“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 Esmé’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 of 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 stomac
h, 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! / 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. T
he 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.”