Post by Edwin on Oct 22, 2006 8:00:15 GMT -5
Text copyright © 2006 Lemony Snicket
CHAPTER Two
It is useless for me to describe to you how terri-
ble Violet, Klaus, and even Sunnt felt in the
hours that folled. Most people who have sur-
vived a storm at sea are so shaken by the expe-
rience that they never want to speak of it again,
and so if a writer wishes to describe a storm at
sea, his only method of research us to stand on
a large, wooden boat with a notebook and pen,
ready to take notes should a storm suddenly
strike. But I have already stood on a large,
wooden boat with a notebook and pen, ready to
take notes should a storm suddenly strike, and
by the time the storm cleared I was so shaken
---------------------------------------------------------------
by the experience that I never wanted to speak
of it again. So it is useless for me to describe the
force of the wind that tore through the sails as
if they were paper, and sent the boat spinning
like an ice-skater showing off. It is impossible
for me to convey the volume of rain that fell,
drenching the Baudelaires in freezing water so
their concierge uniforms clung to them like an
extra later of soaked and icy skin. It is futile for
me to portrat the streaks of lightning that clat-
tered down from the swirling clouds, striking
the mast of the boat and sendiong it toppling into
the churning sea. It is inadequate for me to
report on the deafening thunder that rang in the
Baudelaire’s ears, and it is superfluous for me
to recount how the boat began to tilt back and
forth, sending all of its contents tumbling into
the ocean: first the jar of beans, hitting the sur-
face of the water with a loud glop!, and then the
spatulas, the lightning reflecting off their mir-
rored surfaces as they disappeared into the
swirling tides, and lastly the sheets Violet had
---------------------------------------------------------------
taken from the hotel laundry room and fash-
ioned into a drag chute so the boat would sur-
vive its drop from the rooftop sunbathing salon,
billowing in the stormy air like jellyfish before
sinking into the sea. It is worthless for me to
specify the increasing size of the waves rising
out of the water, first like shark fins, and then like
tents, and then finally like glaciers, their icy
peaks climbing higher and higher until they
finally came crashing down on the soaked and
crippled boat with an unearthly roar like the
laughter of some terrible beast. It is bootless for
me to render an account of the Baudelaire
orphans clinging to one another in fear and des-
peration, certain that at any moment they would
be dragged away and tossed to their watery
graves, while Count Olaf clung to the harpoon
gun and the wooden figurehead, as if a terrible
weapon and a deadly fungus were the only
things he loved in the world, and it is of no
earthly use to provide a report on the front of
the figurehead detaching from the boat with a
---------------------------------------------------------------
deafening crackle, sending the Baudelaires
spinning in one direction and Olaf spinning in
the other, or the sudden jolt as the rest of the
boat abruptly stopped spinning, and a horrible
scaping sound came from beneath the shudder-
ing wood floor of the craft, as if a gigantic hand
were grabbing the remains of the Count Olaf
from below, and holding the trembling siblings
in its strong and steady grip. Certainly the
Baudelaires did not find it necessary to wonder
what had happened now, after all those terrible,
whirling hours in the heart of the storm, but
simply crawled together to a far corner of the
boat, and huddled against one another, too
stunned to cry, as they listened to the sea rage
around them, and heard the frantic cries of
Count Olaf, wondering if he were being torn
limb from limb by the furious storm, or if he,
too, had found some strange safety, and not
knowing which fate they wished upon the man
who had flung so much misfortune on the three
of them. There is no need for me to describe
---------------------------------------------------------------
this storm, as it would only be another layer of
this unfortunate onion of a story, and in any case
by the time the sun rose the next morning, the
swirling black clouds were already scurrying
away from the bedraggled Baudelaires, and the
air was silent and still, as if the whole evening
had only been a ghastly nightmare.
The children stood up unsteadily in their
piece of the boat, their limbs aching from cling-
ing to one another all night, and tried to figure
out where in the world they were, and how in
the world they had survived. But as they gazed
around at their surroundings, they could not
answer these questions, as they had never seen
anything in the world like the sight that awaited
them.
