"It's the mutineers who are the root of the trouble!" cried Ariel. "If they hadn't let Count Olaf out of the cage, this never would have happened!"

"It depends on how you look at it," Professor Fletcher said. "In my opinion, all of us are the root of the trouble. If we hadn't put Count Olaf in the cage, he never would have threatened us!"

"We're the root of the trouble because we failed to find the diving helmet," Ferdinand said. "If we'd retrieved it while storm scavenging, the sheep would have dragged it to the arboretum and we would have been safe!"

" Omerosis the root of the trouble," Dr. Kurtz said, pointing at the young boy. "He's the one who gave Ishmael the harpoon gun instead of dumping it in the arboretum!"

"It's Count Olaf who's the root of the trouble!" cried Larsen. "He's the one who brought the fungus into the tent!"

"I'm not the root of the trouble," Count Olaf snarled, and then paused to cough loudly before continuing. "I'm the king of the island!"

"It doesn't matter whether you're king or not," Violet said. "You've breathed in the fungus like everyone else."

"Violet's right," Klaus said. "We don't have time to stand here arguing." Even without his commonplace book, Klaus could recite a poem about the fungus that was first recited to him by Fiona shortly before she had broken his heart. "A single spore has such grim power /That you may die within the hour," he said. "If we don't quit our fighting and work together, we'll all end up dead."

The tent was filled with ululation, a word which here means "the sound of panicking islanders."

"Dead?" Madame Nordoff shrieked. "Nobody said the fungus was deadly! I thought we were merely being threatened with forbidden food!"

"I didn't stay on this island to die!" cried Ms. Marlow. "I could have died at home!"

"Nobody is going to die," Ishmael announced to the crowd.

"It depends on how you look at it," Rabbi Bligh said. "Eventually we're all going to die."

"Not if you follow my suggestions," Ishmael insisted. "Now first, I suggest that everyone take a nice, long drink from their seashells. The cordial will chase the fungus from your throats."

"No, it won't!" Violet cried. "Fermented coconut milk has no effect on the Medusoid Mycelium!"

"That may be so," Ishmael said, "but at least we'll all feel a bit calmer."

"You mean drowsy and inactive," Klaus corrected. "The cordial is an opiate."

"There's nothing wrong with cordiality," Ishmael said. "I suggest we all spend a few minutes discussing our situation in a cordial manner. We can decide what the root of the problem is, and come up with a solution at our leisure."

"That does sound reasonable," Calypso admitted.

" Trahisondes clercs!" Sunny cried, which meant "You're forgetting about the quick-acting poison in the fungus!"

"Sunny's right," Klaus said. "We need to find a solution now, not sit around talking about it over beverages!"

"The solution is in the arboretum," Violet said, "and in the secret space under the roots of the apple tree."

"Secret space?" Sherman said. "What secret space?"

"There's a library down there," Klaus said, as the crowd murmured in surprise, "cataloging all of the objects that have washed ashore and all the stories those objects tell."

"And kitchen," Sunny added."Maybe horseradish." "Horseradish is the one way to dilute the poison," Violet explained, and recited the rest of the poem the children had heard aboard the Queequeg. "Is dilution simple? But of course I! Just one small dose of root of horse."She looked around the tent at the frightened faces of the islanders. "The kitchen beneath the apple tree might have horseradish," she said. "We can save ourselves if we hurry."

"They're lying," Ishmael said. "There's nothing in the arboretum but junk, and there's nothing underneath the tree but dirt. The Baudelaires are trying to trick you."

"We're not trying to trick anyone," Klaus said. "We're trying to save everyone."

"The Baudelaires knew the Medusoid Mycelium was here," Ishmael pointed out, "and they never told us. You can't trust them, but you can trust me, and I suggest we all sit and sip our cordials."

" Razoo," Sunny said, which meant "You're the one not to be trusted," but rather than translate, her siblings stepped closer to Ishmael so they could speak to him in relative privacy.

"Why are you doing this?" Violet asked. "If you just sit here and drink cordial, you'll be doomed."

"We've all breathed in the poison," Klaus said. "We're all in the same boat."

Ishmael raised his eyebrows, and gave the children a grim smile. "We'll see about that," he said. "Now get out of my tent."

"Hightail it," Sunny said, which meant "We'd better hurry," and her siblings nodded in agreement. The Baudelaire orphans quickly left the tent, looking back to get one more glimpse of the worried islanders, the scowling facilitator, and Count Olaf, who still lay on the sand clutching his belly, as if the harpoon had not just destroyed the diving helmet, but wounded him, too.

Violet, Klaus, and Sunny did not travel back to the far side of the island by sheep-dragged sleigh, but even as they hurried over the brae they felt as if they were aboard the Little Engine That Couldn't, not only because of the desperate nature of their errand, but because of the poison they felt working its wicked way through the Baudelaire systems. Violet and Klaus learned what their sister had gone through deep beneath the ocean's surface, when Sunny had nearly perished from the fungus's deadly poison, and Sunny received a refresher course, a phrase which here means "another opportunity to feel the stalks and caps of the Medusoid Mycelium begin to sprout in her little throat." The children had to stop several times to cough, as the growing fungus was making it difficult to breathe, and by the time they stood underneath the branches of the apple tree, the Baudelaire orphans were wheezing heavily in the afternoon sun.

"We don't have much time," Violet said, between breaths.

"We'll go straight to the kitchen," Klaus said, walking through the gap in the tree's roots as the Incredibly Deadly Viper had shown them.

"Hope horseradish," Sunny said, following her brother, but when the Baudelaires reached the kitchen they were in for a disappointment. Violet flicked the switch that lit up the kitchen, and the three children hurried to the spice rack, reading the labels on the jars and bottles one by one, but as they searched their hopes began to fade. The children found many of their favorite spices, including sage, oregano, and paprika, which was available in a number of varieties organized according to their level of smokiness. They found some of their least favorite spices, including dried parsley, which scarcely tastes like anything, and garlic salt, which forces the taste of everything else to flee. They found spices they associated with certain dishes, such as turmeric, which their father used to use while making curried peanut soup, and nutmeg, which their mother used to mix into gingerbread, and they found spices they did not associate with anything, such as marjoram, which everyone owns but scarcely anyone uses, and powdered lemon peel, which should only be used in emergencies, such as when fresh lemons have become extinct. They found spices used practically everywhere, such as salt and pepper, and spices used in certain regions, such as chipotle peppers and vindaloo rub, but none of the labels read horseradish, and when they opened the jars and bottles, none of the powders, leaves, and seeds inside smelled like the horseradish factory that once stood on Lousy Lane.

"It doesn't have to be horseradish," Violet said quickly, putting down a jar of tarragon in frustration. "Wasabi was an adequate substitute when Sunny was infected."