Count Olaf scowled, and put one muddy finger on the trigger of the harpoon gun. “If that’s Kit Snicket or some bratty orphan,” he said, “I’ll harpoon her right where she stands. No ridiculous volunteer is going to take my island away from me!”
“You don’t want to waste your last harpoon,” Violet said, thinking quickly. “Who knows where you’ll find another one?”
“That’s true,” Olaf admitted. “You’re becoming an excellent henchwoman.”
“Poppycock,” growled Sunny, baring her teeth at the count.
“My sister’s right,” Klaus said. “It’s ridiculous to argue about volunteers and henchpeople when we’re standing on a coastal shelf in the middle of the ocean.”
“Don’t be so sure, orphan,” Olaf replied. “No matter where we are, there’s always room for someone like me.” He leaned down close to give Klaus a sneaky smile, as if he were telling a joke. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”
It was an unpleasant question, but the Baudelaires did not have time to answer it, as the figure drew closer and closer until the children could see it was a young girl, perhaps six or seven years old. She was barefoot, and dressed in a simple, white robe that was so clean she could not have been in the storm. Hanging from the girl’s belt was a large white seashell, and she was wearing a pair of sunglasses that looked very much like the ones the Baudelaires had worn as concierges. She was grinning from ear to ear, but when she reached the Baudelaires, panting from her long run, she suddenly looked shy, and although the Baudelaires were quite curious as to who she was, they also found themselves keeping silent. Even Olaf did not speak, and merely admired his reflection in the water.
When you find yourself tongue-tied in front of someone you do not know, you might want to remember something the Baudelaires’ mother told them long ago, and something she told me even longer ago. I can see her now, sitting on a small couch she used to keep in the corner of her bedroom, adjusting the straps of her sandals with one hand and munching on an apple with the other, telling me not to worry about the party that was beginning downstairs. “People love to talk about themselves, Mr. Snicket,” she said to me, between bites of apple. “If you find yourself wondering what to say to any of the guests, ask them which secret code they prefer, or find out whom they’ve been spying on lately.” Violet, too, could almost hear her mother’s voice as she gazed down at this young girl, and decided to ask her something about herself.
“What’s your name?” Violet asked.
The girl fiddled with her seashell, and then looked up at the eldest Baudelaire. “Friday,” she said.
“Do you live on the island, Friday?” Violet asked.
“Yes,” the girl said. “I got up early this morning to go storm scavenging.”
“Storm scavawha?” Sunny asked, from Violet’s shoulders.
“Every time there’s a storm, everyone in the colony gathers everything that’s collected on the coastal shelf,” Friday said. “One never knows when one of these items will come in handy. Are you castaways?”
“I guess we are,” Violet said. “We were traveling by boat when we got caught in the storm. I’m Violet Baudelaire, and this is my brother, Klaus, and my sister, Sunny.” She turned reluctantly to Olaf, who was glaring at Friday suspiciously. “And this is—”
“I am your king!” Olaf announced in a grand voice. “Bow before me, Friday!”
“No, thank you,” Friday said politely. “Our colony is not a monarchy. You must be exhausted from the storm, Baudelaires. It looked so enormous from shore that we didn’t think there’d be any castaways this time. Why don’t you come with me, and you can have something to eat?”
“We’d be most grateful,” Klaus said. “Do castaways arrive on this island very often?”
“From time to time,” Friday said, with a small shrug. “It seems that everything eventually washes up on our shores.”
“The shores of Olaf-Land, you mean,” Count Olaf growled. “I discovered the island, so I get to name it.”
Friday peered at Olaf curiously from behind her sunglasses. “You must be confused, sir, after your journey through the storm,” she said. “People have lived on the island for many, many years.”
“Primitive people,” sneered the villain. “I don’t even see any houses on the island.”
“We live in tents,” Friday said, pointing at the billowing white cloths on the island. “We grew tired of building houses that would only get blown away during the stormy season, and the rest of the time the weather is so hot that we appreciate the ventilation that a tent provides.”
“I still say you’re primitive,” Olaf insisted, “and I don’t listen to primitive people.”
“I won’t force you,” Friday said. “Come along with me and you can decide for yourself.”
“I’m not going to come along with you,” Count Olaf said, “and neither are my henchpeople! I’m Count Olaf, and I’m in charge around here, not some little idiot in a robe!”
“There’s no reason to be insulting,” Friday said. “The island is the only place you can go, Count Olaf, so it really doesn’t matter who’s in charge.”
Count Olaf gave Friday a terrible scowl, and he pointed his harpoon gun straight at the young girl. “If you don’t bow before me, Friday, I’ll fire this harpoon gun at you!”
The Baudelaires gasped, but Friday merely frowned at the villain. “In a few minutes,” she said, “all the inhabitants of the island will be out storm scavenging. They’ll see any act of violence you commit, and you won’t be allowed on the island. Please point that weapon away from me.”
Count Olaf opened his mouth as if to say something, but after a moment he shut it again, and lowered the harpoon gun sheepishly, a word which here means “looking quite embarrassed to be following the orders of a young girl.”
“Baudelaires, please come with me,” Friday said, and began to lead the way toward the distant island.
