The Caves of Etretat: Part One of Four

by Matt Chatelain

  Cartier beat a hasty retreat, almost tripping over his feet in his anxiousness to leave the throne room. He couldn't believe he had come out of there with his head still attached. Thank God he had taken a few precautions. In fact, it hadn't turned out too bad.

  The King hadn't even asked about the jewels!

  He would draw a confusing map for the King and then head back to the New World and kill those English cowards. When he came back, he would sneak into the caves, get his gold and disappear. It should be a piece of cake.

  Back in the throne room, the King was fuming. "Who does he think he is? Trying to blackmail Us indeed! And you, Bude! How could you have helped that odious man?"

  "Sire, certainly you just heard him speak. His gilded tongue is adept at ferreting out support in the unlikeliest of ways. One seems to remember your Majesty selected him over many others, to go to the New World."

  "Watch what you say, Bude. You may be the College de France's administrator but We don't need your tongue to have you present your written reports. You would do well to remember that."

  Bude gulped heavily, mentally kicking himself for that comment, but it had been irresistible. The King had been asking for it. Francis continued in his rant, "As for that upstart, We shall teach him to hide his gold in Our caves. I want you to instruct Our Royal Engineer to begin drawing up plans to close off access to the dungeon."

  "Your Majesty, the restoration of the fort has only recently been completed!"

  "Be quiet. You will do as We request. Ensure the hallway leading to the dungeon is permanently sealed and plans prepared to build a secret access to it in Our private chambers. Cartier will never find his way back into those caves. Now get out of here. We don't want to see you for at least a month."

  Bude ran out of the throne room almost as fast as Cartier had, moments before him, glad the King had not uncovered exactly why he had helped Cartier. He would have to melt those gold coins down. He hurried out, intent on carrying out that task without delay.

  THE END... FOR NOW.

  Follow the continuation of Paul Sirenne's adventures

  in the second book of the Sirenne Saga

  'The Four Books of Etretat'

  Special Author's Note

  -Please read-

  WARNING: DO NOT READ FURTHER UNLESS YOU WANT TO READ SPECIFIC STORYLINE SPOILERS!

  Just below, you will find the first chapter of 'Weissmuller's Vacation'. Though the novel is not finished, I am fairly satisfied with Chapter One. In it, you will find two reveals related to the Caves of Etretat series. I deliberately chose to place this note after you read book one because it is fresh in your mind and you will 'feel' the impact of the reveals much more. If you wish to avoid learning these reveals out of sequence, please skip this advance chapter. The story of Weissmuller's Vacation is set just after book one, where you are right now in the story.

  So without further ado here is

  WEISSMULLER'S VACATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Padstow Rock-Foot ferry had cast off ten minutes ago, my vacation officially begun. The trip would take about sixty minutes which left me with some time to kill. Apparently, navigating the Padstow Bay Narrows required an experienced Captain and a skilled pilot at the rudder, if one wanted to avoid the treacherous sandbars. The start of the vacation was invigorating, making it feel as if I had enough energy to jump into a volcano and enjoy it.

  Off in the distance, across the Narrows, Padstow shimmered in the morning sun, my destination, still tantalisingly out of reach. Not one to pine overmuch, I decided to wander the deck. It was crowded, a bunch of insipid tourists gawking at every which thing and snapping 'picture-perfect' moments. A few passengers leaned over the rails, looking green.

  The TV personality, Roger Parsons, a well-known commentator featured on several British television shows, was supposed to be waiting for me in Padstow. I did not watch much television but the show he hosted, Archeo Troop, was an exception. Their very mandate was to explain proper archeological techniques to the masses. It would be fair to say most of my knowledge had been gleaned from watching their series.

  I had been invited to participate on their last official show. I almost said no, being so busy, but in the end, opted to take a brief break from my regular activities. I don't usually go on vacations. This was my first in thirty years, so that should tell you something. Anyone would think I was crazy to go on a vacation now, considering the state of affairs back at the Etretat caves. I wondered about it myself.

