arboretum but junk, and there's nothing underneath the tree but dirt. The Baudelaires are trying to trick you.”

     “We're not trying to trick anyone,” Klaus said. “We're trying to save everyone.”

     “The Baudelaires knew the Medusoid Mycelium was here,” Ishmael pointed out, “and they never told us. You can't trust them, but you can trust me, and I suggest we all sit and sip our cordials.”

     “Razoo,” Sunny said, which meant “You're the one not to be trusted,” but rather than translate, her siblings stepped closer to Ishmael so they could speak to him in relative privacy.

     “Why are you doing this?” Violet asked. “If you just sit here and drink cordial, you'll be doomed.”

     “We've all breathed in the poison,” Klaus said. “We're all in the same boat.”

     Ishmael raised his eyebrows, and gave the children a grim smile. “We'll see about that,” he said. “Now get out of my tent.”

     “Hightail it,” Sunny said, which meant “We'd better hurry,” and her siblings nodded in agreement. The Baudelaire orphans quickly left the tent, looking back to get one more glimpse of the worried islanders, the scowling facilitator, and Count Olaf, who still lay on the sand clutching his belly, as if the harpoon had not just destroyed the diving helmet, but wounded him, too.

     Violet, Klaus, and Sunny did not travel back to the far side of the island by sheep-dragged sleigh, but even as they hurried over the brae they felt as if they were aboard the Little Engine That Couldn't, not only because of the desperate nature of their errand, but because of the poison they felt working its wicked way through the Baudelaire systems. Violet and Klaus learned what their sister had gone through deep beneath the ocean's surface, when Sunny had nearly perished from the fungus's deadly poison, and Sunny received a refresher course, a phrase which here means “another opportunity to feel the stalks and caps of the Medusoid Mycelium begin to sprout in her little throat.” The children had to stop several times to cough, as the growing fungus was making it difficult to breathe, and by the time they stood underneath the branches of the apple tree, the Baudelaire orphans were wheezing heavily in the afternoon sun.

     “We don't have much time,” Violet said, between breaths.

     “We'll go straight to the kitchen,” Klaus said, walking through the gap in the tree's roots as the Incredibly Deadly Viper had shown them.

     “Hope horseradish,” Sunny said, following her brother, but when the Baudelaires reached the kitchen they were in for a disappointment. Violet flicked the switch that lit up the kitchen, and the three children hurried to the spice rack, reading the labels on the jars and bottles one by one, but as they searched their hopes began to fade. The children found many of their favorite spices, including sage, oregano, and paprika, which was available in a number of varieties organized according to their level of smokiness. They found some of their least favorite spices, including dried parsley, which scarcely tastes like anything, and garlic salt, which forces the taste of everything else to flee. They found spices they associated with certain dishes, such as turmeric, which their father used to use while making curried peanut soup, and nutmeg, which their mother used to mix into gingerbread, and they found spices they did not associate with anything, such as marjoram, which everyone owns but scarcely anyone uses, and powdered lemon peel, which should only be used in emergencies, such as when fresh lemons have become extinct. They found spices used practically everywhere, such as salt and pepper, and spices used in certain regions, such as chipotle peppers and vindaloo rub, but none of the labels read horseradish, and when they opened the jars and bottles, none of the powders, leaves, and seeds inside smelled like the horseradish factory that once stood on Lousy Lane.

     “It doesn't have to be horseradish,” Violet said quickly, putting down a jar of tarragon in frustration. “Wasabi was an adequate substitute when Sunny was infected.”

     “Or Eutrema,” Sunny wheezed.

     “There's no wasabi here, either,” Klaus said, sniffing a jar of mace and frowning. “Maybe it's hidden somewhere.”

     “Who would hide horseradish?” Violet asked, after a long cough.

     “Our parents,” Sunny said.

     “Sunny's right,” Klaus said. “If they knew about Anwhistle Aquatics, they might have known of the dangers of the Medusoid Mycelium. Any horseradish that washed up on the island would have been very valuable indeed.”

     “We don't have time to search the entire arboretum to find horseradish,” Violet said. She reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the ring Ishmael had given her, and found the ribbon the facilitator had been using as a bookmark, which she used to tie up her hair so she might think better. “That would be harder than trying to find the sugar bowl in the entire Hotel Denouement.”