At first, it appeared that the Baudelaire
orphans were still in the middle of the ocean, as
all the children could see was a flat and wet
landscape something out in all directions, fading
into the gray morning mist. But as they peered
over the side of their ruined boat, the children
---------------------------------------------------------------
saw that the water was not much deeper than a
puddle, and this enormous puddle was littered
with detrirtus, a word which here means “all
sorts of strange items.” There were large pieces
of wood sticking out of the water like jagged
teeth, and long lengths of rope tangled into
damp and complicated knots. There were great
heaps of seaweed, and thousands of fish wrig-
gling and gaping at the sun as seabirds swooped
down from the misty sky and helped them-
selves to a seafood breakfast. There were what
looked like pieces of other boats – anchors and
portholes, railings and masts, scattered every
which way like broken toys – and other objects
that might have been from the boats’ cargo,
including shattered lanterns, smashed barrels,
soaked documents, and the ripped remains of
all sorts of clothing, from top hats to roller
skates. There was an old-fashioned typewriter
leaning against a large, ornate bird cage, with a
family of guppies wriggling through its keys.
There was a large, brass cannon, with a large
---------------------------------------------------------------
crab clawing its way out of the barrel, and there
was a hopelessly torn net caught in the blades
of a propeller. It was as if the storm had swept
away the entire sea, leaving all of its contents
scattered on the ocean floor.
“What is this place?” Violet said, in a hushed
whisper. “What happened?”
Klaus took his glasses out of his pocket,
where he had put them for safekeeping, and was
relieved to see they were unharmed. “I think
we’re on a coastal shelf,” he said. “There are
places in the sea where the water is suddenly
very shallow, usually near land. The storm must
have thrown our boat onto the shelf, along with
all this other wreckage.”
“Land?” Sunny asked, holding her tiny
hand over her eyes so she might see farther.
“Don’t see.”
Klaus stepped carefully over the side of the
boat. The dark water only came up to his knees,
and he began to walk around the boat in care-
ful strides. “Coastal shelves are usually much
---------------------------------------------------------------
smaller than this,” he said, “but there must be
an island somewhere close by. Let’s look for it.”
Violet followed her brother out of the boat,
carrying her sister, who was still quite short.
“Which direction do you think we should go?”
she asked. “We don’t want to get lost.”
Sunny gave her siblings a small smile.
“Already lost,” she pointed out.
“Sunny’s right,” Klaus said. “Even if we had
a compass, we don’t know where we are or where
we are going. We might as well head in any
direction at all.”
“Then I vote we head west,” Violet said,
pointing in the opposite direction of the rising
sun. “If we’re going to be walking for a while,
we don’t want the sun in our eyes.”
“Unless we find our concierge sunglasses,”
Klaus said. “The storm blew them awat, but
they might have landed on the same shelf.”
“We could find anything here,” Violet said,
and the Baudelaires had walked only a few steps
before they saw this was so, for floating in the
water was one piece of detritus they wished had
blown away from them forever. Floating in a
particularly filthy part of the water, stretched
out flat on his back with his harpoon gun lean-
ing across one shoulder, was Count Olaf. The
villain’s eyes were closed underneath his one
eyebrow, and he did not move. In all their mis-
erable times with the count, the Baudelaires had
never seen Olaf look so calm.
“I guess we didn’t need to throw him over-
board,” Violet said. “The storm did it for us.”
Klaus leaned down to peer closed to Olaf,
but the villain still did not stir. “It must have
been terrible,” he said, “to try and ride out the
storm with no kind of shelter whatsoever.”
“Kikbucit?” Sunny asked, but at the moment
Count Olaf’s eyes opened and the youngest
Baudelaire’s question was answered. Frowning,
the villain moved his eyes in one direct and
then the other.
---------------------------------------------------------------
“Where am I?” he muttered, spitting a piece
of seaweed out of his mouth. “Where’s my fig-
urehead?”
“Coastal shelf,” Sunny replied.
At the sound of Sunny’s voice, Count Olaf
blinked and sat up, glaring at the children and
shaking water out of his ears. “Get me some cof-
fee, orphans!” he ordered. “I had a very
unpleasant evening, and I’d like a nice, hearty
breakfast before deciding what to do with you.”
“There’s no coffee here,” Violet said,
although there was in fact an espresso machine
about twenty feet away. “We’re walking west,
in the hopes of finding an island.”
“You’ll walk where I tell you to walk,” Olaf
growled. “Are you forgetting that I’m the cap-
tain of this boat?”
“The boat is stuck in the sand,” Klaus said,
“It’s quite damaged.”
“Well, you’re still my henchpeople,” the vil-
lain said, “any my orders are that we walk west,
---------------------------------------------------------------
in the hopes of finding an island. I’ve heard about
islands in the distant parts of the sea. The prim-
itive inhabitants have never seen civilized
people, so they will probably revere me as a god.”
The Baudelaires looked at one another and
sighed. “Revere” is a word which here means
“praise highly, and have a great deal of respect
for,” and there was no person the children
standing before them, picking his teeth with a
bit of seashell and referring to people who lived
in a certain region of the world as “primitive.”