  The truth was simple. Being invited by Parsons and the Archeo Troop was merely a handy excuse. The real reason was I had to get away from O'Flanahan. Liam O'Flanahan, a teammate working at the Etretat caves, was a buffoon of the worst sort, a class clown that had never grown up.

  I could well imagine what a monster he would have been as a child, tormenting parents, teachers, and classmates alike, with his irritating, staccato laughter and his unending stream of baseless platitudes. I could not escape his presence due to ridiculous rules, self-imposed rules no less. Caught in a logic trap of my own making, I was forced to endure his odious presence day after endless day.

  In fact, it was good the Archeo Troop offer had come when it did, because, had I not left, I would have killed him, damn the consequences. I couldn't stand being near him, not for another second. I wanted to rip his head off and squeeze his brains out through my fingers like chunky peanut butter. I'd take his fat hands and rip his ridiculous tiny fingers off, one at a time, throw them on the ground, and dance on them in victory, until they were mashed into a dirty, pulpy mess. I'd take the legs, pop the feet off like champagne corks and bend the rest into goddamn pretzels. That's what I would have done if I stayed near him one more second.

  So I'd gone on vacation.

  I cast a needy eye across the ferry, the O'Flanahan-caused fury not yet extinguished. I had chosen a good vantage point, the uppermost deck, allowing me to examine the majority of passengers at a glance. One man attracted my attention. He stood away from the rest, wandering the empty rear deck. Most people avoided it due to engine noise and the occasional spray from the large propellers deep below. He seemed lost in thought, staring at the roiling waters moving away from the ferry. Perhaps he was suicidal, thinking of jumping in.

  I wondered if I should get closer to him. I wanted to let off some O'Flanahan steam. Despite the allure this opportunity presented, I hesitated. Over the last ten years I had grown cautious, killing only when strictly necessary, All the joy was gone out of it, murder become part of the plan, no more. I could not risk it while in the Etretat caves. Admittedly, even if I was on vacation, the risk was just as present. Getting caught here was no different than getting caught back home. I'd still have to vanish, to change my current identity, and I absolutely could not do that, not right now. Too much rode on my Jonathan Briar cover.

  Admittedly, killing was always satisfying, no matter what form it took but my favorite approach was when you planned the hell out of the thing, examined every single little detail with the eye of a grandmaster. I glanced once more at the solitary figure at the rear of the ferry, and sighed briefly, as I reflected there was also something to be said for spontaneity.

  A quick glance at my watch confirmed the ferry was near the end of its trip. I headed to the front of the upper deck to watch as we entered Padstow Harbour, nodding to myself all the while as I reached a decision. This was a vacation. Though caution had its place, this must be a time to recharge the batteries, so to speak. Day after day of glorious O'Flanahan peace, with time to kill and time to hang around with archeologists, my two favorite activities combined in one package.

  A change in the engine noise alerted me to the ferry's arrival. I disembarked along with the other passengers and kept a lookout for Parsons, the Archeo Troop host. He'd sworn he would be on time. Halfway down the ramp from the ferry, I locked eyes with him.

  He was a couple hundred yards distant, standing in the middle of a crew handling cameras, sound equipme
nt, and light reflectors. Behind the cameramen stood a director and several nameless assistants, all hovering around Parsons. Escaping the clutches of a make-up girl, he pointed in my direction and broke into a run, the TV crew scampering to catch up.

  I knew of Parsons' exuberance, having seen it on the show. I had forgotten about it until just now. He was quite the annoyance expert when it came to archeologists. And the camera crew as well, if I could judge from facial expressions as they juggled expensive equipment in their rush to catch up.

  "Mr Briar. Mr Briar. You're really here," he screamed while scurrying towards me. "Your telegram had mentioned you were going to take the earlier ferry. We didn't think we could make it, even though I said we could, so we drove here at full speed. I'm glad we did because here we are, just in time."

  He kept coming, running at full tilt, not once putting on the brakes, and nearly smashed into me in his haste. He lunged for my hand and shook it effusively, his face nearly cut in half by a beaming smile.

