The Dragon's Gate Read online

  “Aren’t you worried about losing it?” said Bren, thinking about how tattered his own trousers were after their ordeal. They had rips and holes all around. “The old man who was with the skeleton, he said you were the stone’s guardian now.”

  “The stone found me,” said Mouse. “It doesn’t want to lose me.”

  “Back on the Albatross,” said Bren, “the admiral told me that reaching this island meant having a chance for ‘power of our own.’ He thought the jade eye was magical, but he didn’t say how exactly. Do you think he knew this girl—this sorceress, if that’s what she really was—had transferred her spirit to the stone, like the guardian said? Assuming she really did?”

  Making statements like that—assuming she really did—was one of the tricks Bren was using to try to get Mouse to tell him more. She had done precious little explaining of what happened back in the cave, either because she didn’t want to, or because she couldn’t.

  “I don’t think he knew for sure,” said Mouse. “He never told me that, anyway. I think . . . he knew that whatever the stone was, it had to be powerful.”

  “And is it?” said Bren. “Can it get us off this island?”

  Mouse shook her head.

  “No, it can’t? Or no, you don’t know?”

  “I really don’t know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I wish I did. I want to leave here as much as you. I have to find this Dragon’s Gate. . . .”

  “Then why don’t you talk to the birds here?” said Bren, trying not to let his frustration spill over, but failing. “Send a message to someone? Or better yet, do your soul-traveling trick and fly away until you find help?”

  “It’s not a trick!” said Mouse. “It’s not that easy. I’ve never soul-traveled for more than a few minutes, like what I showed you. What if I fly off and can’t come back? What if I forget why I’m a bird? I’m afraid to try. I don’t expect you to understand. . . .”

  She trailed off, now looking past him, toward the sea. Bren barely turned at first, but when he saw the oars of the longboat flung high over the waves, he jumped up in a blur of sand, charging into the water like a madman, running face-first against the slapping waves, his trousers filling with water until he was half running, half floating through the surf.

  “That’s him, Mr. Graham!” came a shout. “I see him!”

  “We all see him, Cornelius,” came the shout back. “Put your spyglass away and hold out your arms—the fool boy is going to spoil our reunion by drowning himself.”

  Bren could feel the bottom dropping away from him, and the water was sloshing over his head. He thrust both arms into the air, and Sean grabbed him and pulled him into the longboat. Bren’s trousers were so sodden that they promptly fell down around his ankles.

  “Mouse is right behind me!” said Bren, hugging Sean and then pulling up his pants.

  “Demonstrating that she’s got more sense than you,” said Sean. He pointed to where Mouse was standing and waving, only ankle-deep in the water.

  “From the shore I thought you were Mr. Leiden,” said Bren, looking at the man holding the spyglass. He glanced around the boat, but Sean put his curiosity to rest.

  “Aye, lad, the good surgeon didn’t make it. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  They hauled the boat ashore and ten men besides Sean got out—men that Bren recognized from the Albatross but didn’t know well. He didn’t care about them right now. He never thought he’d be so happy to see Sean’s sunburned Eirish face and that untamed lick of red hair.

  “I’ll show you where we’ve been sleeping,” said Bren, leading them to the shelter they’d made out of bamboo and palm fronds. He realized the wobbly lean-to wasn’t much to brag on, saying, “It’s served its purpose. Nights have been warm enough.”

  “I keep forgetting it’s summer this side of the equator,” said Sean. “And summer in these latitudes means rain. Possibly bad storms. I think we should look into better shelter.”

  “There are caves farther inland,” said Mouse.

  “Big enough for all of us?” said Sean. Mouse nodded. “Any wild animals?”

  Besides magical dragons? thought Bren.

  “We haven’t seen anything like boars or bears here,” said Mouse. “Not even snakes.”

  Sean let out a mock sigh of relief. “Thank the good Lord. You know how we Eirish hate snakes! Ah well, I guess that makes sense given how remote this place is.”