Yet it seemed that no matter where the Baude-
laires traveled, there were people either so
greedy that they respected and praised Olaf for
his evil ways, or so foolish that they didn’t notice
how dreadful he really was. It was enough to
make the children want to abandon Olaf there
on the coastal shelf, but it is difficult to aban-
don someone in a place where everyrhing is
already abandoned, and so the three orphans
---------------------------------------------------------------
and the one villain trudged together westward
across the cluttered coastal shelf in silence, won-
dering what was in store for them. Count Olaf
led the way, balancing the harpoon gun on one
shoulder, and interrupting the silence every so
often to demand coffee, fresh juice, and other
equally unobtainable breakfast items. Violet
walked behind him, using a broken banister she
found as a walking stick and poking at interest-
ing mechanical scraps she found in the muck,
and Klaus walked alongside the sister, jotting
the occasional note in his commonplace book.
Sunny cliumbed on top of Violet’s shoulders to
serve as a sort of lookout, and it was the
youngest Baudelaire who broke the silence with
a triumphant cry.
“Land ho!” she cried, pointing into the mist,
and the three Baudelaires could see the faint
shape of an island rising out if the shelf. The
island looked narrow and long, like a freight
train, and if they squinted they could see clus-
ters of trees and what looked like enormous
---------------------------------------------------------------
sheets of white cloth billowing in the wind.
“I’ve discovered an island!” Count Olaf
cackled. “I’m going to name it Olaf-Land!”
“You didn’t discover the island,” Violet
pointed out. “It appears that people already live
on it.”
“And I am their king!” Count Olaf pro-
claimed. “Hurry up, orphans! My royal subjects
are going to cook me a big breakfast, and if I’m
in a good mood I might let you lick the plates!”
The Baudelaires had no intention of licking
the plates of Olaf or anyone else, but neverthe-
less they continued walking toward the island,
maneuvering around the wreckage that still lit-
tered the surfacr of the shelf. They had just
walked around a grand piano, which was stick-
ing straight out of the water as if it had fallen
from the sky, when something caught the
Baudelaire eyes – a tiny white figure, scurrying
toward them.
“What?” Sunny asked. “Who?”
“It might be another survivor of the storm,”
---------------------------------------------------------------
Klaus said. “Our boat couldn’t have been the
only one in this area of the ocean.”
“Do you think the storm reached Kit
Snicket?” Violet asked.
“Or the triplets?” Sunny said.
Count Olaf scowled, and put one muddy fin-
ger on the trigger of the harpoon gun. “If that’s
Kit Snicket or some bratty orphan,” he said, “I’ll
harpoon her right where she stands. No ridicu-
lous volunteer is going to take my island away
from me!”
“You don’t want to waste you last harpoon,”
Violet said, thinking quickly. “Who knows
where you’ll find another one?”
“That’s true,” Olaf admitted. “You’re be-
coming an excellent henchwoman.”
“Poppycock,” growled Sunny, baring her
teeth at the count.
“My sister’s right,” Klaus said. “It’s ridicu-
lous to argue about volunteers and hench-
people when we’re standing on a coastal shelf
in the middle of the ocean.”
---------------------------------------------------------------
“Don’t be so sure, orphan,” Olaf replied.
“No matter where we are, there’s always room
for someone like me.” He leaned down close to
give Klaus a sneaky smile, as if he were telling
a joke. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”
It was an unpleasant question, but the
Baudelaires did not have time to answer it, as
the figure drew closer and closer until the chil-
dren could see it was a young girl, perhaps six or
seven years old. She was barefoot, and dressed
in a simple, white robe that was so clean she
could not have been in the storm. Hanging from
the girl’s belt was a large white seashell, and she
was wearing a pait of sunglasses that looked very
much like the ones the Baudelaires has worn as
concierges. She was grinning from ear to ear, but
when she reached the Baudelaires, panting from
her long run, she suddenly looked shy, and
although the Baudelaires were quite curious as
to who she was, they also found themselves
keeping silvent. Even Olaf did not speak, and
merely admired his reflection in the water.
---------------------------------------------------------------
When you find yourself tongue-tied in front
of someone you do not know, you might want
to remember something the Baudelaires’
mother told them long ago, and somethuing she
told me even longer ago. I can see her now, sit-
ting on a small couch she used to keep in the
corner f her bedroom, adjusting the straps of
her sandals with one hand and munching on an
apple with the otherm telling me not to worry
about the party that was beginning downstairs.
