Twain envied Verne. He seemed able to write at any time and under any circumstance. As of late, all Twain could think about was the death of his wife, Olivia, and the death of his daughters. Susy by disease, Jean, drowned in a tub while having a fit, and Clara, married and gone from him, living somewhere in Europe, a place unbeknownst to him since beginning his wanderings. He hoped her life was good. He hoped he would find her again someday. He hoped even more that some of his old self would return to him, like a lost dog, worn out and tired, looking for a familiar bed, a currycomb, a pat on the head and a good meal.
As the cart clattered along, Twain noted the beautiful coast. Perhaps this was the key to Verne’s success. A beautiful view. The Casbah was interesting and exciting in its own way, but it wasn’t beautiful, and too much excitement and noise did not a good writer make. Here you had the ocean and the shoreline with natural white sand, and there were the rocks upon which the ocean foamed, and way out beyond that fine blue water, a thin brown strip that was Africa, the coast of Morocco from which he had come.
As they neared Verne’s residence, Twain stopped the driver, paid him, and in spite of his old aching bones, decided to walk along the coast and wind his way to where Verne lived in a beautiful villa on a rise of white rocks overlooking the sea.
As he walked along the beach, his bag slung over his shoulder, Twain discovered a strange thing. A large black shape with something shiny attached to it lay near the ocean on the sand. At first he couldn’t place what it was. It appeared to be an oilskin bag with something metal hanging out of one end, but upon closer examination he was amazed to discover it was a seal. A seal with a metal object, a box, fastened to its head. There were a number of deep red cuts in the seal’s body, and a chunk had been taken out of one flipper by what were obviously some very nasty teeth.
Shark teeth, Twain figured.
Twain bent over the seal, nudged it with his foot. The seal opened one eye.
Very slowly the seal rolled over. Twain saw there was a cord around his neck, and fastened to that was a writing tablet without paper, and a stubby pencil. There was also a chain around the seal’s neck, and from that hung a pair of sand-sprinkled spectacles.
He discovered there was another thing even more amazing than a seal with a metal cap, pad and pencil, and reading glasses about its neck.
There were little thumbs growing from its flippers.
Four: The Great Jules Verne, Ned’s Story, a Shape beneath the Canvas
When Twain arrived at Verne’s villa pulling the seal on his formerly white coat, Verne was on the second-floor landing, sitting with pen and paper, working on a dark novel about Paris, thinking about how old he felt, the loss of his wife and children, who had gone off to live somewhere in France with the explorer Phileas Fogg.
The dirty bastard.
Verne tried to concentrate on his work.
He had submitted pages of his novel to his editor, but the editor had been appalled. Much too noir for them, lacked the glitter of his other novels, and they felt his readers would be disappointed.
It certainly was a dark book, and not optimistic in the least, but the thing was, Verne wasn’t feeling too optimistic right then, and the novel reflected that. He felt he had fallen into a trap of writing only what many were now calling children’s adventure stories. He longed to reach deeper and write darker. He wished he had his children back, and his wife had a hot croissant up her ass, and Fogg had one too. Neither croissant buttered, and both day old and stiff.
He did have his experiments, his plans for devices that he worked on from time to time, and they had of course made some impact on the world, but so far their use and knowledge of them were restricted primarily to himself and his servant, Passepartout, and to a handful of rich associates; the devices were far too expensive to give away, and patents had to be protected.
He was thinking about these things as he pondered his maligned manuscript with distracted concentration, so when he saw his old friend Samuel, Mark Twain to the world, he was surprised and heartened to have a break from his work and editorial troubles, as well as curious to discover what his bedraggled friend was pulling on top of his coat.
Downstairs, Verne met Twain in the front yard and saw what he had. When Verne spoke English, his French accent was noticeable, but not too heavy. He had been practicing his English for some time, and had learned much about American colloquialism from the works of Twain, though he still had the occasional French phrasing. When he spoke to his friend, he called him by his real name, Samuel.
When Twain saw Verne, he smiled. “Jules.”
“My friend, Samuel. You have a seal on your coat.”
“Yes, I do.”
“He is dead, monsieur?”
“No, he’s not. He’s been bitten by sharks, but he’s alive. See that metal hat. It’s bolted to his head. Fixed that way. Look at that stuff around his neck. What do you make of it?”
“I make nothing of it. Shall we put him in the barn?”
In the barn, Verne used a hand pump and water hose to wash down the seal, then examined his wounds. “We’ll need someone who can sew good stitches. I’ll make a call.”
