The Vanishing Island by Barry Wolverton Page B

admiral raised his pipe to his mouth, Bren could once again see the dark shape under his white linen sleeve.
    â€œDo you mind if I ask about your tattoo?”
    Admiral Bowman looked at Bren, and then at his sleeve. He pulled it up to reveal the exact tattoo Bren had seen on the dead sailor—a black tulip, cupped by the large V with the smaller Z and T on each side. The admiral looked at it as if just now remembering it was there.
    â€œ Volgorde van de Zwarte Tulp ,” he said. “The Order of the Black Tulip.”
    Bren leaned closer.
    â€œI’m afraid my tattoo has outlived the brotherhood,” he continued. “The Order was once an elite group of Netherlanders, committed to exploration of the extraordinary. Yousee, in our culture, the black tulip is a sort of Holy Grail. All attempts to find or cultivate a truly black tulip, which would be the rarest of rare plants, have failed. Some say it is impossible, that nothing in nature can be black, except in death. Thus the black tulip has come to symbolize the impossible—things that defy nature and religion. Immortality, even. Needless to say, membership in the Order was not easily earned.”
    â€œI’d love to hear how you earned yours,” said Bren, relishing the idea of swapping tales in the Explorers’ Club.
    The admiral said nothing for a minute, then began: “We were in the Sea of Norway. . . .” His tone was reflective, not boastful. “We were hunting narwhal—the wealthy pay handsomely for their tusks—when our boat was attacked by a two-tusked male. This was a light schooner, mind you, not like the sturdier yachts I sail now. I was belowdecks helping the cook fetch supplies when a pair of tusks came straight through the hull. One speared the cook through the gut, the other through the throat, impaling him against the hull. I went to him, but whatever his last words were to be, they drowned in blood. The narwhal began thrashing about, trying to free himself, threatening to shake the boat to timbers. In the cook’s hand was his cleaver—we had gone below to get meat for supper. I grabbed the cleaver and the lower tusk and hacked at it viciously until I hadcut through. The enraged narwhal then wrenched itself violently away from the boat, breaking off the other tusk by accident, leaving it in the cook’s throat.”
    Bren’s mouth was half open, vividly imagining the impaled cook spurting blood and the admiral battling the horned whale.
    â€œThe cook gave his life, but I got all the credit. We plugged the holes and sailed home, and then I was honored to present our king with a real treasure for his Cabinet of Curiosities. Before then, the two-tusked narwhal was thought to be mythical, like the mermaid. I had proven what was thought impossible. The king had me describe the scene to one of his master painters, to commemorate the drama, and I got a small painting of my own,” he added, holding up the tattooed arm again.
    They both relaxed back in their chairs, as if both the telling and the hearing of the tale had been exhausting. The admiral took two long draws on the pipe he was smoking, savoring the aroma.
    â€œFunny you should ask about the Order,” said the admiral. “It’s why I asked you to join me, actually.”
    â€œIt is?”
    â€œIndirectly. I’ve been wondering, given your position . . . have you by chance attended to another man with a similar tattoo?”
    Bren froze. His throat went dry, and he felt his hands begin to sweat. “Another man?”
    He wasn’t sure why he played dumb, but something made him hesitate. The admiral had to be getting around to the paiza. And yet he had told Mr. Black it was worthless.
    â€œIt’s okay if you haven’t seen him,” said the admiral, smiling. “I won’t kick you out of the club.”
    Bren relaxed. “Is he a friend of yours? I mean, I assume if he has the same tattoo that he