The Vanishing Island by Barry Wolverton

to town?” said the admiral. “I’m a bit turned around.”
    Bren forgot all about Mr. Black. “Yes, of course! This way.”
    As they got closer to town, Bren noticed that the fashionable ladies, with their elaborate cattle-hair wigs and expensive dresses, took time to admire the dashing admiral. And Bren imagined that some of this admiration reflected on him, walking at his side, until he realized that his shirt and trousers were covered in filth.
    â€œSo are you an orphan?” said the admiral.
    â€œOh no,” said Bren. “My mother died two years ago, but my father is alive. He’s one of Rand McNally’s draftsmen.”
    â€œI just assumed . . . with your job, I mean . . .”
    â€œOh, that,” said Bren. “It’s more of a punishment than a job. I tried to stow away. My father wants me to apprentice for McNally, but I want to be a sailor.”
    â€œSpoken like someone who’s never lived on a ship,” said the admiral with a wry smile. “You really tried to stow away?”
    Bren felt himself blush, but he didn’t want to lie to the admiral. “Three times, actually. I know it’s wrong.”
    â€œI don’t know about that,” said the admiral, which was about the last thing Bren expected. “Any seaworthy crew would surely appreciate having an eager young ship’s boy.”
    Bren was so excited to hear this that he failed to see a large pile of horse manure and stepped right into it. If his companion noticed, he didn’t say so, and Bren didn’t care. “Would your ship by chance have use for an eager young ship’s boy?” Bren asked the question in Dutch to try and impress him.
    â€œI already have a very able one, I’m afraid,” said the admiral. “But if I may ask, what exactly has thwarted your previous attempts?”
    â€œMy father. And Mr. McNally.”
    â€œAh, powerful forces indeed are allied against you,” said the admiral, and suddenly Bren’s boots were made of lead. The admiral would have no desire to cross McNally, especially if they really were forging an alliance between Britannia and the Netherlands.
    â€œDon’t look so glum,” he continued. “McNally doesn’t strike me as the type to suffer fools. He must estimate your talents quite highly.”
    â€œI guess,” said Bren.
    â€œBut you’d rather explore the world than draw it, I take it?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œWould it surprise you,” said the admiral, “if I told you my first job on a ship came after I stowed away?”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œIndeed. My father was a descendent of the Frisians—theGermanic people who first settled the Netherlands. His ancestors helped King Rotter build the first earthworks to hold back the sea, and every generation of Bowman after worked on the dikes. Backbreaking work, Bren, and dangerous, too. The dikes are the only thing keeping our empire above water. And yet, these laborers could never rise above second class, even as our country grew in wealth and stature. It was the men who conquered the waters by ship who earned fame and fortune. The seafarers who abandoned their families for the unknown, and returned with ships full of gems and spices, fabrics and exotic foods and flowers.”
    â€œLike the orange and the tulip?” said Bren.
    â€œYes. The palace grounds of King Rotter were soon covered with boldly colored tulips, and in his private garden grew the West’s first orange tree, transplanted from Southeast Asia. But that’s ancient history. All I knew was what I could see with my own eyes, and I didn’t want to dig ditches and shovel dirt my whole life. Now look at me.”
    Bren did look at him. His stature, the way he carried himself, the way he confidently strode across the treacherous cobbled streets without the slightest stumble and without once stepping his magnificent black boots in a pile of