When Verne left, Twain made the seal as comfortable as possible, saw a large canvas draped over a large form. At the bottom of the canvas, he could see something shiny. He wondered what was beneath the canvas, and under ordinary circumstance, might have taken a look, but he didn’t wish to leave the injured seal, and besides, his age had caught up with him a bit. Now that he had gotten comfortable, sitting on the ground, he didn’t want to get up unless it was absolutely necessary.
Verne went to the house, cranked the phone and spoke in Spanish. When he came back to the barn, Twain was holding the seal’s head up, giving him a drink from a water dipper.
“That is strange,” said Vern. “He takes that like a man.”
The seal raised its flipper, and working its thumb against the skin of the appendage, made a snapping sound.
“Well, I will be, how is it you Americans say? I be damn.”
“Close enough.”
The seal tapped the pad on its chest, took hold of the pen.
“My God,” Twain said. “He wants writing paper.”
“That is not possible.”
The seal snapped both thumbs against his flippers and made a kind of whistling sound with his mouth, then slapped both flippers against the pad and took hold of the pencil with one thumb and flipper and made a writing motion.
“Now I’ve seen it all,” Verne said.
“Not if he actually writes something, you haven’t.”
Verne ran to the house, procured paper and a better pencil. When he returned with the writing materials, the seal sat up on its hind end, folding its flipper-tipped tail beneath it, cocked its back against the water pump, placed the glasses on its nose, took the writing supplies and wrote in big block letters.
MY NAME IS NED. I WAS THE BOON COMPANION OF BUFFALO BILL CODY, WHO WAS EATEN BY SHARKS. I WAS INJURED BY SHARKS. I LIKE SLOW SWIMS AND BIG LIVE FISH AND SOMETIMES A BEACH BALL TO BALANCE ON MY NOSE, THOUGH I KNOW IT’S IMMATURE.
I DO NOT LIKE SHARKS.
I DO LIKE FISH. DID I MENTION THAT?
“Holy shit,” Twain said. “A goddamn note-writing seal.”
The seal continued to write, passing along pages as he filled them in his large block printing.
HERE IS MY STORY. I WAS MADE BY A MAN NAMED DOCTOR MOMO. HE LIVED ON AN ISLAND. I SPENT MUCH OF MY TIME WITH CAPTAIN BEMO ON THE NAUGHTY LASS. ONCE I WAS A REGULAR SEAL. NOW I AM SPECIAL.
“Holy Mother of God, give Jesus the apple,” Verne said. “I wrote a novel based on this very interesting man, Captain Bemo. Not all true, a novel mind you, with name changes, but with much biographical detail. This is amazing. This seal claims to have known the real Captain Bemo, on which my Nemo is based. I have also heard of this Momo. A scientist. About half-crazy was the rumor. H. G. Wells has written a story about him. He calls him Moreau.”
“Let him write, Jules,” Twain said.
I HELPED BEMO AND MOMO DO RESEARCH. I WAS ABLE TO DO THIS BECAUSE DOCTOR MOMO ENHANCED MY ALREADY CONSIDERABLE INTELLIGENCE WITH THIS DEVICE YOU SEE ON MY HEAD. HE DID THINGS TO MY BRAIN. AMPLIFIED IT. THE DEVICE COVERS MY BRAIN, PROTECTS IT. MOMO BECAME STRANGE. HE GRAFTED A HORSE PENIS ONTO HIMSELF. HE MADE PEOPLE OUT OF ANIMALS AND PIECES OF FLESH. BUFFALO BILL, WILD BILL HICKOK, ANNIE OAKLEY AND SITTING BULL ALL CAME TO MOMO’S ISLAND, HAVING CRASHED IN THE SEA. BUFFALO BILL WAS ONLY A HEAD. IT WAS IN A JAR POWERED BY BATTERIES AND SOME KIND OF LIQUID. THEY HAD THE FRANKENSTEIN MONSTER WITH THEM. THERE WAS A TIN MAN WHO WORKED FOR DOCTOR MOMO. HE AND THE MONSTER FELL IN LOVE. I THINK THEY MAY HAVE DROWNED ON THE NAUGHTY LASS, AS DID WILD BILL HICKOK AND ANNIE OAKLEY, AND I SUPPOSE SITTING BULL AND A WOMAN MOMO MADE NAMED CAT. BUFFALO BILL’S HEAD WAS EATEN BY SHARKS. I WAS BITTEN BY SHARKS. I SURE COULD USE SOME FISH.
