The Unmapped Sea (13 page)

Even in a storybook it would be hard to believe such creatures could exist.

T
HEY ALL WERE ENTRANCED WITH
the dinosaurs, but there was more to see, and the longer they stayed near the bones, the hungrier the Incorrigibles looked, so Penelope encouraged the group to move on. “Who knows what wonders may lie within the next room?” she playfully coaxed. “Flying carpets? Magic lanterns? A piece of cheese that once was part of the moon?”

“I hope it's cheese,” said Beowulf. The others agreed that cheese would be best. Clearly all the children were ready for a snack. But the next room contained one object only, and a rather ordinary-seeming one at that. It stood on a simple pedestal, in the dead center of the room.

The twins looked scornful. “It's a seashell,” one scoffed.

“We could find that on the beach,” the other added.

“It is very pretty,” Penelope said. It was a lovely shell, no question, but after fossilized ferns and dinosaur bones, even she found it disappointingly ordinary.
“Is it the kind that lets you hear the ocean if you press it to your ear?”

“It will do that, certainly. Any seashell would,” said Dr. Martell. “But do not be deceived by its commonplace appearance! This shell came to me by way of an old sailor, who claimed to have found it on a strange tropical island, in the middle of an unmapped sea. It is an enchanted shell,” he continued, in a marvelous storyteller's voice, “and there is no other like it, anywhere. At least, that is the story. This, my friends, is the Seashell of Love.”

“Ugh! Does it make you fall in love with someone?” one of the twins asked in horror.

“Does it make someone fall in love with you?” Veronika inquired, clasping her hands to her heart.

Dr. Martell smiled. “Nothing so dramatic as that. But according to the story, if you lay so much as a fingertip on this seashell, you have no choice but to tell the truth about whom you love.”

Julia gasped and grabbed Max so hard he spilled his milk bottle all over himself and the floor. Master Gogolev coughed violently into a handkerchief.

“I don't believe that for a minute!” the other twin exclaimed, yet they both hid their hands behind their backs.

“Quite understandable. I wouldn't believe it either, if I were you,” Dr. Martell said. “Even so . . . would anyone like to touch it?”

Oh, the downcast eyes, the anxious glances! Dr. Martell nodded. “As I thought! Well, perhaps some of you will choose differently in private. That's it for the tour. Feel free to wander around the museum. If you have any questions, I won't be far off.”

W
ITH THE SOLE EXCEPTION OF
Penelope, who found the seashell a fine specimen in its own right and worthy of being sketched, everyone soon found a reason to leave the room. Julia excused herself to go clean up Max, whose pants were now soaked, while Master Gogolev went in search of a mop to clean the floor. The children asked permission to return to the dinosaur bones, which Penelope granted only after she had extracted a no-gnawing promise from the Incorrigibles.

None of them had touched the Seashell of Love; no one had come within six feet of it. And yet the very idea that their romantic secrets might be pried out of their hearts seemed to create, in each of them, an overwhelming desire to confess.

Master Gogolev was the first to crack. He returned with the mop, but instead of mopping, he stood near
Penelope and sighed like a broken pipe organ.

“Julia!” he wheezed. “Julia!”

Penelope looked up from her sketch pad. “Are you looking for the baby's nurse?” she inquired. “For I believe she is changing Max's pants.”

“Julia is the one I love.” He held up a hand. “I know what you are thinking, Miss Lumley. Julia, of all people! It is absurd—”

Penelope interrupted, for she had no wish to hear more. “I assure you, Master Gogolev, I have no opinion whatsoever on the matter—”

“She is no beauty, I know,” he went on. “Her thoughts are trivial and uninformed. She is anxious. Selfish. Incompetent. Yet there is something . . . her sad look, her stooped shoulders, her nervous, darting glance. Ah! It pierces me to the core!”

It was hard to know what kind of response would be appropriate to such a revelation. Penelope had to think for a moment. “I wish you much happiness,” she said at last.

Master Gogolev groaned and clenched his fists. “Happiness! That is the one thing I can never have.” From somewhere not too far off, Max wailed like a siren. “I must go,” he said abruptly, and left.

Penelope had only just returned to her sketching
when Julia herself entered, still holding Max's milk-sodden pants. Warily, she circled the Seashell of Love. Now that they had been pointed out to her, Penelope could not help but notice her stooped shoulders and darting glance.

“That shell! I'm afraid to touch it,” Julia anxiously whispered.

“Those fossilized ferns were marvelous,” Penelope remarked, trying to steer the conversation to safer territory. “Why, you could make out every fossilized frond—”

“For if I did touch it, I would confess that I love . . .” Julia's glance darted this way and that. “The captain!”

