Stile Maus (8 page)

‘Hold on!’ the stranger said.  Their palms met and the intolerable screech of starving baboons eventually fell silent. 

Even though the grazes and scratches earned from her fall still throbbed with pain, Emile found herself wearing a smile.  That part of the story always made her believe in;
what is meant to be will be
.  Every adventure had a point when it was either time to turn around and go home, nursing your wounds and tending to a face full of tears or brush down your clothes and continue towards the pursuit of glory.  In all of the thousands of words, all of the hundreds of pages, Emile had never seen Rupert Montjoy fail.  She wouldn’t let him down.  They came to a clearing.  The sun had been bustled out of the sky, making room for a host of gargantuan clouds. 

‘This way,’ Benjamin spoke.  The clearing stretched out towards a huddle of crowded trees.  To the left a road could be seen in the distance, its paved surface not at all disturbed by the tyres of any vehicle. 

‘What’s that?’ Emile asked as they crossed the way.  A pair of muddy tracks trailed from the centre of the glade back towards the bed of fallen leaves she had been standing on only moments before.  Their birth seemed to be a huge dent that delved into the lush grass, spattering clumps of muddy gloop around its rippled dimple.  

‘All to be explained,’ Benjamin smirked as they passed the large fissure, ‘well, sort of.’ 

Thunder grumbled, rain threatened.  Curiosity buzzed at Emile like an angry bee, the thought of Benjamin fooling her with some practical joke had disappeared.  The holes in the ground were proof that beyond the tree line sat something worth seeing.  The sound of babbling water filled the air.  Benjamin pushed away a flock of intruding branches and dodged a few grounded nettles, warning Emile of their position.  The tree line passed, vanishing behind a fencing of lofty shrubs and fern.  Emile joined her guide at the foot of a gradient which had been slightly dampened by the splash of the brook below. 

‘There it is,’ said Benjamin with a smug grin. 

Emile looked at him.

‘Is that..?’ she started, almost spluttering as the stunned barrel of words got caught up within her throat, ‘is that what I think it is?’  Benjamin didn’t attempt to hide his smugness.  He stood at the edge of the creek, his arms folded and his face glowing with arrogance.  Grabbing at the flow of her dress Emile braved the slope, landing onto an island of pebbles that sat just below the dribbling stream of water.  Nerves tingled at her cheeks.

‘I told you,’ Benjamin sniggered as he brushed past.  Emile stood at a distance for a few moments, almost wary of its presence.  Its panels were monstrous, great arms of worn gold and gathering rust.  The lower part of its frame sunk deep into the river bed leaving its great bulk towering over them like a motionless windmill.  Benjamin stretched out a hand and tapped his fingers against the metal, smiling as a droning ring echoed throughout the clearing.  Beaming with amazement Emile mimicked the gentle knock.  Another tinkle of sound trembled through the trees. 

‘Where do you think it came from?’ she asked, leaning against its slippery structure as she peered under one of the panels. 

‘The sky,’ Benjamin replied, ‘where else?’  Emile’s nose wrinkled with curiosity.

‘You do know this isn’t a star, right?’  Benjamin sniggered.  Emile scowled, shooting Benjamin a look of sheer repulsion for even trying to test her intelligence. 

‘Of course I do,’ she countered, ‘I bet that you were here for hours before you worked that one out.’  Benjamin’s sneer disappeared, quickly transforming into an uncomfortable frown. 

‘It’s a propeller.’  A lash of lighting soared through the air.  The two explorers looked up into the darkened sky, blinking away the fall of spitting rain. 

‘What do you think it’s doing here?’ Emile yelled over the grumbling roll of thunder.  Benjamin glanced at her through the shimmering downpour, shrugging his drenched shoulders.  They circled it, climbing against the mud-covered slopes with careful feet before skipping across the lethargic rush of the stream, inspecting every last speck that graced the mysterious object. 

‘Look!’ Benjamin shouted.  Emile raced to his side, wiping away the rain from her forehead as she stooped down to where he crouched.  His finger rested on a sequence of engraved markings that were printed faintly upon the underside of one of the wings. 

