The Caves of Etretat: Part One of Four

by Matt Chatelain

  Parsons never took his foot off the accelerator, floating through huge mud vats with expert skill. As we neared the sharp bend in the road, the wheels dropped into the deepest ruts and Parsons completely lost the ability to steer the vehicle. His only choice was to keep ploughing forward with the powerful engine revving at maximum and all four wheels in gear. We entered the corner careening wildly out of control, the ruts taking us off the road.

  "Don't worry. I've got this," yelled Parsons as he hit the brakes, yanked on the steering, and floored the truck again. The vehicle bucked mightily, twisting around the bed, the ass end sliding off and on the road several times.

  Once more, Parsons hit the brakes and floored it and we were off, heading straight down the road, the corner behind us. I looked ahead, hoping for an end to this mud-moat, when I caught sight of a man on a bicycle, Tennison, riding calmly by the side of the muddy road.

  "Watch out!" I yelled.

  Parsons looked at me in surprise. "What did you say?"

  "The road. Look at the road, you idiot."

  He turned his head and riveted his eyes on the road but it was far too late by then, the 4X4 already past Tennison. Looking at the passenger side mirror, I saw the vehicle wheels send sheets of mud flying out to the sides. Tennison, thrown off balance by the 4X4 flying by at such great speed, looked up in surprise as a sheet of mud stretched up high above him. He vanished under the mud briefly as it yielded to gravity's call. When the great sheet splattered on the ground, Tennison and his bicycle were revealed, now covered in a thick layer of wet mud from head to toe.

  I struggled to refrain from laughing out loud at the sight, which seemed straight out of a slapstick comedy from the 1920's. I examined the others in the vehicle. None had noticed what had just happened so I elected to remain silent on the subject, preferring to wait for the moment when, or perhaps, if, Tennison arrived at the pub later on.

  We soon reached Padstow, Parsons returning to his slalom-driving technique, sliding left and right to avoid people and carts lining the cobblestone streets. We soon skidded to a stop in front of an old tavern, the rustic sign hanging above the door proclaiming the name 'The Brasserie'.

  Everyone piled out of the truck with a common sigh of relief. Wington was the first one inside. By the time I joined the group and sat down, he'd somehow managed to order a beer, get served, and down half of it. Wiping his lips free of beer foam, he sat back in his chair, contentment spread across his face. "AHHHH! Now that was well worth the death-trip we took to get here. I keep forgetting how awful Parsons' driving is. I don't know why but I keep forgetting."

  "My driving is excellent and you know it," replied an offended Parsons. Answell placed a beer in front of me before sitting down. I nodded in thanks but, truth be told, did not look forward to drinking it.

  My spore-covered stomach absorbed nothing. Food and liquid would only be pushed through to be later expelled. The problem with beer was its gassiness. My body would toss that beer around, all the carbon dioxide would separate from the liquid and accumulate in my gut, giving me powerful burps and otherwise, a thoroughly unpleasant experience, particularly while in company. "So where is Tennison then, if he came on ahead on his bicycle?" I prodded.

  "I don't know where he is," replied Parsons. "Come to think of it, I never saw him anywhere on the road."

  Grundy was the last to sit and examine the menu. The waitress came around and took our orders. I ordered as little as possible, intending to nibble on my food. The others got fish and chips, a common staple in these parts. Soon everyone was munching and a relative quiet fell over the table. Even Parsons' comments were reduced to appreciative grunts when he bit into a chip or slurped on some beer.

  As the waitress collected empty plates and glasses, I asked her to bring a glass of red wine, the first thing I saw on the menu without carbonation. Before she delivered it, I slid my untouched beer in front of Wington. He smiled, nodded his thanks, and guzzled it without a word.

  Tennison chose that moment to come into the pub. He made a grand entrance, opening the door with a hard shove so it banged loudly against the wall. He stood immobile for a moment, legs apart, the early evening sun rays outlining him like a muddy Indiana Jones. Seeing our group in the corner, he made a beeline for our table, leaving a trail of mud clumps in his wake. "You bastards. You unmitigated bastards. Particularly you Parsons. You did it on purpose, I know you did. You left me there, my bike rendered unworkable by that blasted mud. You didn't even send a search party."

  Tennison's loud rant left the group silent for a moment before they exploded into laughter. I had to admit the contrast of his furious expression and his mud-streaked countenance was somewhat priceless. Eventually they calmed down enough for Parsons to be heard. "What is it that you say I did, Tennison?"

  "The mud!" he screamed. Seeing our blank stares, he waved his arms, sending mud bits flying all around. "You flew by in the Archeo Troop 4X4 and covered me in mud, you bastards. You were the one driving, Parsons. I recognised your usual madman style. My bicycle was ruined. I had to drag the thing here. I'm exhausted, I'm hungry, and I'm pissed off."

  Wington lifted a nearly empty beer mug towards him. "Why don't you have a swig o'this and see if it don't make you feel better."