  Despite his age, Sean’s good spirits and obvious fortitude made him a natural leader for what was left of the crew. There was no talk of how they would rescue themselves from this unknown wilderness without a proper ship, nor talk of the disaster that put them here. Just one step at a time, and always forward. They had some food and freshwater. And they had natural shelter available. That’s all they needed for now.

  But Bren’s spirits didn’t remain high for long as they walked inland. There had been no evidence that the admiral was killed—Sean and the men obviously thought he went down with his ship—and Bren, as he had every day, kept scanning the trees for blue-eyed blackbirds. He couldn’t forget the image of the admiral, transformed into a crow, looking down from the sky when Bren had been in the water. Of course, based on what Mouse had told him about the admiral’s powers, maybe he didn’t have to be a blackbird. Maybe he could be any of these birds. Or a lizard, or a plant. Constantly distracted and looking around, he stumbled half a dozen times as they climbed into the forest.

  “You okay, lad?” said Sean. “Shall I carry you?” When he saw he’d embarrassed Bren, he added, “I’m only kidding, lad. You’ve endured more than any boy your age should’ve. And who makes it to shore after the shipwreck? Besides the ones lucky enough to claim the longboat? Grizzled, experienced sailors? Nah. A young boy and girl. I would say it’s a miracle, but that wouldn’t be giving you and Mouse enough credit.”

  Bren smiled, and his spirits stayed up the rest of the way. To his relief, Mouse did not lead them to the cavern behind the waterfall, but a different one she must’ve found while exploring on her own.

  It did storm that night, but it was warm enough that they didn’t need a fire, and Sean and the crew had saved some provisions from the Albatross, so Bren and Mouse got to eat something besides fruit and seeds. Over supper, they swapped stories about what had happened after the ship went down.

  “How’d you decide who went in the longboat and who didn’t? Did you draw lots?” Bren wondered, remembering an especially terrifying adventure story he’d read once.

  “No time for that,” said Sean. “The ship broke up so fast, it was chaos. Men were in the water, and it’s one of the great mysteries of this business that most sailors can’t swim. Mr. Leiden was our hero, helping me make sure the longboat went in right side up and insisting I get in it. He fell into the water right after, and I could never find him.”

  Mr. Leiden was one of the few Bren had gotten to know well, and his death hurt. He fondly remembered the surgeon’s excitement when he was showing a skeptical crew how he could combat brain swelling by drilling holes into a man’s head.

  Bren looked around at the ten other men, most of them dozing off to the sound of the rain. “Did you see what happened to Admiral Bowman?” he asked.

  “I didn’t see him go under, but I know he wasn’t with us, and he obviously isn’t with you.”

  “He’s gone,” said Mouse. “I saw him. I couldn’t save him.”

  “No, of course not,” said Sean. “You needn’t feel bad about that. How’d you even get your own tiny self to the island? The waves were fierce!”

  “Luck, mostly,” said Bren, answering for both of them. “My mother taught me to swim when I was a boy. A younger boy, I guess I should say. I just started swimming and prayed for the best.”

  “And you can swim, too, little one?”

  “No,” she admitted. “The waves carried me.”

  “Lucky indeed,” said Sean. “The tide was coming in, and you were on the right side of the waves. The longboat wasn’t
. The ocean kept beating us back, and what was left of the Albatross nearly rolled onto us. Then night fell, and when day broke again, the island had disappeared!”

  “Disappeared?” said Bren.

  “I don’t mean literally, of course,” said Sean. “But we had been carried out of sight. It took us a while to get our bearings and a favorable current to make it here. And the last thing we expected to find was you two.”

  “So what do we do now?” said Bren.

  Sean dug around in his rucksack. “I did manage to salvage some things from the Albatross. Tools, medical supplies, rations. Canvas to make a good enough sail, and we could hew a small mast from one of these trees. But it’s still a long shot we could make it to any known inhabited land. Cape Colony was in an uprising last we saw, and we’re more than two thousand miles from the Dragon Islands, which are the closest islands in the East Netherlands.”