“People love to talk about themselves, Mr.
Snicket,” she said to me, between bites of
apple. “If you find yourself wondering what to
say to any of the guests, ask them which secret
code they prefer, or find out whom they’ve been
spying on lately.” Violet, too, could almost hear
her mother’s voice as she gazed down at this
young girl, and decided to ask her something
about herself.
“What’s your name?” Violet asked.
The girl fiddled wirh her seashell, and then
---------------------------------------------------------------
looked up at the eldest Baudelaire. “Friday,”
she said.
“Do you live on the island, Friday?” Violet
asked.
“Yes,” the girl said. “I got up early this
morning to go storm scavenging.”
“Storm scavawha?” Sunny asked, from Vio-
let’s shoulders.
“Everytime there’s a storm, everyone in the
colony gathers everything that’s collected on the
coastal shelf,” Friday said. “One never knows
when one of these items will come in handy. Are
you castaways?”
“I guess we are,” Violet said. “We were travel-
ing by boat when we got caught in the storm.
I’m Violet Baudelaire, and this is my brother,
Klaus, and my sister, Sunny.” She turned reluc-
tantly to Olaf, who was glaring at Friday suspi-
ciously. “And this is—“
“I am your king!” Olaf announced in a grand
voice. “Bow before me, Friday!”
---------------------------------------------------------------
“No, thank you,” Friday said politely. “Our
colony is not a monarchy. You must be exhausted
from the storm, Baudelaires. It looked so enor-
mous from shore that we didn’t think there’d be
any castawats this time. Why don’t you come
with me, and you can have something to eat?”
“We’d be most grateful,” Klaus said. “ Do
castaways arrive on this island very often?”
“From time to time,” Friday said, with a
small shrug. “It seems that everything eventu-
ally washes up on our shores.”
“The shores of Olaf-Land, you mean,”
Count Olaf growled. “I discovered the island,
so I get to name it.”
Friday peered at Olaf curiously from behind
her sunglasses. “You must be confused, sir, after
your journey through the storm,” she said.
“People have lived on the island for many, many
years.”
“Primitive people,” sneered the villain. “I
don’t even see any houses on the island.”
“We live in tents,” Friday said, pointing at
---------------------------------------------------------------
the billowing white cloths on the island. “We
grew tired of building houses that would only
get blown away during the stormy season, and
the rest of the time the weather is so hot that
we appreciate the ventilation that a tent pro-
vides.”
“I still say you’re primitive,” Olaf insisted,
“and I don’t listen to primitive people.”
“I won’t force you,” Friday said. “Come
along with me and you can decide for yourself.”
“I’m not going to come along with you,”
Count Olaf said, “and neither are my hench-
people! I’m Count Olaf, and I’m in charge
around here, not some little idiot in a robe!”
“There’s no reason be insulting,” Friday
said. “The island is the only place you can go,
Count Olaf, so it reallym doesn’t matter who’s in
charge.”
Count Olaf gave Friday a terrible scowl, and
he pointed his harpoon gun straight at the young
girl. “If you don’t bow before me, Friday, I’ll fire
this harpoon gun at you!”
---------------------------------------------------------------
The Baudelaires gasped, but Friday merely
frowned at the villain. “In a few minutes,” she
said, “all the inhabitants of the island will be out
storm scavenging. They’ll see any act of violence
you commit, any you won’t be allowed on the
island. Please point that weapon away from me.”
Count Olaf opened his mouth as if to say
something, but after a moment he shut it again,
which here means “looking quite embarrassed
to be following the orders or a young girl.”
“Baudelaires, please come with me,” Friday
said, and began to lead the way toward the dis-
tant island.
“What about me?” Count Olaf asked. His
voice was a little squeaky, and it reminded the
Baudelaires of other voices they had heard, from
people who were frightened of Olaf himself.
They had heard this voice from guardians of
theirs, and from Mr. Poe when the villain would
confront him. It was a tone of voice they had
heard from various volunteers when discussing
---------------------------------------------------------------
Olaf’s activities, and even from his henchmen
when they complained about their wicked boss.
It was a tone of voice the Baudelaires had heard
from themselves, during the countless times the
dreadful man has threatened them, and
promised to get his hands on their fortune, but
the children never thought they would hear it
from Count Olaf himself. “What about me?” he
asked again, but the siblings had already fol-
lowed Friday a short way from where he was
standing, and when the Baudelaire orphans
turned to him, Olaf looked like just another
piece of detritus that the storm had blown onto
the coastal shelf.
