The Well of Lost Plots

16 Captain Nemo

I woke late the following morning. My bed was next to the porthole so I rolled over, doubled up a pillow and gazed out at the sun sparkling upon the surface of the lake. I could hear the gentle slap of the water against the flying boat's hull, and it gave me a sense of ease and inner peace that ten years of SpecOps' finest Stressperts couldn't bully into you.

I got up slowly and felt woozy all of a sudden. The room spun around and I felt hot. After a brief and unpleasant visit to the loo, I felt a bit better, and went downstairs.

I made myself some toast as it helped the nausea, and caught sight of myself in the chrome toaster. I looked dreadful, and I was holding up the toaster and sticking my tongue out, trying to see what it looked like, when the Generics walked in.

'What on earth are you doing?' asked Ibb.

'Nothing,' I replied, hurriedly replacing the toaster. 'Off to college?'

They both nodded. I noticed that they'd not only made their own lunch but actually cleared away after them. A certain sensitivity to others is a good sign in a Generic. It shows personality.

'Do you know where Gran is?' I asked.

'She said she was off to the Medici court for a few days,' replied Obb. 'She left you that note.'

I found the note on the counter and picked it up, studying the one-word message with slight confusion.

'We'll be back at five,' announced Ibb. 'Do you need anything?'

'What? Er — no,' I said, reading Gran's note again. 'See you then.'

I ate a huge breakfast and did some more of the multiple choice test. After a half-hour battling through such questions as: Which book does Sam Wetter the boot boy reside in? and Who said: 'When she appeared it was as though spring had finally arrived after a miserable winter'? I stopped and looked at Gran's note for the tenth time. It was confusing. Written in a small and shaky hand, the note consisted of a single word: REMEMBER!

'Remember what? I muttered to myself, and went for a walk.

I strolled down to the banks of the lake, taking a path through a grove of birches that grew by the water's edge. I ducked under the low branches and followed my nose towards the odd assortment of vessels that were moored next to the old Sunderland. The first was a converted naval pinnace, her decks covered in plastic and in a constant state of renovation. Beyond this was a Humber lighter, abandoned and sunk at its moorings. As I moved to walk on there was a sudden screech of demonic laughter followed by a peal of thunder and the smell of brimstone borne on a gust of icy wind. I blinked and coughed as thick green smoke momentarily enveloped me; when it had cleared I was no longer alone. Three old hags with hooked chins and mottled complexions danced and cackled in front of me, rubbing their dirty hands and dancing in the most clumsy and uncoordinated fashion. It was the worst piece of overacting I had ever seen.

'Thrice the blinded dog shall bark,' said the first witch, producing a cauldron from the air and placing it on the path in front of me.

'Thrice and once the hedge-pig ironed,' said the second, who conjured up a fire by throwing some leaves beneath the cauldron.

'Passer-by cries, 'Tis time, 'tis time!' screeched the third, tossing something into the cauldron that started to bubble ominously.

'I really don't have time for this,' I said crossly. 'Why don't you go and bother someone else?'

'Fillet of a pickled hake,' continued the second witch, 'In the cauldron broil and bake; Lie of Stig and bark of dog, Woolly hat and bowl of fog, Fadda loch and song by Bing, Wizard's leg and Spitfire's wing. For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble!'

'I'm sorry to interrupt,' I said, 'but I really am very busy — and none of your prophecies have come true, apart from the citizen of Swindon bit and anyone with a telephone directory could find that out. And listen, you knew I was an apprentice so I had to be taking my jurisfiction finals sooner or later!'

They stopped cackling and looked at one another. The first witch drew a large pocket watch from the folds of her tatty cloak and looked at it carefully.

'Give it ye time, imperfect waiter!' she cried. 'All hail MsNext, beware and heed the thrice-read rule!'

'All hail MsNext, I before E except after C!' cackled the second.

'All hail MsNext!' added the third, who clearly didn't want to be left out. 'Meet a king but not be one, Read a King but not—'

'SHOO!' shouted a loud voice behind me. The three witches stopped and stared at the new visitor crossly. He was an old man whose weathered face looked as though it had been gnarled by years of adventuring across the globe. He wore a blue blazer over a polo-neck Aran sweater and on his head a captain's cap sat above his lined features, a few wisps of grey hair showing from underneath the sweatband. His eyes sparkled with life and a grimace cracked his craggy features as he walked along the path towards us. It could only be Captain Nemo.

'Away with you, crones!' he cried. 'Peddle your wares elsewhere!'

He probably would have beaten them with the stout branch he was brandishing had the witches not taken fright and vanished in a thunderclap of sound, cauldron and all.

'Hah!' said Nemo, throwing the branch towards where they had been. 'Next time I will make mincemeat of you, foul dissemblers of nature, with your hail this and your hail that!'

He looked at me accusingly.

'Did you give them any money?'

'No, sir.'

'Truthfully now! Did you give them anything at all?'

'No.'