“Captain Babushkinov?” Penelope exclaimed, quite shocked.

Julia's shoulders stooped even more. “He knows nothing of how I feel! I avoid him as much as I can, for he is my employer, and he is married, and a military man of rank, and he would never in a thousand years think of me that way. But there is something about him . . . that deep, rumbling voice . . . those mountainous shoulders . . . those fantastic whiskers, like the end of a broom. . . .” Her eyes darted in Penelope's direction. “He must never know. Never! Promise me you will keep my secret!”

“I promise,” Penelope said, and meant it, for she had every intention of pretending this conversation had never happened. Yet against her better judgment she found herself saying, “Still, I wonder if someone nearer your own age and station might be a more suitable object for your affection.”

“Nearer my station . . . do you mean Master Gogolev? Karl Romanovich Gogolev? The penniless tutor?” Julia laughed shrilly. “The captain is strong, no-nonsense. Nothing worries him; nothing frightens him! Gogolev is the opposite. Injured, brooding, sad. I wonder what makes him so sad? Perhaps I shall go tease him for a while, to amuse myself.” Then Julia left, and Penelope was left to ponder this new information alone.

T
HE
S
EASHELL OF
L
OVE GAVE
the children something to think about, too. The boys gathered among the ancient bones to talk the matter over. They even included Max, now in dry pants, but they made Master Gogolev wait outside, for this was boys' business. The question of who each of them loved was passed around like a dare.

“We love dinosaurs,” either Boris or Constantin announced.

“But our love is extinct,” the other added.

“It is more romantic that way,” Beowulf said approvingly. He clasped his hands to his heart. “Whereas: I am in love with art.” The others nodded, for who could find fault with this?

“I need no enchanted shell to reveal the truth of my heart,” Alexander proclaimed. “For your sister, Veronika Ivanovna Babushkinova, is my true love!”

The twins made gagging noises, but Alexander merely closed his eyes and smiled.

“Who does Maxie love, oojie-woojie-woo?” Beowulf asked, chucking the baby under one of his many chins.

“Mama!” the baby yelled. “Papa!”

Meanwhile, Veronika had pulled Cassiopeia to the far corner of the room. “Shhh!” she hissed, although she was the one speaking. “I have never told anyone, but I will tell you, Cassarina, for we are like sisters now. I am in love!”

“With Alexander?” Cassiopeia guessed, although the thought did not please her. “I mean, Sasha?”

Veronika laughed. “No. Sasha is a boy, a sweet little boy. Come closer and I will say it in your ear.” Cassiopeia did as she was asked; she stretched up on her toes, and Veronika bent low. “I am in love with Master Gogolev,” she whispered.

“Eww.” Cassiopeia made a face.

Veronika straightened and gave a joyous twirl. “He does not know, of course! He thinks I am a silly girl, a bad student, a spoiled child. And I am! But is it not romantic to be in love with your tutor? When I am old enough to marry, he will be an old man, stooped and wrinkled, and so it can never be, for I will require a husband who is handsome and rich and able to fight duels in my name. Mama says so. But for now . . . oh, it is terrible, wonderful, to have such a secret!”

“I am not in love with anyone but me.” Cassiopeia sounded relieved.

“That is because you are only a child, Princess Cassarina. Just wait till you are older,” Veronika said, not unkindly. But Cassiopeia looked to be in no rush.

T
HE
E
IGHTH
C
HAPTER
This time the postal service truly outdoes itself.

B
ABY NURSES IN LOVE WITH
captains! Tutors in love with baby nurses! The revelations of Julia and Master Gogolev had left Penelope grateful to be spared this particular form of madness. “Still, the distraction of these lovesick Russians has worked wonders in keeping me from thinking of Simon—whoops! Well, until now, anyway,” she thought, and took out a fresh pencil with which to draw, for the first had already grown dull.

Her sketch of the troublemaking seashell was soon
finished. She looked it over and was pleased; it would make a useful addition to her planned lesson on the difference between crustaceans and mollusks. “The Mollusk of Love,” she thought, and chuckled at the absurdity of it all. “Family curses are one thing, but honestly—a magical mollusk? Impossible!”

Yes, impossible, and yet important distinctions could be made between the unlikely and the impossible, as she herself had recently noted. She was alone in the room, and unobserved. If anything, well . . .
unusual
. . . should transpire between Penelope and the mysterious Seashell of Love, no one would be the wiser. Ought she? Dare she?

