Chapter Text
I remained at my post in Paris for six months before my longing for the sea became too great. In that time, I had caught Conseil’s despairing looks when I spent too long watching at the little boats that slipped up and down the Seine; he was relieved, I think, when I told him that I needed him to watch my desk at the museum while I made a week’s quick journey to the coast to meet a shipment of samples. Ordinarily, my loyal servant would never have allowed me to go alone, even for such a short journey as this—but Conseil, always perceptive, knew that I meant not to return.
“And monsieur is sure that monsieur would prefer to travel by himself?” he asked, setting aside the papers he was organizing to peer at my face. His expression was carefully guarded.
“Monsieur is quite sure, Conseil.” I smiled a little, but I could not keep the heaviness out of my voice as I said, “Thank you.”
“As you say, monsieur. I’m sure it will be a pleasant journey.” He returned my smile and we went back to tidying my office together in silence. Later, after he had shaken my hand and gone home, I slipped a letter among my notes where it would not be found immediately. It was a more complete goodbye than I could bring myself to make in conversation, but it was not a sad note. I was too bursting with excitement to be somber. I gathered the latest revisions of my book, walked through the darkened museum once more, and went back to my little room to feign sleep until the hour that I had determined to meet a driver. In the few moments I dreamed, my vision was filled with blue, rippling light and flitting colorful fish.
I was another four months at sea. If I had thought myself focused on the Abraham Lincoln, that was nothing compared to the intensity with which I scoured the sea now. I hung over the railing and struggled to distinguish the cresting of the waves from the motion of some body beneath them. A whale crested alongside the ship, once, and my heart nearly stopped beating before I realized that its back was too smooth and curved to be the hull I sought.
I barely slept. I ate only what could be carried up to the deck and eaten without much thought. The few clothes I had brought with me began to fray and go rough, but I only noticed as far as to compare their discomfort to the superior clothing I had been accustomed to not so long before.
Less than a year. I had not fended off the hollow, aching greed for the ocean—for a return to the Nautilus—for even a full year. My terror was forgotten. Over and over, a few minutes at a time, I would fall deeply asleep and find myself standing in the Grand Saloon. The viewing window opened before me, and there, just beyond the glass, was an endless garden of coral filled with more fish than even Conseil could ever hope to classify. And over and over, as I stepped forward to press my hands against the glass, the vision disappeared and I was back in my berth.
It was during one such restless night that I forced myself to sleep once more and immediately dropped back into the scene. The glass was piercing cold against my palms. I struggled to make out the details of the fauna, but then the Nautilus’s electric light switched on, illuminating the water and all its inhabitants. An enormous pink fish with a fan-shaped tail like a peacock swam lazily before me, followed by some long, eel-like creature which moved through the water by bending and extending its body like a caterpillar.
I failed to identify any of the creatures my subconscious had conjured for me, but I cared not. All I could do was drink in the fanfare of color and motion which filled my entire view.
“Marvelous, isn’t it, Professor?”
Reluctantly, I tore my gaze from the viewing window and turned to the figure at my left elbow. Captain Nemo stood at my side, his face transformed by one of the brilliant smiles which were reserved for his ship and the wonders of the sea. He glanced over to me and the smile softened when he caught the amazement in my own expression.
I awoke so suddenly that I was upright and out of my bunk before I was fully aware of my surroundings. My chest felt constricted as though by an iron band; I clutched at it out of instinct, as though I would be able to claw away the arresting pain which pierced me.
My breathing stuttered back to its usual rhythm as I looked around at my dark, empty berth. My room was just above the water line, and I could hear the sea’s massive volume hissing and swirling past the hull—but no other noise. I needed air.
I collected my coat and the revisions to my book before I went up on deck; if I was not to sleep any more, I could at least try to keep myself immersed in work when I was not scanning the horizon in quickly-fading hope. The night was cold, and the stars shone bright on the water, which was smooth with lack of wind. We had been making good time under sail, but if there was no breeze by tomorrow, the captain would switch over to the steam engine.
One of the sailors had left a lantern burning next to a coil of rope. I settled myself down, papers stacked precariously on my leg, and tried to limit my glances at the sea as much as possible. Even so, the low light made it difficult to be productive, and sitting still in the cold made me stiff more quickly than I had hoped. It was barely a quarter of an hour before I stood once more, bound my notes back into their cord, and resumed my pacing along the rail.
As I tried to identify the outline of some small island on the dark horizon, I heard a sound so familiar that it took me several seconds to realize that it was out of place: the creak of a hatch opening. I nearly dropped my manuscript in my rush to reach the rail and hang myself over the side to scour the water below.
There—I barely allowed myself to believe what I saw!—there was a dark, ridged hull, and that familiar flat platform atop it, and two dark figures standing on it. My first instinct was to shout to them, but I somehow contained myself to merely waving my arms like a stranded man who had finally spotted a sail in the distance.
One of the figures pointed up at me and spoke to the other in a low, urgent voice. I thought I recognized the cadence of the first mate as he spoke in that mysterious language.
“It’s me! Professor Aronnax!” I called, as soft as I could stand. “Where is the captain?”
“The captain, Professor Aronnax?” a voice said from close behind me. “He is in his quarters. Is anything wrong?”
I turned to see my ship’s first mate, his expression confused and disapproving. He was a short man, his dark hair greying and sparse. I tried to move in front of his view, but we were close enough to the rail that he could easily lean down and see what I had been peering at.
“The ship!” he breathed before spinning about and pushing past me. “The mystery ship! Quick!”
His shouts electrified me with purpose. I had not a moment to spare; no one would listen to my explanations, much less allow me to disembark to return to the Nautilus—and I suspected that that great ship would not stay on the surface long now that the alarm had been sounded. I hurriedly checked the cord which bound my notes and threw them down to the Nautilus; one of the two figures reached up to catch them reflexively as they neared him.
The next step took a good deal more courage on my part, but the knowledge that I had only one way to be reunited with my manuscript fortified me. With one last look over my shoulder, I swung one leg over the ship’s rail and took a moment to ensure that my trajectory would not send me crashing down onto the Nautilus.
One of the figures down on the platform cried out as I remembered to shuck my coat for ease of swimming and moved my other leg over the rail, now perched against it and holding on with all my might. The drop was intimidating, yes, but I was not a poor swimmer, and besides, after all I had seen I felt that I could hardly be afraid of the still, dark water.
Footsteps behind me urged me forward. As the moment finally came, I must report that I felt no fear, but only excitement. I pushed off with my legs and experienced the brief, perfect freedom of falling—and then the crash of the freezing water around me suddenly illuminated my plan’s failings. My swimming skills would be no good if I were too shocked by the cold to use them.
I kicked with what strength I could muster and I thought I must have been nearing the surface by the time a strong hand grabbed my shirt and hauled me bodily onto the platform. My savior did not stop there, but rather pulled me upright, gripped my arm, and tugged me through the hatch and down the staircase with no thought for my stumbling. It was only once we were halfway down and the hatch had been closed behind us that I was allowed to collapse and wipe the water from my face with shaking hands.
“That was reckless of you, Professor,” a familiar voice said in firm, unaccented French. I looked up to see Captain Nemo standing over me, his shirtsleeves soaked up to his elbows and his expression cool.
I smiled.