‘It’s German,’ Benjamin said bitterly.  Emile glanced at him.  His face seemed to simmer with fear, his excitement suddenly lost in the downpour and swept away with the rushing stream.  Another bind of electric blue cracked across the sky, vanishing almost instantly amongst a bubbling swell of dark cloud.  ‘Come on!’ Benjamin yelled, shielding his eyes from the ferocious waterfall of plummeting droplets and grabbing Emile at the wrist.  The rain was intoxicating and by now had angered the stream into a lashing surge of cold current.  They pranced across the flooded bed of stones and pebbles, paying little attention to the water filling their shoes.  They reached the riverside and grappled at the slippery strings of grass until they fell into a patch of relatively dry dirt.  Emile tugged at her dress so that it fell over her legs, wrapping her arms around her trembling knees.  The muddle of trees above provided cover from the rain yet small amounts still drizzled through the entwining roof of branches and twigs, dripping down onto the huddled pair below.  She nestled her cheek into his rain soaked chest.  More thunder rocked the skies.  The young girl smiled.  Her eyes caught another brilliant band of light.  At last she had the adventure she so desperately desired.            

TAKING IN STRAYS

Part II

Conversation had become dry.  An obvious topic lingered over them like an angry cloud.  The walk home offered the opportunity for discussion but the thunderous rain soaked any attempt of talk through and washed it away.  Benjamin led them through a dripping cascade of green.  Sunlight was something the forest had forgotten, lost amidst a haze of sleeting showers.  Mud dashed against their legs as they passed hurriedly through the clearing.  Without the cover of fallen leaves the grass lay unprotected, swollen and soaked by the rapid fall.  Emile grabbed at the fold of her companions shirt, fearing she would lose her way without his lead for without the subtle glow of the sun the great bulks of bark that lined the forest floors all looked the same.  She trusted his judgement.  He had remembered where the propeller had fallen at least.  The trees cleared and the smoky rise of the cottage came into view.  Emile breathed a sigh of relief as they emerged from the forest, finding the rain to be hungrier and more ferocious without the cover of a thousand trees. 

‘I’d better be going,’ Emile whispered loudly.  Benjamin nodded, almost discouraged by her swift goodbye.  Quickly he leaned forward and stole a brief kiss, plucking his cold lips upon her rain doused cheek.  Before Emile could offer any sort of reaction he was gone, spinning away into the darkness.  A fluster tickled her heart and with that she skipped upon the fall of stairs that led up to the cottage, hoping her arrival would not be met by angry eyes.

The words were wasted on Francis.  His attention lingered at the foot of the cottage veranda.  A cigarette melted between his fingers, threatening to dissolve entirely if a certain amount of courtesy was not applied.  Shadows fell across the porch. 

‘Francis…’ 

Amplified and loud were the mixture of letters this time around.       

‘What is it?’ 

No replies were offered, only a slight nod towards the lantern glazed porch.  Pierre met his brother’s shoulder.   

‘Emile?’

‘And the neighbours boy.’

Pierre chuckled, turning away and heading back towards the heap of cloth and sheeting that he had been tending to.

‘They are young, gifted with a playpen the size of four forests.  Leave them be, it’s no harm.’

‘No harm?’ Francis growled, ‘Do you forget where we are, brother?’ 

‘We are in the same place we found ourselves twenty years ago,’ he insisted, tugging at a thin stretch of cable,

‘All that has changed is our impatience with the young and the hoarseness in our voices.’  

Francis sighed.  The veranda was now empty.  Its guests had separated, slipping away into the night.  Plucking the cigarette from his lips Francis thrust its smoking butt out into the downpour. 

‘Everything alright?’ he said, gesturing up at the rafters just above the second floor.

‘It’s fine,’ Pierre said stepping past him, ‘come on, our supper’s getting cold.’  Pierre’s pace quickened as he left the dry confines of the barn, his assured stride turning into a brisk walk as the night welcomed him with an icy shower of tough, tumbling droplets. 

Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes Francis made his way over to the ladder which led up to the second floor, embarking upon each wooden rung until his face became soaked in the warm glaze of a lantern that had been attached further towards the peak.  For a moment he could see more or
less everything on the platform.  Boxes lined the pyramid-like fall of the walls, stray bundles of furniture, machinery, work tools, a collection of dust covered picture frames.  He glanced over to one of the gloomier corners and sighed.  A moment or two passed as he contemplated his descent.  Isabelle’s words rang in his ears.  Her worried words.  He shook the thought and let his foot fall to the lower rungs, touching down upon the hay stained floor and setting the lantern down amongst a cluster of tools that had been clumsily strewn across his workbench. 
Pierre’s work no doubt
.  He opened the tiny glass window of the lamp and thrust a swift blow of air into the capsule, extinguishing the flame immediately.  The barn fell into a deep darkness.   Everything that had boasted a shine could no longer brag about its glimmering sparkle.  His boots met the drizzle flecked entrance of the barn.  Cold, damp fingers fumbled at the door stop that seemed determined to stay rooted within its holed lock and after a few attempts Francis stood from his crouch and began kicking forcefully against the hooked steel in an effort to loosen its stubbornness.  A grumble of thunder sounded outside.  He glanced up.  A soft light fizzed through the falling mist.  Francis stopped, doing his best to squint into the purple darkness but the rainfall caused his eyes to falter and blink abundantly.  Whatever approached, it came with haste.  The faint trickle of an engine could now be heard, chugging and clicking as it passed through the whirlwind of torrential downpour and towards the cottage.  The gloom of the night gave very little and the vehicle that was now coming to a halt at the foot of the path was still unclear.  Francis began fiddling with the lantern, trying to hitch open the window so that he may cast a lit match into its fine glass case.  The sound of a cab door clinked.  The tiny lamp window creaked open.  Francis reached at the workbench, misguided by the darkness, searching for a match. 

‘Mr. Dubois?’

With caution Francis peered around the doorway, realising that his mysterious guest had took upon the dirt path and now stood at the foot of the barn, shrouded in a tall coat and flattering umbrella. 

‘Yes?’ he replied, looking past the rain soaked figure and down towards the military vehicle that had parked on the edge of the road. 
It’s engine still grunting, lights still beaming. 

‘
Forgive me for intruding on your evening Mr Dubois,’ a hand stretched out from beneath the umbrella,

‘
Lieutenant Klaus Jung of the Luftwaffe, may we step inside for a few moments?’ 

Francis turned his head slightly, glancing into the darkness of the barn and then back towards the rain swept umbrella.

‘Of course,’

He tried to cover the reluctance in his voice and edged to one side so that the hidden Lieutenant could step through the half open doors.  Francis followed, scrambling a hand at the work bench as he entered, hoping to find the elusive box of matches.  The dampened Lieutenant took away his umbrella, shaking away the droplets of stubborn rain from the shoulders of his tall coat and then removed his hat, setting it over the thick handhold of the barn door.        

‘Apologies Lieutenant I can’t seem to find…’

‘Here’ Lieutenant Jung said as he picked a miniature match box out from the velvety insides of his jacket.   A spark ignited and their faces bathed in the glow of warm crimson and orange.  The Lieutenant’s boots clunked loudly over to the lantern and with a gloved pinch he set the match over the melted wax
pyramid inside.  The barn eased, content that its walls felt the friendliness of light once more.  Francis turned from the tools on the bench, eager to see the face that had been hidden under the large stoop of the black umbrella.  A pinch bothered his heart, his stomach twitched with a sharp, uncomfortable pain.  The voice underneath the umbrella had been deceiving.  He expected a man.  Stood before him was boy, not twenty-five years of age.  And his face, an entire side covered in a web of scars.  From the middle of his neck to the corner of his left eye, a string of deeply healed gashes.  It was like nothing Francis had seen before.  The young man tilted his head, clouding the shuddering grades of woven pain in gloom.