(No doubt you are asking yourself: “What would
I
have done in such a situation?” Consider how such seemingly minor decisions can have life-changing consequences: A bowl of leftover soup carelessly poured down a sink causes a clogged drainpipe and a call to the plumber. The soup pourer is charmed by the plumber, and the plumber by the soup pourer. Love blossoms, marriage ensues, a new family is begun—“And that is why we named you Piper,” your parents never grow tired of saying. All because of the soup!)

But with so much on her mind already, Penelope
was in no mood for an unexpected plot twist. “What would Agatha Swanburne do?” she asked herself, and chose the path of reason with a spoonful of caution thrown in. “As the wise founder herself once advised, ‘If you wish to resist temptation, put it in a locked safe.' Since I have no intention of touching that seashell—none whatsoever, not a smidge!—best to leave the room at once.”

To that end, she packed up her drawing supplies and returned to the bone room. Julia and Master Gogolev were nowhere to be seen, but the children were happily engaged. Boris and Constantin squabbled about what was admittedly a hypothetical situation—in a fight between a megalosaurus and Captain Babushkinov, who would win?—and the Incorrigibles staged a shadow-puppet show for a delighted Baby Max, based on their favorite plots from the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books. Veronika was unfamiliar with the tales of Edith-Anne Pevington and her pet pony, Rainbow, but the interpretive dances she made up on the spot were full of graceful gallops and much prancing.

Penelope discreetly checked the dinosaur bones for signs of tooth marks; there were none. Satisfied that all was well, she allowed herself to wander farther, past the daguerreotypes and fern fossils and nutshells, past
the ostrich egg and the whale baleen. Soon she found herself at the door of a small, out-of-the-way room that had not been included on their tour. As she stepped inside, she felt a flutter of anticipation—what sort of remarkable oddity might this room contain? A walrus tusk, perhaps? A quill pen that had once belonged to Shakespeare?

No such luck. Before her were shelves of junk: old glass bottles by the dozen, haphazardly arranged, their cork stoppers still in place. They were filthy with mud and crusted over with barnacles, and the whole room smelled faintly of rum.

“Mysterious, don't you think?” Dr. Martell said, startling her. She turned. The doctor stood by the window, near a pile of wooden crates.

“Mysterious, don't you think?” Dr. Martell said, startling her.

“It is a collection of old bottles,” she said, once her heart had slowed. “I see no mystery about it.”

“On the contrary; these bottles pose quite a puzzle. They've been washing up on the beach for months. Where do they come from? I wish I knew. I haven't had time to examine them thoroughly yet. The latest ones are still in these crates.” He checked his watch. “Now you must excuse me; I only came in here to collect the dead flies from the windowsills. It's time to feed the carnivorous plants.”

The doctor left her alone with the mysterious bottles. Idly, she picked one up. The pale green glass was too dirty to see through. She tipped the bottle and something rattled inside.

Now curious, she tugged at the cork. After several hard twists, it came out with a loud
pop
. She wrinkled her nose at the strong whiff of rum and seaweed and other smells of the briny deep. The bottle's contents remained wedged inside.

“A hairpin will do the trick,” she thought, and slipped one loose from her bun. She turned the bottle upside down and used the pin to pry out the treasure within. It was a small scroll of paper, crinkled and smudged, but still readable, once she unfurled it and smoothed it flat with both hands. “Dear Miss Lumley,” it began. “How goes the war? Hard to believe I'm still at sea, the captive of these pirate rogues . . .”

“Simon!” She looked around to share her amazement, but she was alone, save for the bottles and whatever dead flies Dr. Martell had missed. Frantically she took more bottles off the shelves, popped their corks, and extracted the notes from each.

. . . two weeks have passed, or three, it's hard to keep count. The ship is lost, I'm locked in the brig
and there's no navigator above decks. A frustrating situation, for sure!

. . . finally my captors have let me out for a look at the stars. Thank goodness for my sextant! We're far off course, but I think I can steer us safe home, if they'll let me. . . .

Still becalmed, with no sign of wind. Only hardtack and salted beef to eat. On the bright side, I've learned some rousing sea chanteys. . . .

Months late, sea stained, and delivered to the wrong address by the notoriously unreliable Tidal Post, but there they were at last: the notes from Simon Harley-Dickinson, written and tossed overboard during his captivity at sea, as often as he could find a scrap to write upon.

Stunned, she sat on the crate and spread the notes before her. “That they should wash up in Brighton, of all places!” she thought. “Surely this is the oddest thing in the whole museum of oddities.”

Eager to share her discovery, she went in search of Dr. Martell. She found him near the Seashell of Love, wielding the mop that Master Gogolev had carelessly
left there. “Dr. Martell, I have solved your mystery,” she cried, rushing in. “I can tell you where the bottles came from. Unlikely as it seems, they are addressed to me. They were tossed in the sea by an acquaintance of mine. His name is—”

“Miss Lumley, careful!”