“Go away,” Friday said firmly, and the cast-
aways wondered if finally they had found a
place where there was no room for Count Olaf.
CHAPTER Two
It is useless for me to describe to you how terri-
ble Violet, Klaus, and even Sunnt felt in the
hours that folled. Most people who have sur-
vived a storm at sea are so shaken by the expe-
rience that they never want to speak of it again,
and so if a writer wishes to describe a storm at
sea, his only method of research us to stand on
a large, wooden boat with a notebook and pen,
ready to take notes should a storm suddenly
strike. But I have already stood on a large,
wooden boat with a notebook and pen, ready to
take notes should a storm suddenly strike, and
by the time the storm cleared I was so shaken
---------------------------------------------------------------
by the experience that I never wanted to speak
of it again. So it is useless for me to describe the
force of the wind that tore through the sails as
if they were paper, and sent the boat spinning
like an ice-skater showing off. It is impossible
for me to convey the volume of rain that fell,
drenching the Baudelaires in freezing water so
their concierge uniforms clung to them like an
extra later of soaked and icy skin. It is futile for
me to portrat the streaks of lightning that clat-
tered down from the swirling clouds, striking
the mast of the boat and sendiong it toppling into
the churning sea. It is inadequate for me to
report on the deafening thunder that rang in the
Baudelaire’s ears, and it is superfluous for me
to recount how the boat began to tilt back and
forth, sending all of its contents tumbling into
the ocean: first the jar of beans, hitting the sur-
face of the water with a loud glop!, and then the
spatulas, the lightning reflecting off their mir-
rored surfaces as they disappeared into the
swirling tides, and lastly the sheets Violet had
---------------------------------------------------------------
taken from the hotel laundry room and fash-
ioned into a drag chute so the boat would sur-
vive its drop from the rooftop sunbathing salon,
billowing in the stormy air like jellyfish before
sinking into the sea. It is worthless for me to
specify the increasing size of the waves rising
out of the water, first like shark fins, and then like
tents, and then finally like glaciers, their icy
peaks climbing higher and higher until they
finally came crashing down on the soaked and
crippled boat with an unearthly roar like the
laughter of some terrible beast. It is bootless for
me to render an account of the Baudelaire
orphans clinging to one another in fear and des-
peration, certain that at any moment they would
be dragged away and tossed to their watery
graves, while Count Olaf clung to the harpoon
gun and the wooden figurehead, as if a terrible
weapon and a deadly fungus were the only
things he loved in the world, and it is of no
earthly use to provide a report on the front of
the figurehead detaching from the boat with a
---------------------------------------------------------------
deafening crackle, sending the Baudelaires
spinning in one direction and Olaf spinning in
the other, or the sudden jolt as the rest of the
boat abruptly stopped spinning, and a horrible
scaping sound came from beneath the shudder-
ing wood floor of the craft, as if a gigantic hand
were grabbing the remains of the Count Olaf
from below, and holding the trembling siblings
in its strong and steady grip. Certainly the
Baudelaires did not find it necessary to wonder
what had happened now, after all those terrible,
whirling hours in the heart of the storm, but
simply crawled together to a far corner of the
boat, and huddled against one another, too
stunned to cry, as they listened to the sea rage
around them, and heard the frantic cries of
Count Olaf, wondering if he were being torn
limb from limb by the furious storm, or if he,
too, had found some strange safety, and not
knowing which fate they wished upon the man
who had flung so much misfortune on the three
of them. There is no need for me to describe
---------------------------------------------------------------
this storm, as it would only be another layer of
this unfortunate onion of a story, and in any case
by the time the sun rose the next morning, the
swirling black clouds were already scurrying
away from the bedraggled Baudelaires, and the
air was silent and still, as if the whole evening
had only been a ghastly nightmare.
The children stood up unsteadily in their
piece of the boat, their limbs aching from cling-
ing to one another all night, and tried to figure
out where in the world they were, and how in
the world they had survived. But as they gazed
around at their surroundings, they could not
answer these questions, as they had never seen
anything in the world like the sight that awaited
them.
At first, it appeared that the Baudelaire
orphans were still in the middle of the ocean, as
all the children could see was a flat and wet
landscape something out in all directions, fading
into the gray morning mist. But as they peered
over the side of their ruined boat, the children
---------------------------------------------------------------
saw that the water was not much deeper than a
puddle, and this enormous puddle was littered
with detrirtus, a word which here means “all
sorts of strange items.” There were large pieces
of wood sticking out of the water like jagged
teeth, and long lengths of rope tangled into
damp and complicated knots. There were great
heaps of seaweed, and thousands of fish wrig-
gling and gaping at the sun as seabirds swooped
down from the misty sky and helped them-
selves to a seafood breakfast. There were what
looked like pieces of other boats – anchors and
portholes, railings and masts, scattered every
which way like broken toys – and other objects
that might have been from the boats’ cargo,
including shattered lanterns, smashed barrels,
soaked documents, and the ripped remains of
all sorts of clothing, from top hats to roller
skates. There was an old-fashioned typewriter
leaning against a large, ornate bird cage, with a
family of guppies wriggling through its keys.