  "Mr Parsons, I wouldn't have missed this occasion for the world," I said. "Being invited to your final show is an honor I could not ignore."

  "Call me Parsons, everyone does, Mr. Briar."

  "Let's cut it down to Briar," I replied.

  "Briar it will be," he replied, shaking my hand once more. "Oh no, the TV crew is about to catch up with us. Your public life is about to begin."

  I waited as they arrived and everyone was introduced. I forgot their names as soon as they were mentioned.

  "Say, Briar, would you mind if we did the episode introduction right here?" begged Parsons. "The director thinks it would be properly scenic with the ferry and port in the background."

  "I don't mind."

  "Great!" Parsons replied. "It won't take but a minute once they've finished setting up."

  The make-up woman made to approach me but I warned her off with a withering glance. She finished working on Parsons instead. Everything coalesced suddenly, with a camera aimed in our direction, a sound boom over our heads, and a white screen reflecting the sun directly into our eyes.

  "Hi again folks. Roger Parsons here, at Padstow, in North Cornwall, near our target location, Lezzillick, where an ancient port has been revealed after a storm. Almost two decades ago, we came here to investigate a series of bizarre crop marks. What we found was a town made up of ancient roundhouses more than 3,000 years old. What's more, pottery found in an industrial sector near the beach implied the presence of a port, perhaps the oldest port in all of England. As well, this port may have been receiving pottery from around the world. Unfortunately, during our first investigation the port was covered with windswept sand dunes, an area commonly known as Hawker's cove. Further archeology was impossible, given the scope of our program. Now a series of freak storms has changed all that and revealed an ancient port, possibly the very port we sought so many years ago. On this episode, Archeo Troop's final one, we hope to get unprecedented access to this scheduled site. Not only that, Mr Jonathan Briar, the reputed German archaeologist, has cleared his timetable and rushed to join us. Thank you for coming, Mr Briar."

  Unbelievably, Parsons took this as an opportunity to shake my hand again. I could not refuse, with the camera crew filming my every move. "I'm glad for the opportunity," I replied. "Perhaps, this time, we will get to the bottom of this archeological mystery. Examination of the ancient port could provide us with the definitive proof we need, one way or another."

  "I can only hope your confidence will match our expectations," replied Parsons. "Before we start our investigation, would you mind sharing with us what you believe? Will the finds indicate we have found a truly ancient port?"

  The camera focused on my face and the boom lowered down to catch my words over the hubbub generated by the police behind me. "That is the important question and it is why I am here, like any good archeologist, looking for facts in the ground, stratified and documented. Facts are what will tell us if a port was here or not. Once we have the proper information in hand, then, and only then, will it be time for easy pronouncements about ancient ports or otherwise."

  Parsons took my rebuff in stride, slapping me on the back and smiling widely as he moved away from me and walked slowly toward the camera. "Spoken like a true archeologist. We shouldn't expect any less from an expert such as Jonathan Briar. What he has just said has been repeated by all archeologists on site. They are very careful about being caught on camera making any promise about what lies below the ground. However, preliminary findings are promising."

  Parsons pulled out several items from his pocket and held it up for the camera, cupping his hand below for contrast. "This shard of pottery, found during our previous dig, came from Africa, perhaps as much as four thousand years ago." Producing another pottery piece, he continued, "and this one is from Istanbul. We are hoping this dig will finally reveal more evidence, enough to conclusively predate all other ports across the UK. Unfortunately, even if this is our last episode, weather, as always, dictates our window of opportunity. The series of violent storms which took away the sand and revealed our ancient beach is now threatening to destroy it. The local weatherman informs us we have at most three days of good weather before our beach is hit by a significant gale. Will we have time to get the answers we seek? Will we be able to get one of the archeologists to admit to something definite? Only time will tell."

  "Cut." The camera crew quickly packed up their equipment and returned to the vehicles. I walked behind the group, not wanting to mingle overmuch. Parsons trailed behind as well, sticking to me like a proxy O'Flanahan. "You were great," he remarked affably. "Have you been on television before?"