In her haste she did not notice the puddle of milk, which the good doctor was about to mop up. She stepped in it and slipped; her arms flew into the air and she seized the nearest object to prevent herself from falling.

“Simon! Simon Harley-Dickinson!” she finished, breathless. Then she looked at her hands. Both of them were firmly planted on the Seashell of Love.

“Simon Harley-Dickinson,” she said again, in a whisper. Slowly she peeled her hands off the shell. What was this strange feeling that washed over her? Had the floor shifted beneath her feet? All at once her heart seemed too big for her rib cage.

The mop clattered to the floor as Dr. Martell rushed to her side. “Miss Lumley, are you all right?”

“Quite all right, thank you.” The late-afternoon sunbeams that streamed through the window positively glittered in the air. The sweet winter birdsong of a distant robin—or was it a wren?—could not have
been more vivid if the bird itself had perched on her shoulder. Even her skin had changed: It felt sheer as a veil, as if what was inside of her and outside of her was all one and the same.

Was it possible, after all? Was the Seashell of Love no ordinary mollusk?

Could
she be in love with Simon?

T
HE WALK BACK TO THE
hotel was a quiet and pensive one, for all of them. Each head was full of new thoughts and new ideas, and none of the intrepid museumgoers—not even Baby Max, who could now whinny like a pony and move his chubby arms up and down with a dancer's grace—saw the world in quite the same way as they had before.

This is the whole purpose of museums, of course. One does not go merely to collect facts and souvenirs and picture postcards, but to enlarge one's notion of all that has been, and all that is, and all that might be. In this way we begin to understand what part each of us was born to play in the marvelous tale of existence. Put another way: We enter museums to look at the exhibits, but when we come out, it is ourselves we see more clearly. (Remember this the next time some well-intended adult suggests you spend a rainy afternoon
reorganizing your sock drawer. “No!” you must loudly protest. “I wish to go to the mew-eezum, and enlarge my sense of life's possibilities.” Remarkable adventures have blossomed from just such a request!)

As for Penelope, she felt so changed by her adventure in the mew-eezum that she doubted she would recognize herself in a looking glass. On the way there, she had resolved not to think of Simon at all; now she could think of nothing but Simon. “No doubt he is reading my letter at this very moment,” she fretted, “which means he will soon arrive in Brighton. And when he does . . . oh, what shall I do?”

What
should
she do? Tell him about her epiphany and hope for the best? Or pretend she had never laid eyes, or hands, on the Seashell of Love, and try to carry on as before?

“I beg your pardon, Miss Lumley.” It was Master Gogolev, walking alone. Julia was doing her own carriage pushing now. Since the two of them had resurfaced at the museum, they had given each other a wide berth, which is a sailor's way of describing two ships that are trying not to sail too close to one another.

“Forgive my boldness,” he went on, “but there is something I have been wishing to say to you. It struck me like a thunderbolt, the first moment I saw you! But
it is personal, and I hope you do not take offense.”

Something personal? Thunderbolts? Penelope did not like the sound of this one bit. “You—you may say whatever you wish,” she stammered, “but really, Master Gogolev, there is no need . . .”

“I wish to compliment you,” he said, “on the shade of your tresses.”

“My dresses?” Nearly all of Penelope's dresses were brown, more or less, including the one she had on. It was a practical garment, clean and mended, but the color was hardly one to attract compliments. Or so she had thought.

“Your
tresses
. By which I mean, your hair. The children's, too. Your four heads are like four oak trees in autumn, their russet leaves dancing in the wind.” His own dark hair whipped across his face in the brisk ocean breeze, but he made no move to push it away. “How sad and beautiful are the words I just spoke! They fill my heart with joy and despair, for my dancing days are over. No doubt you have been wondering about my limp.”

In fact, he had no limp, at least not that Penelope had noticed, but his train of thought did seem to be running along several tracks at once. She wondered if Julia had upset him somehow at the museum.
Perhaps he had confessed his feelings to her, and been rebuffed, and now he was half mad with a broken heart? Was this what lay in store for her, too, now that she had entered the perilous terrain of love? Would she too end up prattling nonsense to near-strangers, and going out in the cold without the sense to put on a hat?

“In my youth, I was a dancer,” he went on. “How ambitious I was, and how foolish! One day, though I was warned against it, I attempted the legendary double-quintuple pirouette: five pirouettes on my left foot, followed immediately by five more on my right. It is a very difficult spin,” he added. “Almost impossible.”

“I should think so.” Personally she could not imagine such a feat. Then again, she had been known to get dizzy playing ring-around-the-rosy.