There was a large, brass cannon, with a large
---------------------------------------------------------------
crab clawing its way out of the barrel, and there
was a hopelessly torn net caught in the blades
of a propeller. It was as if the storm had swept
away the entire sea, leaving all of its contents
scattered on the ocean floor.
“What is this place?” Violet said, in a hushed
whisper. “What happened?”
Klaus took his glasses out of his pocket,
where he had put them for safekeeping, and was
relieved to see they were unharmed. “I think
we’re on a coastal shelf,” he said. “There are
places in the sea where the water is suddenly
very shallow, usually near land. The storm must
have thrown our boat onto the shelf, along with
all this other wreckage.”
“Land?” Sunny asked, holding her tiny
hand over her eyes so she might see farther.
“Don’t see.”
Klaus stepped carefully over the side of the
boat. The dark water only came up to his knees,
and he began to walk around the boat in care-
ful strides. “Coastal shelves are usually much
---------------------------------------------------------------
smaller than this,” he said, “but there must be
an island somewhere close by. Let’s look for it.”
Violet followed her brother out of the boat,
carrying her sister, who was still quite short.
“Which direction do you think we should go?”
she asked. “We don’t want to get lost.”
Sunny gave her siblings a small smile.
“Already lost,” she pointed out.
“Sunny’s right,” Klaus said. “Even if we had
a compass, we don’t know where we are or where
we are going. We might as well head in any
direction at all.”
“Then I vote we head west,” Violet said,
pointing in the opposite direction of the rising
sun. “If we’re going to be walking for a while,
we don’t want the sun in our eyes.”
“Unless we find our concierge sunglasses,”
Klaus said. “The storm blew them awat, but
they might have landed on the same shelf.”
“We could find anything here,” Violet said,
and the Baudelaires had walked only a few steps
before they saw this was so, for floating in the
water was one piece of detritus they wished had
blown away from them forever. Floating in a
particularly filthy part of the water, stretched
out flat on his back with his harpoon gun lean-
ing across one shoulder, was Count Olaf. The
villain’s eyes were closed underneath his one
eyebrow, and he did not move. In all their mis-
erable times with the count, the Baudelaires had
never seen Olaf look so calm.
“I guess we didn’t need to throw him over-
board,” Violet said. “The storm did it for us.”
Klaus leaned down to peer closed to Olaf,
but the villain still did not stir. “It must have
been terrible,” he said, “to try and ride out the
storm with no kind of shelter whatsoever.”
“Kikbucit?” Sunny asked, but at the moment
Count Olaf’s eyes opened and the youngest
Baudelaire’s question was answered. Frowning,
the villain moved his eyes in one direct and
then the other.
---------------------------------------------------------------
“Where am I?” he muttered, spitting a piece
of seaweed out of his mouth. “Where’s my fig-
urehead?”
“Coastal shelf,” Sunny replied.
At the sound of Sunny’s voice, Count Olaf
blinked and sat up, glaring at the children and
shaking water out of his ears. “Get me some cof-
fee, orphans!” he ordered. “I had a very
unpleasant evening, and I’d like a nice, hearty
breakfast before deciding what to do with you.”
“There’s no coffee here,” Violet said,
although there was in fact an espresso machine
about twenty feet away. “We’re walking west,
in the hopes of finding an island.”
“You’ll walk where I tell you to walk,” Olaf
growled. “Are you forgetting that I’m the cap-
tain of this boat?”
“The boat is stuck in the sand,” Klaus said,
“It’s quite damaged.”
“Well, you’re still my henchpeople,” the vil-
lain said, “any my orders are that we walk west,
---------------------------------------------------------------
in the hopes of finding an island. I’ve heard about
islands in the distant parts of the sea. The prim-
itive inhabitants have never seen civilized
people, so they will probably revere me as a god.”
The Baudelaires looked at one another and
sighed. “Revere” is a word which here means
“praise highly, and have a great deal of respect
for,” and there was no person the children
standing before them, picking his teeth with a
bit of seashell and referring to people who lived
in a certain region of the world as “primitive.”