  “We have to try, don’t we?” said Mouse. “We can’t stay here.”

  They all fell silent for several minutes, until Bren remembered something: “Mr. Tybert’s map!”

  “What about it?”

  “He had a map he showed me once, where he had plotted possible locations for the Vanishing Island. This island,” said Bren. “Based on the admiral’s studies.”

  “And do you have this map?” said Sean.

  “No, but I remember it.”

  “You said you only saw it once.”

  “That’s enough,” said Bren, and he began to scratch out what he remembered in the dirt floor of the cave: the Indian Ocean; the equator and the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn; the East Netherlands; India and Madagascar. Those were the boundaries, the reference points. He then drew five spots where Mr. Tybert had marked possibly unmapped islands. “He said his theories were based on what the admiral had read, plus trade winds and other things that would make it more likely that an ancient ship had sailed there.”

  “Amazing,” said Sean. “I forgot about your devilish memory.”

  He reached into his sack one more time, and what he pulled out made Bren’s eyes light up: a small leather folio, filled with paper, and a graphite writing stick.

  “I know you kept that journal,” said Sean. “Didn’t have time to look for yours, but I saw this in the chart room when I went to grab some instruments. I thought it might bring good luck in finding you.”

  Bren smiled and took the folio, reverently running his fingertips over the rough leather cover, thumbing through the edges of the stiff parchment, which Sean had managed to keep safe from the water.

  “Let’s try it out, yeah?” said Sean. “Make that map you just showed us in the sand. Then we’ll get a good night’s rest and do our best in the morning to figure out how to make land from here.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  A MEMORY OF FIRE

  Bren opened the journal and ran his fingers down the gutter of the folded parchment, pressing it flat. He thought about that time when Mr. Tybert had shown him the map. He recalled all the times he had joined the navigator at the back of the ship, learning his trade and listening to his stories. He could picture the old man’s vacant eye socket and remember the sound of his voice the first time he called Bren “jongen.” He could see and hear the navigator so vividly that his ear began to buzz, as if Mr. Tybert had just cuffed him for saying something foolish.

  And then he remembered the last time he saw him. Not the last time he talked to him; rather, the sight of the navigator’s lifeless legs behind his equipment locker, near the mangled birdcages. The blood pooling on the deck. Killed by the madman, Otto.

  Even when they had sewed Mr. Tybert up in his hammock for burial, all Bren had seen was a glimpse of the old man’s pale hands, folded peacefully at his waist.

  He would never see his friend’s face again. Not really. No matter how brilliant his memory.

  Bren began to draw. He sketched the same framework as he had a moment ago, the Indian Ocean and the coastlines that shaped it. To this he added Mr. Tybert’s navigational details, the longitude and latitude lines, and the coordinates of known islands. When he was done, he showed his work to Sean.

  Sean pulled out the compass pair he had saved from the ship, placed one arm on their present location, and stretched the other to each of Mr. Tybert’s five possible islands. He then made a few calculations in the margins of Bren’s map, and when he was done, his bright blue eyes were a bit dimmer.

  “Farther than you’d hoped?” said Bren.

  Sean nodded. “There’s only one spot on here less than a thousand miles from us. Most of the others, between a thousand and fifteen hundred.”

  “How long will that take?” said Mouse.

  “Hard to say. The boat’s got ten oars, and like I said, we can rig a sail, but . . .”

  “Even small Viking longboats could make five to ten knots,” Bren interjected. “They did have sixteen oars, though, the smallest ones.” When he saw the look of surprise on Sean’s face, he added, “My friend Mr. Black owns a bookstore.”

  “Six extra oars would make a big difference, assuming we had the crew to man them,” said Sean. “And I don’t believe the Norsemen were sailing the open ocean. Still, let’s be optimistic, and say we can make land in three weeks. I figure we saved a week’s worth of rations from the ship. Bare-minimum rations, mind you. But we can forage here while we hew a mainmast, and there’s freshwater.”