     At the mention of the sugar bowl, Klaus gave his glasses a quick polish and began to page through his commonplace book, while Sunny picked up her whisk and bit it thoughtfully. “Maybe it's hidden in one of the other spice jars,” the middle Baudelaire said.

     “We smelled them all,” Violet said, between wheezes. “None of them smelled like horseradish.”

      “Maybe the scent was disguised by another spice,” Klaus said. “Something that was even more bitter than horseradish would cover the smell. Sunny, what are some of the bitterest spices?”

     “Cloves,” said Sunny, and wheezed. “Cardamom, arrowroot, wormwood.”

     “Wormwood,” Klaus said thoughtfully, and flipped the pages of his commonplace book. “Kit mentioned wormwood once,” he said, thinking of poor Kit alone on the coastal shelf. “She said tea should be as bitter as wormwood and as sharp as a two-edged sword. We were told the same thing when we were served tea right before our trial.”

     “No wormwood here,” Sunny said.

     “Ishmael also said something about bitter tea,” Violet said. “Remember? That student of his was afraid of being poisoned.”

     “Just like we are,” Klaus said, feeling the mushrooms growing inside him. “I wish we'd heard the end of that story.”

     “I wish we'd heard every story,” Violet said, her voice sounding hoarse and rough from the poison. “I wish our parents had told us everything, instead of sheltering us from the treachery of the world.”

     “Maybe they did,” Klaus said, his voice as rough as his sister's, and the middle Baudelaire walked to the reading chairs in the middle of the room and picked up A Series of Unfortunate Events. “They wrote all of their secrets here. If they hid the horseradish, we'll find it in this book.”

     “We don't have time to read that entire book,” Violet said, “any more than we have time to search the entire arboretum.”

     “If we fail,” Sunny said, her voice heavy with fungus, “at least we die reading together.”

     The Baudelaire orphans nodded grimly, and embraced one another. Like most people, the children had occasionally been in a curious and somewhat morbid mood, and had spent a few moments wondering about the circumstances of their own deaths, although since that unhappy day on Briny Beach when Mr. Poe had first informed them about the terrible fire, the children had spent so much time trying to avoid their own deaths that they preferred not to think about it in their time off. Most people do not choose their final circumstances, of course, and if the Baudelaires had been given the choice they would have liked to live to a very old age, which for all I know they may be doing. But if the three children had to perish while they were still three children, then perishing in one another's company while reading words written long ago by their mother and father was much better than many other things they could imagine, and so the three Baudelaires sat together in one of the reading chairs, preferring to be close to one another rather than having more room to sit, and together they opened the enormous book and turned back the pages until they reached the moment in history when their parents arrived on the island and began taking notes. The entries in the book alternated between the handwriting of the Baudelaire father and the handwriting of the Baudelaire mother, and the children could imagine their parents sitting in these same chairs, reading out loud what they had written and suggesting things to add to the register of crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind that comprised A Series of Unfortunate Events. The children, of course, would have liked to savor each word their parents had written—the word “savor,” you probably know, here means “read slowly, as each sentence in their parents' handwriting was like a gift from beyond the grave”— but as the poison of the Medusoid Mycelium advanced further and further, the siblings had to skim, scanning each page for the words “horseradish” or “wasabi.” As you know if you've ever skimmed a book, you end up getting a strange view of the story, with just glimpses here and there of what is going on, and some authors insert confusing sentences in the middle of a book just to confuse anyone who might be skimming. Three very short men were carrying a large, flat piece of wood, painted to look like a living room. As the Baudelaire orphans searched for the secret they hoped they would find, they caught glimpses of other secrets their parents had kept, and as Violet, Klaus, and Sunny spotted the names of people the Baudelaire parents had known, things they had whispered to these people, the codes hidden in the whispers, and many other intriguing details, the children hoped they would have the opportunity to reread A Series of Unfortunate Events on a less frantic occasion. On that afternoon, however, they read faster and faster, looking desperately for the one secret that might save them as the hour began to pass and the Medusoid Mycelium grew faster and faster inside them, as if the deadly fungus also did not have time to savor its treacherous path. As they read more and more, it grew harder and harder for the Baudelaires to breathe, and when Klaus finally spotted one of the words he had been looking for, he thought for a moment it was just a vision brought on by all the stalks and caps growing inside him.