“What happened to Momo and Bemo?” Verne asked.
Ned shook his head, wrote: I DO NOT KNOW. I THINK THEY ARE DEAD. MOMO’S BOAT RAMMED THE NAUGHTY LASS AND SUNK IT, I THINK. HE WAS PROBABLY ON BOARD. THE ONLY WAY HE COULD HAVE LIVED IS IF HE COULD LIVE IN PIECES, LIKE A PUZZLE. DO YOU LIKE THE DIME NOVELS ABOUT BUFFALO BILL CODY? DO YOU HAVE ANY FISH?
“I don’t have any fish,” Twain said, “but I do like the novels about Buffalo Bill. Can’t say they are well written, but they are entertaining. Ned, I am Samuel Clemens, though I go by the name Mark Twain as well, which is the name I write under. This is Jules Verne.”
Ned stiffened. His whiskers wiggled. He slapped his flippers together. He snatched up the pencil, wrote:
AFTER THE ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL AND THE DIME NOVELS, I LIKE YOU TWO BEST. ABOUT THE SAME, ACTUALLY. I HAVE READ HUCK FINN AND TOM SAWYER, AND I HAVE READ JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH, FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON, AND IF YOU WILL FORGIVE ME, I TRIED TO READ YOUR STORY ABOUT BEMO. HE WAS NOTHING LIKE THAT. HE WAS QUITE SHY, ACTUALLY. HE DID DO MUCH THAT YOU WROTE ABOUT, BUT NOT ALL OF IT. MIND YOU, I WASN’T THERE DURING ALL THOSE EVENTS, BUT I DID HAVE THE LUXURY OF KNOWING THE MAN.
HE HAD GAS PROBLEMS. THAT’S ANOTHER FACT NOT WELL KNOWN. YOU MIGHT WANT TO WRITE THAT DOWN IN CASE YOU DO A REVISED VERSION OF YOUR BOOK. SEALS DON’T REALLY MIND THAT, HOWEVER. REMEMBER. WE EAT RAW FISH. AND, OF COURSE, FISH EAT US. SHARKS TRIED TO EAT ME. I TRIED TO SAVE THE HEAD OF BUFFALO BILL… DID I SAY I DO NOT LIKE SHARKS AND THAT I WOULD LIKE SOME FISH?
“Yes,” Verne said, “you did. And I read something about Buffalo Bill being a living head powered by batteries. Some kind of accident. Saved by a scientist, some such thing…And I remember reading in the papers about part of The Wild West Show being lost over the Pacific Ocean. I think this little seal is telling the truth, Samuel.”
Ned slapped a flipper on the ground. Hard.
He wrote: OF COURSE I AM. DO I LOOK LIKE A LIAR TO YOU?
The man Verne had called arrived and stitched up Ned to the sound of grunts and squeals while Verne and Twain held the poor seal. Once, Ned was able to snatch up the pencil and paper Verne had provided. He wrote: WHERE’S THE ANESTHESIA? WANT IT. GOT TO HAVE IT. WANT IT BAD. TELL THIS HORRIBLE MAN TO GET OFF OF ME AND TAKE HIS NEEDLES WITH HIM. OH, YOU ASSHOLES.
Twain wrestled the pencil and paper away from Ned, said, “Sorry, Ned. For your own good.”
“My God,” the veterinarian said in French. “He writes.”
“Yes he does,” Twain said, being able to understand French well enough. “And neatly.”
“How is that possible?” asked the vet.
“It’s a trick.” Twain said.
“With mirrors and such?” the veterinarian asked.
Twain looked at Vern. They both looked at the vet.
Verne said, “Of course. Mirrors.”
Five: A Meal, Pleasant Conversation, a Duck Toy
That evening they dined in Verne’s fine dining room, waited on by a servant dressed in crisp black pants, white jacket and black bow tie. Verne was now dressed in smoking jacket and loose pants and Moroccan slippers. He had provided a similar outfit for Twain.
Earlier, while removing these items from his closet, Verne had stumbled over a red fez with a golden tassel that had been given him by a friend. He had never worn it. Ned saw this while waiting for Verne to supply fresh clothes for Twain. It was obvious to Verne that Ned was taken with it, so he gave it to the little seal, fastened it over the metal box on Ned’s head. Ned looked rather suave in the fez, like a seal of great importance and wealth with a harem.