Yet it seemed that no matter where the Baude-
laires traveled, there were people either so
greedy that they respected and praised Olaf for
his evil ways, or so foolish that they didn’t notice
how dreadful he really was. It was enough to
make the children want to abandon Olaf there
on the coastal shelf, but it is difficult to aban-
don someone in a place where everyrhing is
already abandoned, and so the three orphans
---------------------------------------------------------------
and the one villain trudged together westward
across the cluttered coastal shelf in silence, won-
dering what was in store for them. Count Olaf
led the way, balancing the harpoon gun on one
shoulder, and interrupting the silence every so
often to demand coffee, fresh juice, and other
equally unobtainable breakfast items. Violet
walked behind him, using a broken banister she
found as a walking stick and poking at interest-
ing mechanical scraps she found in the muck,
and Klaus walked alongside the sister, jotting
the occasional note in his commonplace book.
Sunny cliumbed on top of Violet’s shoulders to
serve as a sort of lookout, and it was the
youngest Baudelaire who broke the silence with
a triumphant cry.
“Land ho!” she cried, pointing into the mist,
and the three Baudelaires could see the faint
shape of an island rising out if the shelf. The
island looked narrow and long, like a freight
train, and if they squinted they could see clus-
ters of trees and what looked like enormous
---------------------------------------------------------------
sheets of white cloth billowing in the wind.
“I’ve discovered an island!” Count Olaf
cackled. “I’m going to name it Olaf-Land!”
“You didn’t discover the island,” Violet
pointed out. “It appears that people already live
on it.”
“And I am their king!” Count Olaf pro-
claimed. “Hurry up, orphans! My royal subjects
are going to cook me a big breakfast, and if I’m
in a good mood I might let you lick the plates!”
The Baudelaires had no intention of licking
the plates of Olaf or anyone else, but neverthe-
less they continued walking toward the island,
maneuvering around the wreckage that still lit-
tered the surfacr of the shelf. They had just
walked around a grand piano, which was stick-
ing straight out of the water as if it had fallen
from the sky, when something caught the
Baudelaire eyes – a tiny white figure, scurrying
toward them.
“What?” Sunny asked. “Who?”
“It might be another survivor of the storm,”
---------------------------------------------------------------
Klaus said. “Our boat couldn’t have been the
only one in this area of the ocean.”
“Do you think the storm reached Kit
Snicket?” Violet asked.
“Or the triplets?” Sunny said.
Count Olaf scowled, and put one muddy fin-
ger on the trigger of the harpoon gun. “If that’s
Kit Snicket or some bratty orphan,” he said, “I’ll
harpoon her right where she stands. No ridicu-
lous volunteer is going to take my island away
from me!”
“You don’t want to waste you last harpoon,”
Violet said, thinking quickly. “Who knows
where you’ll find another one?”
“That’s true,” Olaf admitted. “You’re be-
coming an excellent henchwoman.”
“Poppycock,” growled Sunny, baring her
teeth at the count.
“My sister’s right,” Klaus said. “It’s ridicu-
lous to argue about volunteers and hench-
people when we’re standing on a coastal shelf
in the middle of the ocean.”
---------------------------------------------------------------
“Don’t be so sure, orphan,” Olaf replied.
“No matter where we are, there’s always room
for someone like me.” He leaned down close to
give Klaus a sneaky smile, as if he were telling
a joke. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”
It was an unpleasant question, but the
Baudelaires did not have time to answer it, as
the figure drew closer and closer until the chil-
dren could see it was a young girl, perhaps six or
seven years old. She was barefoot, and dressed
in a simple, white robe that was so clean she
could not have been in the storm. Hanging from
the girl’s belt was a large white seashell, and she
was wearing a pait of sunglasses that looked very
much like the ones the Baudelaires has worn as
concierges. She was grinning from ear to ear, but
when she reached the Baudelaires, panting from
her long run, she suddenly looked shy, and
although the Baudelaires were quite curious as
to who she was, they also found themselves
keeping silvent. Even Olaf did not speak, and
merely admired his reflection in the water.
---------------------------------------------------------------
When you find yourself tongue-tied in front
of someone you do not know, you might want
to remember something the Baudelaires’
mother told them long ago, and somethuing she
told me even longer ago. I can see her now, sit-
ting on a small couch she used to keep in the
corner f her bedroom, adjusting the straps of
her sandals with one hand and munching on an
apple with the otherm telling me not to worry
about the party that was beginning downstairs.
“People love to talk about themselves, Mr.