“What about me?” Count Olaf asked. His voice was a little squeaky, and it reminded the Baudelaires of other voices they had heard, from people who were frightened of Olaf himself. They had heard this voice from guardians of theirs, and from Mr. Poe when the villain would confront him. It was a tone of voice they had heard from various volunteers when discussing Olaf’s activities, and even from his henchmen when they complained about their wicked boss. It was a tone of voice the Baudelaires had heard from themselves, during the countless times the dreadful man had threatened them, and promised to get his hands on their fortune, but the children never thought they would hear it from Count Olaf himself. “What about me?” he asked again, but the siblings had already followed Friday a short way from where he was standing, and when the Baudelaire orphans turned to him, Olaf looked like just another piece of detritus that the storm had blown onto the coastal shelf.
“Go away,” Friday said firmly, and the castaways wondered if finally they had found a place where there was no room for Count Olaf.
CHAPTER
Three
As I’m sure you know, there are many words in our mysterious and confusing language that can mean two completely different things. The word “bear,” for instance, can refer to a rather husky mammal found in the woods, as in the sentence “The bear moved quietly toward the camp counselor, who was too busy putting on lipstick to notice,” but it can also refer to how much someone can handle, as in the sentence “The loss of my camp counselor is more than I can bear.” The word “yarn” can refer both to a colorful strand of wool, as in the sentence “His sweater was made of yarn,” and to a long and rambling story, as in the sentence “His yarn about how he lost his sweater almost put me to sleep.” The word “hard” can refer both to something that is difficult and something that is firm to the touch, and unless you come across a sentence like “The bears bear hard hard yarn yarns” you are unlikely to be confused. But as the Baudelaire orphans followed Friday across the coastal shelf toward the island where she lived, they experienced both definitions of the word
“cordial,” which can refer both to a person who is friendly and to a drink that is sweet, and the more they had of one the more they were confused about the other.
“Perhaps you would care for some coconut cordial,” Friday said, in a cordial tone of voice, and she reached down to the seashell that hung around her neck. With one slim finger she plucked out a stopper, and the children could see that the shell had been fashioned into a sort of canteen. “You must be thirsty from your journey through the storm.”
“We are thirsty,” Violet admitted, “but isn’t fresh water better for thirst?”
“There’s no fresh water on the island,” Friday said. “There’s some saltwater falls that we use for washing, and a saltwater pool that’s perfect for swimming. But all we drink is coconut cordial. We drain the milk from coconuts and allow it to ferment.”
“Ferment?” Sunny asked.
“Friday means that the coconut milk sits around for some time, and undergoes a chemical process making it sweeter and stronger,” Klaus explained, having learned about fermentation in a book about a vineyard his parents had kept in the Baudelaire library.
“The sweetness will wash away the taste of the storm,” Friday said, and passed the seashell to the three children. One by one they each took a sip of the cordial. As Friday had said, the cordial was quite sweet, but there was another taste beyond the sweetness, something odd and strong that made them a bit dizzy. Violet and Klaus both winced as the cordial slipped thickly down their throats, and Sunny coughed as soon as the first drop reached her tongue.
“It’s a little strong for us, Friday,” Violet said, handing the seashell back to Friday.
“You’ll get used to it,” Friday said with a smile, “when you drink it at every meal. That’s one of the customs here.”
“I see,” Klaus said, making a note in his commonplace book. “What other customs do you have here?”
“Not too many,” Friday said, looking first at Klaus’s notebook and then around her, where the Baudelaires could see the distant figures of other islanders, all dressed in white, walking around the costal shelf and poking at the wreckage they found. “Every time there’s a storm, we go storm scavenging and present what we’ve found to a man named Ishmael. Ishmael has been on this island longer than any of us, and he injured his feet some time ago and keeps them covered in island clay, which has healing powers. Ishmael can’t even stand, but he serves as the island’s facilitator.”
“Demarc?” Sunny asked Klaus.
“A facilitator is someone who helps other people make decisions,” the middle Baudelaire explained.
Friday nodded in agreement. “Ishmael decides what detritus might be of use to us, and what the sheep should drag away.”
“There are sheep on the island?” Violet asked.
“A herd of wild sheep washed up on our shores many, many years ago,” Friday said, “and they roam free, except when they’re needed to drag our scavenged items to the arboretum, on the far side of the island over that brae over there.”
“Brae?” Sunny asked.
“A brae is a steep hill,” Klaus said, “and an arboretum is a place where trees grow.”
“All that grows in the island’s arboretum is one enormous apple tree,” Friday said, “or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“You’ve never been to the far side of the island?” Violet asked.
“No one goes to the far side of the island,” Friday said. “Ishmael says it’s too dangerous with all the items the sheep have brought there. Nobody even picks the bitter apples from the tree, except on Decision Day.”
“Holiday?” Sunny asked.
“I guess it’s something of a holiday,” Friday said. “Once a year, the tides turn in this part of the ocean, and the coastal shelf is completely covered in water. It’s the one time a year that it’s deep enough to sail away from the island. All year long we build an enormous outrigger, which is a type of canoe, and the day the tides turn we have a feast and a talent show. Then anyone who wishes to leave our colony indicates their decision by taking a bite of bitter apple and spitting it onto the ground before boarding the outrigger and bidding us farewell.”