'Good,' he replied. 'Never give them any money. It only encourages them. They'll coax you in with their fancy prophecies; suggest you'll have a new car and as soon as you start thinking you might need one — BANG! — they're offering you loans and insurance and other unwanted financial services. Poor old Macbeth took it a bit too seriously — all they were trying to do was sell him a mortgage and insurance on a bigger castle. When the Birnham wood and "no woman born" stuff all came true the witches were as surprised as anyone. So never fall for their little scams — it'll drain your wallet before you know it. Who are you, anyway?'

'Thursday Next,' I said, 'I'm standing in for—'

'Ah!' he muttered thoughtfully. 'The Outlander. Tell me, how do escalators work? Do they have one long staircase that is wound up on a huge drum and then rewound every night, or are they a continuous belt that just goes round and round?'

'An — um — continuous belt.'

'Really?' he replied reflectively. 'I've always wondered about that. Welcome to Caversham Heights. I am Captain Nemo. I have some coffee on the stove — I wonder whether you would grant me the honour of your company?'

I thanked him and we continued to walk along the lake's edge.

'A beautiful morning, would you not agree?' he asked, sweeping a hand towards the lake and the puffy clouds.

'It usually is,' I replied.

'For a terrestrial view it is almost passable,' added Nemo quickly. 'It is nothing but a passing fancy to the beauty of the deep, but in retirement we all have to make sacrifices.'

'I have read your book many times,' I said as courteously as I could, 'and have found much pleasure in its narrative.'

'Jules Verne was not simply my author but also a good friend,' said Nemo sadly. 'I was sorrowful on his passing, an emotion I do not share with many others of my kind.'

We had arrived at Nemo's home. No longer the sleek and dangerous craft from 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, the riveted iron submarine was a shabby wreck streaked with rust, a thick green line of algae growing on the glass of the two large viewing windows. She belonged to a redolent age of high-technological expectation. She was the Nautilus.

We made our way up the gangplank and Nemo helped me aboard.

'Thank you,' I said, walking down the outer casing to the small conning tower where he had set up a chair and table upon which stood a glass hookah. He pulled up another folding chair and bade me sit down.

'You are here, like me,' he asked, 'resting — between engagements?'

'Maternity leave — of a sort,' I explained.

'Of these matters I know nothing,' he said gravely, pouring out a cup of coffee; the porcelain was White Star Line.

I took a sip and accepted the proffered biscuit. The coffee was excellent.

'Good, is it not?' he asked, a smile upon his lips.

'Indeed!' I replied. 'Better than I have ever tasted. What is it?'

'From the Guiana Basin,' he explained, 'an area of sea scattered with subterranean mountains and hills every bit as beautiful as the Andes. In a deep valley in this region I discovered an aquatic plant whose seeds, when dried and ground, make a coffee to match any that land can offer.'

His face fell for a moment and he looked into his cup, swirling the brown liquid around.

'As soon as this coffee is drunk, that will be the end of it. I have been moved around the Well of Lost Plots for almost a century now. I was to be in a sequel, you know — Jules Verne had written half of it when he died. The manuscript, alas, was thrown out after his death, and destroyed. I appealed to the Council of Genres against the enforced demolition order, and I — and the Nautilus, of course — was reprieved.'

He sighed.

'We have survived numerous moves from book to book within the Well. Now, as you see, I am marooned here. The voltaic piles, the source of the Nautilus's power, are almost worn out. The sodium, which I extract from sea water, is exhausted. For many years I have been the subject of a preservation order, but preservation without expenditure is worthless. The Nautilus needs only a few thousand words to be as good as new — yet I have no money, nor influence. I am only an eccentric loner awaiting a sequel that I fear will never be written.'

'I … I wish I could do something,' I replied, 'but Jurisfiction only keeps fiction in order — it does not dictate policy, nor choose which books are to be written. You have, I trust, advertised yourself?'

'For many years. Here, see for yourself.'

He handed me a copy of The Word. The 'Situations Sought' page took up half the newspaper and I read where Nemo pointed it out.

'Every week for over a century,' he grumbled, 'but not one sensible offer.'

I doubted that his idea of a sensible offer would be like anyone else's — 20,000 Leagues under the Sea was a tough act to follow.

'You have read Caversham Heights'?' he asked.

I nodded.

'Then you will know that the scrapping is not only inevitable, but quite necessary. When the book goes to the breaker's yard, I will not apply for a transfer. The Nautilus, and I too, will be broken down into text — and long have I wished for it!'

He scowled at the floor and poured another cup of coffee.

'Unless,' he added, suddenly perking up, 'you thought I should have the advert in a box, with a picture? It costs extra but it might make it more eye catching.'

'It is worth a try, of course,' I replied.

Nemo rose to his feet and went below without another word. I thought he might return, but after twenty minutes had elapsed I decided to go home. I was ambling back along the lakeside path when I got a call from Havisham on the footnoterphone.[12]

'As always, Miss Havisham.'[13]

'Perkins must be annoyed about that,' I said, thinking, what with grammasites, a minotaur, Yahoos and a million or two rabbits, life in the bestiary must be something of a handful.[14]

'I'm on my way.' ,