Snicket,” she said to me, between bites of
apple. “If you find yourself wondering what to
say to any of the guests, ask them which secret
code they prefer, or find out whom they’ve been
spying on lately.” Violet, too, could almost hear
her mother’s voice as she gazed down at this
young girl, and decided to ask her something
about herself.
“What’s your name?” Violet asked.
The girl fiddled wirh her seashell, and then
---------------------------------------------------------------
looked up at the eldest Baudelaire. “Friday,”
she said.
“Do you live on the island, Friday?” Violet
asked.
“Yes,” the girl said. “I got up early this
morning to go storm scavenging.”
“Storm scavawha?” Sunny asked, from Vio-
let’s shoulders.
“Everytime there’s a storm, everyone in the
colony gathers everything that’s collected on the
coastal shelf,” Friday said. “One never knows
when one of these items will come in handy. Are
you castaways?”
“I guess we are,” Violet said. “We were travel-
ing by boat when we got caught in the storm.
I’m Violet Baudelaire, and this is my brother,
Klaus, and my sister, Sunny.” She turned reluc-
tantly to Olaf, who was glaring at Friday suspi-
ciously. “And this is—“
“I am your king!” Olaf announced in a grand
voice. “Bow before me, Friday!”
---------------------------------------------------------------
“No, thank you,” Friday said politely. “Our
colony is not a monarchy. You must be exhausted
from the storm, Baudelaires. It looked so enor-
mous from shore that we didn’t think there’d be
any castawats this time. Why don’t you come
with me, and you can have something to eat?”
“We’d be most grateful,” Klaus said. “ Do
castaways arrive on this island very often?”
“From time to time,” Friday said, with a
small shrug. “It seems that everything eventu-
ally washes up on our shores.”
“The shores of Olaf-Land, you mean,”
Count Olaf growled. “I discovered the island,
so I get to name it.”
Friday peered at Olaf curiously from behind
her sunglasses. “You must be confused, sir, after
your journey through the storm,” she said.
“People have lived on the island for many, many
years.”
“Primitive people,” sneered the villain. “I
don’t even see any houses on the island.”
“We live in tents,” Friday said, pointing at
---------------------------------------------------------------
the billowing white cloths on the island. “We
grew tired of building houses that would only
get blown away during the stormy season, and
the rest of the time the weather is so hot that
we appreciate the ventilation that a tent pro-
vides.”
“I still say you’re primitive,” Olaf insisted,
“and I don’t listen to primitive people.”
“I won’t force you,” Friday said. “Come
along with me and you can decide for yourself.”
“I’m not going to come along with you,”
Count Olaf said, “and neither are my hench-
people! I’m Count Olaf, and I’m in charge
around here, not some little idiot in a robe!”
“There’s no reason be insulting,” Friday
said. “The island is the only place you can go,
Count Olaf, so it reallym doesn’t matter who’s in
charge.”
Count Olaf gave Friday a terrible scowl, and
he pointed his harpoon gun straight at the young
girl. “If you don’t bow before me, Friday, I’ll fire
this harpoon gun at you!”
---------------------------------------------------------------
The Baudelaires gasped, but Friday merely
frowned at the villain. “In a few minutes,” she
said, “all the inhabitants of the island will be out
storm scavenging. They’ll see any act of violence
you commit, any you won’t be allowed on the
island. Please point that weapon away from me.”
Count Olaf opened his mouth as if to say
something, but after a moment he shut it again,
which here means “looking quite embarrassed
to be following the orders or a young girl.”
“Baudelaires, please come with me,” Friday
said, and began to lead the way toward the dis-
tant island.
“What about me?” Count Olaf asked. His
voice was a little squeaky, and it reminded the
Baudelaires of other voices they had heard, from
people who were frightened of Olaf himself.
They had heard this voice from guardians of
theirs, and from Mr. Poe when the villain would
confront him. It was a tone of voice they had
heard from various volunteers when discussing
---------------------------------------------------------------
Olaf’s activities, and even from his henchmen
when they complained about their wicked boss.
It was a tone of voice the Baudelaires had heard
from themselves, during the countless times the
dreadful man has threatened them, and
promised to get his hands on their fortune, but
the children never thought they would hear it
from Count Olaf himself. “What about me?” he
asked again, but the siblings had already fol-
lowed Friday a short way from where he was
standing, and when the Baudelaire orphans
turned to him, Olaf looked like just another
piece of detritus that the storm had blown onto
the coastal shelf.
“Go away,” Friday said firmly, and the cast-
aways wondered if finally they had found a
place where there was no room for Count Olaf.