With his stitches in place, Ned forgave them for holding him down. The pain had passed. And besides, he had a neat as hell red hat.
Ned was placed in a portable Victorian-style tub with fresh water. Next to it was a long low table on which sat bowls of fresh sardines, fish oil and wine. And, of course, a napkin. Floating on the water was a rubber duck toy. At first, Ned resented it, but discovered it squeaked when he squeezed it, and he eventually found it comforting. He balanced it on his nose and made seal sounds.
The servant, Passepartout, who had been with Verne for years, appeared to be totally unperturbed by an injured seal near the dining table in a tub with a rubber duck. He looked as if he had seen it all, and then some. He poured the seal’s wine with the same panache he poured all wine.
Upon completion of pouring, Ned took his pencil and pad from the little table and wrote: THANK YOU, KIND SIR.
In French, Passepartout told Ned he was quite welcome. Then, said the same in English.
Verne thanked Passepartout, and the servant went away, saying, “Very good, monsieur.”
“When we finish,” Verne said, “we will retire to the study for cigars.”
Ned took up his pad, wrote, and held up what he had written:
NO THANK YOU. SMOKING IS BAD FOR YOU.
“Very well,” Verne said. “Then, for you, smoked herring. Will that be sufficient?”
Ned wrote again, held up his pad on which he had written:
SMOKED HERRING IS NOT BAD FOR YOU. HOW MUCH SMOKED HERRING?
“A lot,” Verne said. “And tomorrow, I have another present for you. Something I designed some time ago.”
Ned, in anticipation of the herring, ate his sardines and drank his wine, dozed in his tub, dreamed of female seals with long eyelashes. From time to time the sound of the duck being squeaked could be heard.
Six: Cylinders from Space, a Hole in the Ground, a Strange Ray
While the three companions were enjoying dinner on the beautiful coast of Spain, on the outskirts of foggy London the first of the bullets, or cylinders as some described them, screwed open with a hiss of steam and a red and yellow wink of light.
The screwing motion caused the lid to fall off, smack in the dust. A crowd, which had gathered at the rim of the crater caused by the impact of the cylinder, watched carefully. They had been watching for nearly a half-hour.
“It’s opening,” said a short stocky man in the back of the crowd.
This was, of course, obvious. The short stocky man had been giving them a play-by-play since the crowd first arrived. As there was little to see other than the cylinder, he took it upon himself to describe the steam coming from the interior of the device, and was quick to describe it in excruciating detail, as if everyone present was blind.
“See the steam coming out. More steam than before. A lot of steam’s coming out,” he said.
This was true.
“Now the lid has fallen off. See that?”
Everyone saw that.
“Now there’s some light. Do you see the light?”
The light was pretty obvious. Red and yellow.
“There’s something moving in there. Did you see the shadow?”
Suddenly, without warning, a little man in the crowd screamed something impossible to understand, leaped on the explainer and began beating him. “We see it. We see it, you dumb bastard.”
Police arrived and promptly jerked the small man off of the explainer, hauled him away, stuck him in the back of a
police wagon. The police returned to the scene.
“Thank you, officers,” said the explainer. “He had gone mad, he had. Oh, look, look, the shadow is growing larger.”
Indeed, it had grown, and something was starting to come out of the cylinder.
“It’s a bloomin’ octopus,” said the explainer.
In fact, a tentacle, reminiscent of an octopus, was waving out of the opening, as if hoping to snag something floating in the air.
“They’ve got a bloomin’ octopus in that tube,” said the explainer. “Can you see that? A bloomin’ octopus. Now he’s comin’ out. More of him. You see that?”
The police officers looked at one another.
“Ah, two tentacles.”
The higher-ranking officer turned to the other. “Go let the little man out of the cage, will you?”
“Certainly.”
“It’s crawling out,” said the explainer.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the officer. “That is quite clear to all of us. Would you please shut your bleeding mouth.”
“Why, I can’t believe that. Did you hear that, friends? The officer told me to shut my bleedin’ —”
It was just one quick shot of the billy club, between the eyes, and down went the explainer. The little man who had been caged came back with the lower-ranked officer, stood with them, glanced down at the unconscious explainer.
“Should he awake,” said the officer, “one word from him, you have our permission to finish what you started.”
A shriek went up from the crowd.
A bulbous head with two red eyes peeked out of the mouth of the cylinder. Its two arms, which continued to wave, were joined by two others. It did very much look like an octopus.