  "A few times."

  "Well, it shows. Your answer was perfect. I'm sorry for springing things on you. The audience expects me to act up."

  "I've seen the show before. As long as you keep your antics to a minimum, I will tolerate them. However, I'm not here to fool around, or to make your audience laugh. I'm here for the science."

  "Of course. Here, this is my truck. Hop in. We'll drive to the site. Do you have any more luggage?"

  "No, just this suitcase. I tend to travel light."

  "Perfect. Let me tell the director we're going on ahead. It'll take them a while to pack up their gear anyway."

  He opened the passenger door to a large four by four, a gleaming Archeo Troop logo on the hood, and ushered me in. Hurrying around the vehicle, he tossed my suitcase in the back, screamed something unintelligible at the director, and hopped in. The key slipped into the ignition, he twisted it, the engine roared to life, his foot stomped on the gas, he popped the clutch, and we were off, racing down the narrow Padstow streets, careening madly around people and carts, as if we were in a race for our lives. I pulled the seatbelt across my lap and clicked it into position securely. Parsons never caught my unspoken hint and kept driving like a madman. "You know, Briar, we're the ones who may have promised something we can't deliver."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When the Archeo Troop invited you, we expected to have all the permits in hand before the show started but, due to some truly unexpected delays, we have been unable to get the most important permit, the one that will let us dig the beach."

  "What?" I exploded. "How could you let that happen?"

  "Believe me, it wasn't from lack of trying. Occasionally, when you come to these rural towns, someone will resent our intrusion in their private life. Here, there has been one who deliberately hid discoveries before, to prevent this very type of intrusion. Branded as a VL's, a Vocal Local, Mr Robertson, has managed to worm himself into an official position. Since then, he has done everything to slow the permit process down until it felt as if we were wading through molasses in January. The frustrating thing is he may well have succeeded in foiling our efforts."

  "That is truly disappointing. However, I've run across this type of mindset before. I've learned to keep calm and bide my time. Often enough, these things solve themselves."

  "I don't know what world
you live in, Briar, but I'd like to move there."

  "No, I don't think you would," I replied. "If we can't dig on the beach, the next storm will take the evidence away, rendering further archeology entirely pointless. We will never know what was there."

  "Yes. That's the damnable part. Because of one idiotic bureaucrat's delaying tactics, there will be nothing left to investigate."

  "Not to mention wasting my time. It's completely unacceptable."

  "Well, we can still do our dig on the ancient roundhouses. It's just the port on the beach we can't access. Plus, we found a Roman villa in the field above the town. It's very old so all may not be lost. Some useful dating information may be obtained."

  "But the beach, what I came here for, will be off-limits," I added bitterly.

  "Yes, I'm sorry about that."

  "It's Mr. Robertson who should be sorry."

  "So what is it like working in France?" he asked, changing the subject. "You have been very quiet about what you're doing there."

  "My team, like yours, has to obtain the proper permits. Until that is accomplished, I will not be able to explain anything."

  "Come on, Briar, you're avoiding my question. That's not an answer."

  "You are quite right. It is not."

  He kept ranting. His voice faded into the background while I gazed out the side window, watching the landscape flash by as we were tossed about by his insane driving. We were in the country now, thankfully leaving the narrow town roads behind. Instead, we were flying through tortuous dirt roads surrounded by heavy thickets, interspersed with open fields. The mid-afternoon sun was bright, almost overwhelming.

  I rolled the car window down, letting the cool, fall wind wash over my face. I couldn't feel it, of course. Since 1943, I had been ingesting a spore concentrate from a unique fungus found only in the Etretat caves. These spores brought about complete invulnerability from both physical and temporal damage. In other words, immortality. There was one price to pay, a terrible side-effect: a pervasive numbness. Coursing through me for decades, the spore-caused numbness had long ago reduced all tactile sensations to nearly nothing. I could see and hear but little else.