  “I think we can do this,” said Bren.

  “Me too!” said Mouse.

  “Little one,” said Sean, “if you’ll be on board with us, then I have no doubt. I’ve come to believe you’re invincible.”

  Bren smiled. If they only knew.

  They had a rough plan, and they spent the next several days on the island preparing to leave. Mouse and Bren had become expert fruit gatherers, but a few of the other men were practiced at setting traps for birds and fish, and by the time they had crafted a small mainmast, they had a good supply of dried meat. They also carved several containers to carry freshwater from the island. Just a week after Sean had found them, they were ready to leave.

  It had been less than a fortnight since Bren had been on the water, and yet it was like a whole new experience to him. The longboat was a fraction of the size of the Albatross, and even small waves pitched and bucked it, despite the best efforts of the oarsmen. He had never rowed before either, except for a small rowboat on one of the lakes in his mother’s home county, but this was something else entirely. It was like being in a wrestling match with an opponent ten times your size.

  The longboat had ten oars and there were thirteen crew members counting Bren and Mouse, so everyone could get a break from rowing even when they couldn’t use the sail. Bren and Mouse were by far the weakest and spent the least amount of time athwart. No one could really be considered off duty in their situation, but when he had the chance, Bren pulled out his new journal and began to re-create the old one from memory.

  Imagery flooded his mind as if he were flipping through the pages of the actual book: the sketches of the Albatross and all the rigging; the knots he had learned; the odd pieces of equipment with odd names, like Jacob’s staff and loggerheads; faces of the men he had worked most closely with; lists of items on the ship and slang the regular crew used (most of it unprintable); typical menus from breakfast, lunch, and dinner; how the bells and watches system worked; diagrams of all the navigation instruments Mr. Tybert had taught him to use, and his notes on all of them; and then, of course, his own daily “logs,” as if he had been the captain of his own personal adventure.

  These journal entries covered everything from the mundane to the extraordinary to the barely believable. He thought he would scarcely be able to rewrite the details of the insurrection at Cape Colony, or the Hunger that had driven his nemesis, Otto Bruun, to murder. But even more emotional for Bren was remembering how it all started—him, standing at the rail of the Albatross, having made his bargain with the admiral, facing his father and deciding to leave Map. Before
that moment, he had never had any doubt that he wanted to leave the place of his birth. Not since his mother died. Part of that, he had come to realize, was believing that he could return any time he wanted. That he was in control of his own fate. That he was the one charting his course. Something about the way his father had looked at him from the dock . . . the desperation in his eyes . . . Bren understood for the first time what his father must’ve felt—that there was a very real chance they might never see each other again.

  Now, here he was, however many months and however many thousands of miles removed from home, wanting nothing more than to reassure his father that they would see each other again. To reassure David Owen that he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life without his wife and his son. To plot a course that would take them right back to Map.

  There was just one big problem with that: Mouse. The girl who had become his best friend didn’t want to go to Map. She wanted to find something called the Dragon’s Gate, and she’d made it clear she wanted Bren’s help.

  “Have you drawn the bone map yet?”

  Bren nearly jumped out of the boat. He couldn’t fathom how Mouse was able to sneak up on him in a longboat.

  “Not yet,” he said. He knew how important this was to Mouse; he just wished he could understand why. “I will though, soon. I promise.”

  She just stood there.

  “Okay, I’ll do it now,” he said, turning to a fresh page and putting himself where he least wanted to be—back in that cavern, among all those things that couldn’t have happened. Not unless he had been dreaming.

  He caught his hand playing with the black stone necklace around his own neck. The one that had protected him these past few years, according to Mouse. Remembering how she seemed to control the dragon, to attack the admiral, the thought crossed his mind that he might need the stone to protect him one day from her.