“Yuck,” the youngest Baudelaire said, imagining a crowd of people spitting up apple.
“There’s nothing yucky about it,” Friday said with a frown. “It’s the colony’s most important custom.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Violet said, reminding her sister with a stern glance that it is not polite to insult the customs of others.
“It is,” Friday said. “Of course, people rarely leave this island. No one has left since before I was born, so each year we simply light the outrigger on fire, and push it out to sea. Watching a burning outrigger slowly vanish on the horizon is a beautiful sight.”
“It sounds beautiful,” Klaus said, although the middle Baudelaire thought it sounded more creepy than beautiful, “but it seems a waste to build a canoe every year only to burn it up.”
“It gives us something to do,” Friday said with a shrug. “Besides building the outrigger, there’s not much to occupy us on the island. We catch fish, and cook meals, and do the laundry, but that still leaves much of the day unoccupied.”
“Cook?” Sunny asked eagerly.
“My sister is something of a chef,” Klaus said. “I’m sure she’d be happy to help with the cooking.”
Friday smiled, and put her hands in the deep pockets of her robe. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want another sip of cordial?”
All three Baudelaires shook their heads. “No, thank you,” Violet said, “but it’s kind of you to offer.”
“Ishmael says that everyone should be treated with kindness,” Friday said, “unless they are unkind themselves. That’s why I left that horrible man Count Olaf behind. Were you traveling with him?”
The Baudelaires looked at one another, unsure of how to answer this question. On one hand, Friday seemed very cordial, but like the cordial she offered, there was something else besides sweetness in her description of the island. The colony’s customs sounded very strict, and although the siblings were relieved to be out of Count Olaf’s company, there seemed something cruel about abandoning Olaf on the coastal shelf, even though he certainly would have done the same to the orphans if he’d had the opportunity. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny were not sure how Friday would react if they admitted being in the villain’s company, and they did not reply for a moment, until the middle Baudelaire remembered an expression he had read in a novel about people who were very, very polite.
“It depends on how you look at it,” Klaus said, using a phrase which sounds like an answer but scarcely means anything at all. Friday gave him a curious look, but the children had reached the end of the coastal shelf and were standing at the edge of the island. It was a sloping beach with sand so white that Friday’s white robe looked almost invisible, and at the top of the slope was an outrigger, fashioned from wild grasses and the limbs of trees, which looked nearly finished, as if Decision Day was arriving soon. Past the outrigger was an enormous white tent, as long as a school bus. The Baudelaires followed Friday inside the tent, and found to their surprise that it was filled with sheep, who all lay dozing on the ground. The sheep appeared to be tied together with thick, frayed rope, and towering over the sheep was an old man smiling at the Baudelaires through a beard as thick and wild as the sheep’s woolly coats. He sat in an enormous chair that looked as if it were fashioned out of white clay, and two more piles of clay rose up where his feet should have been. He was wearing a robe like Friday’s and had a similar seashell hanging from his belt, and his voice was as cordial as Friday’s as he smiled down at the three siblings.
“What have we here?” he said.
“I found three castaways on the coastal shelf,” Friday said proudly.
“Welcome, castaways,” Ishmael said. “Forgive me for remaining seated, but my feet are quite sore today, so I’m making use of our healing clay. It?
??s very nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ishmael,” said Violet, who thought healing clay was of dubious scientific efficacy, a phrase which here means “unlikely to heal sore feet.”
“Call me Ish,” said Ishmael, leaning down to scratch the heads of one of the sheep. “And what shall I call you?”
“Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire,” Friday chimed in, before the siblings could introduce themselves.
“Baudelaire?” Ishmael repeated, and raised his eyebrows. He gazed at the three children in silence as he took a long sip of cordial from his seashell, and for just one moment his smile seemed to disappear. But then he gazed down at the siblings and grinned heartily. “We haven’t had new islanders in quite some time. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like, unless you’re unkind, of course.”
“Thank you,” Klaus said, as kindly as he could. “Friday has told us a few things about the island. It sounds quite interesting.”
“It depends on how you look at it,” Ishmael said. “Even if you want to leave, you’ll only have the opportunity once a year. In the meantime, Friday, why don’t you show them to a tent, so they can change their clothes? We should have some new woolen robes that fit you nicely.”
“We would appreciate that,” Violet said. “Our concierge uniforms are quite soaked from the storm.”
“I’m sure they are,” Ishmael said, twisting a strand of beard in his fingers. “Besides, our custom is to wear nothing but white, to match the sand of the islands, the healing clay of the pool, and the wool of the wild sheep. Friday, I’m surprised you are choosing to break with tradition.”
Friday blushed, and her hand rose to the sunglasses she was wearing. “I found these in the wreckage,” she said. “The sun is so bright on the island, I thought they might come in handy.”
“I won’t force you,” Ishmael said calmly, “but it seems to me you might prefer to dress according to custom, rather than showing off your new eyewear.”