Rowan takes Ophelia on a tour of the house.
They tip-toe past his father’s study; he doesn’t want his father to meet her, not yet. They go up the stairs to his mother’s office: papers everywhere, files, a giant cork board covered with clippings, maps, notes, headlines, things circled in coloured markers. A dead plant on the windowsill.
“My mother’s not much for keeping other beings alive.”
“She kept you alive.”
“That’s mostly my dad. He does all the cooking and stuff.”
“You have any brothers or sisters?”
“No. You?”
“Half-siblings. Darryl’s the baby, and I have two younger sisters—twins.” She says the twins’ names: Shakira and something that sounds like a fabric.
“Chiffon?” He is incredulous.
She giggles. “No, it’s an Irish name. Siobhan.”
“What does your dad do?”
Her face closes. “He’s not in the picture.”
He’s sorry he asked. He wants to make up for this somehow, hears himself saying, “My parents kind of hate each other.”
“How can they hate each other and stay married?”
“They don’t even . . . Here, I’ll show you.”
He leads her to two doors, side-by-side. He opens the door on the left. “My mother’s room.” A pristine double bed with a white duvet, clothes all over the floor, draped on a chair. He closes the door on it all. “And my father’s.” He opens the right-hand door. Very tidy, rigidly clean, except for the bed. It’s lumpy, unmade, and running the length of it on the far side is an undulating pile of books. Orange-spined books, and white, soft and hard covers, shiny carapaces like giant beetles.
Ophelia gives a little scream. “Oh! I thought it was a woman!”
Rowan looks again. It does look like a woman, a person lying there, half-seen in the dim light from the hall. A laugh comes out of him, a sound he doesn’t like; it’s the mirthless half-laugh of his mother. “A woman made of books. He’d probably like that.” Rowan shuts the door.
“What’s your dad like?”
“He’s a house-husband.” Still his mother’s voice; he has to stop it. “He’s a poet. He published a few books when I was a kid, I guess. Used to teach creative writing at university. Nothing for a long time now. So he reads. That’s what he does.”
“Why do they have different rooms?”
He looks down at her. He doesn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry. I’m prying.”
He tries to find an answer. “I guess hating each other is as intimate as loving. That’s what it feels like to me. Besides, Mom says she hates the idea of paying him support. And she figures he’d make a bid to get the house.”
Ophelia’s breath hisses in. “She said that? To you?”
“She’s a very frank person, my mother.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Well, it’s okay. Dad’s got his book woman.”
Silently he leads her back down the stairs. He won’t invite her up to the attic, to his room. It would feel like too much of a come-on. He wants to see her again; he must see her again.
“I’d better get going,” she says, so quietly he can hardly hear her.
“Yeah. Now that you’ve seen the creepiness,” he blurts. He hits the bottom step and she’s grabbed his arm, swung him around. Up a step from him she’s at eye level. She looks right into him.
“No. That’s not why. I don’t want you to think that. Don’t think that.”
He wants to kiss her so much, then. He takes hold of the newel post to steady himself. Her face is so close.
A slow smile twists across her lips. “Besides, you haven’t met my mother yet.” Ophelia leans closer. “I told you. Nightmare.”
They both begin to laugh and Rowan doubles over, trying to stay quiet. When they subside she’s staring at the map of the world hanging on the wall.
“What’s that?”
“A map from the early fourteen hundreds. Portuguese, which somehow came into the hands of my great-great-great-great-whatever-grandfather, and down the line. My dad likes stuff like that. Rare books, maps, and such.”
She puts her finger on the glass, over the red island shaped like a dragon’s head. Her eyes are round, and she’s breathing like she just ran from somewhere.
“What is that? In the middle of the Atlantic?”
Careful. It’s the magic island, the fantasy. “The name is there.”
“Ant . . . il . . . ee-ah,” she sounds out carefully. “A different language? Con . . . ymana.”
“‘Island on the other side.’ And, ‘a volcano erupts here,’” he translates.
“Rowan, what is this?”
“Just an old map.”
That red island is heavy with the freight of his childish dreams and fantasies. He thinks the rich red ink of the island almost pulses, glowing with secrets and visions. Can she feel it? How many hours of his life he’s spent putting himself there? Exploring its wildlife, forests, slopes of the great silent volcano? Swimming in its ocean, its lakes, practicing with swords, with bows and arrows, singing songs? Always with Ari. And always the gleam of snow on the great mountaintop, the old volcano; hasn’t erupted in a long time Ari says, but some day . . . and then Ari stops. There’s something he’s keeping from Rowan, something Rowan’s not ready to know.
“Rowan?”
He realizes he’s staring dumbly at the map, the island.
She clears her throat. “That red island. Antilia. It looks . . . it just looks like something else I’ve seen, I guess. Like a dragon’s head.”
Carefully, carefully; the air around them feels like it’s full of crystal shards. “Dad told me someone discovered it back in the 1400s. Mapped it. But no one’s been able to find it since. It might just be a Caribbean island, hopelessly in the wrong place. Cuba, maybe. They couldn’t do longitude very well back then.”
“But it’s so close to Europe. Africa. How could someone make that big a mistake?”
She’s practically vibrating with excitement; he rushes in with explanations. “Well, I know the Europeans didn’t even find the Azores . . . here—” and he points to a spot off the coast of Portugal, well-charted on the map “—until after they’d landed in North and South America. It’s easier to get to the Azores from North America than from Europe, even though Europe’s closer, because of the prevailing winds and currents. One theory is that the Chinese actually mapped the world first, and Europeans copied their maps. Also the Arabs were great sailors. The Tamils, too.”
“The Chinese mapped the world? I’ve never heard that.”
“Well, we have a pretty Eurocentric history system, right? It’s pretty cool, actually. One theory is that a giant comet destroyed the Chinese fleet—”
“A comet?”
“Yeah. They’ve found burnt and broken Chinese junks and giant treasure ships high up on the New Zealand and Australian coasts, and even on the British Columbian coast, dating from the mid-1400s. And so the Chinese emperor decided there would be no more voyages. And then China sort of closed up shop, politically speaking. So Europe just stole the bits and pieces of technologies they’d picked up from China, like their maps, and took off.”
She chews her lip. “Wouldn’t we have heard of all that?”
“The comet? Well, it apparently landed in the Pacific, so Europe didn’t feel the effects; China was the only nation with a great fleet out on the Pacific at that time. And as for adapting Chinese technologies—”
“I suppose the Europeans weren’t all that interested in crediting the Chinese with their discoveries.”
“Right.”
“And of course they themselves were competing like mad—the Renaissance, right? So many little city-states and rulers.”
“Everyone trying to get their hands on new wealth.” It’s fun talking with her. She’s so interested in new ideas, so quick to make connections.
“So this is a European copy of an older map?”
“Maybe. My dad thinks so.”
“But this island isn’t . . . there?” She’s leapt ahead of him. “No. That’s not possible. People’d know about it by now.”
He nods. “Absolutely. You’re right. It’s not possible.”
“No way.”
“It’s just an old map.”
She turns away and comes down off the step, and then Rowan hears himself saying, “You don’t really have to go yet, do you?”