“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 t
heir 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 matter 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.