  Tennison gratefully reached for the mug. The movement sent a clump of mud flying off his arm. It plopped into the beer, dissolving into a cloud as it sank to the bottom of Wington's mug. Tennison's shoulders fell and the group exploded in laughter again. Almost reluctantly, Tennison joined the laughter. He went to sit down in an empty chair but was prevented by a nearby waitress. "Oh, no you don't, Sir. You've dirtied the place up enough already. Why don't you follow me to the back. We've got a bathroom where you can clean up and I'm sure I can find you some clean clothes."

  The forlorn Tennison left without further objection. He really did appear quite tired. He came back in short order, cleaned up and dressed in kitchen whites. He seemed embarrassed by his appearance, for good reason. The waitress arrived and slid a plate of fish and chips in front of him, adding a mug of beer seconds later.

  "It's on the house for all your troubles," smiled the waitress, who added a good-natured wink. "A wee bit of advice mister: next time, when you change in the bathroom, you should draw the curtain closed or anyone passing by is likely to see you naked." Tennison's face fell yet again. The waitress hit him in the arm. "Hey, don't worry. From what I saw, you've got nothing to be embarrassed about."

  The group started laughing again. More beers were served. Finally, the archaeologists settled down and started talking about the day.

  "What bothers me most is Robertson doesn't seem to care," complained Answell. "It took him less than a minute to refuse issuing the permit. He didn't even think about it."

  "He didn't have to," added Wington. "His mind was already set."

  "Doesn't he realise, if we don't dig now, there'll be nothing left to dig?" asked Grundy.

  "He doesn't care, I told you," returned a bitter Answell. "All he cares about are his own ridiculous beliefs. Once again, we'll have lost an important battle for knowledge because of the stupidity of the uneducated."

  "It wouldn't be the first time," exclaimed Wington, as he leaned back in his chair, pushing it up on two legs in the doing. "Digging up stuff is my job so none of you will be surprised if I admit to getting upset when archeology is stolen or destroyed."

  He returned his chair to four legs and sat up, resting his elbows on each side of his beer and clasping his hands together. "Over the years, we've been all across Europe. I've had the chance to talk to a ton of people, specialists in their fields, people who shared the same interests. I learned about all sorts of local sabotage, thefts, and vandalism. Greed, patriotic honor, racial hatred, hunger, there are as many reasons for destroying ancient artifacts as there are people doing the deed. However, it turns out a pattern hid within all these stories, thefts both bizarre and identical in the evidence left behind. Only a few occasions among many, ad
mittedly, but enough for me to start believing certain artifacts were being stolen deliberately, across the world, in exactly the same circumstances."

  "You're speaking in riddles, Will," complained Answell.

  "He tends to do that after four beers," injected Parsons.

  "Be quiet," ordered Grundy as he smacked the Archeo Troop host lightly on the back before glancing back at Wington. "Are you talking a conspiracy, or what?"

  Wington shook his head. "I don't know. All I can tell you is some thefts follow a specific, recurring pattern. It usually goes like this: a dig is started. Not soon after but soon enough to have begun digging, there is an attack in the night, apparent vandalism. Usually only one place is disturbed, always the pit being excavated the day before. Only one hole is found dug, never very big, just enough to remove a few artifacts. Often, the dig site has a port or ancient ships involved."

  "How would they know the item, whatever it is, was there if it wasn't dug up yet?" asked Grundy.

  "That's the bizarreness of the pattern. There is no way anyone, least of all a vandal, could know there was anything buried below. As well, if there was a witness, a guard or some such, they would invariably have been knocked out, usually found lying by the dig site itself, relatively unharmed but without a single memory of what happened the night before."

  "Sounds hokey," said Tennison.

  Wington nodded in agreement. "It did to me too, the first time I heard about it. And the second, and the third. But the fourth time, I couldn't ignore it anymore."

  "Were those without memory drugged?" Parsons asked. "I hear there's some African tribes who have darts that not only render you unconscious, they cause memory loss."

  "No they weren't drugged but all had unexplainable marks on their body somewhere, a circular bruise with a ring of small incisions in clothing and skin around the bruise. You should also know I've found reports of more than fifty of these nocturnal robberies across a span of more than four centuries."

  "Utter nonsense," Answell scoffed. "That very fact breaks down your theory. I could accept the concept of a single thief after a particular object during the latter part of this century but if there are robberies across four hundred years, it must mean much more than one man is involved. It would probably require a large group of men, to keep the search active across that vast a span of time, a highly unlikely scenario."

  Not for an immortal, I reflected. However, at this time, I knew of no other immortals on the planet apart from the Greyman and me, which was exactly how I wanted it. There were those out there who hated and hunted immortals, namely the Abbey monks. They always reared their ugly heads when immortals surfaced. It was why I lived in the shadows, hidden behind other identities, and, most of all, avoiding berserker rages, to limit my exposure to those religious watchdogs.

  "I believe it is a conspiracy. Your very argument says it has to be," countered Wington.

  "Don't tell me you're actually serious?" asked Tennison.

  Wington drained his beer. "As serious as one can be with something like this. All I'm saying is, there's more than meets the eye to some thefts and none of it can be easily explained. If I'm right and some group has searched for and removed specific artifacts from archeological sites for that long a time, it can only mean a very large society as Answell attests, a secret society no less, because no one has ever heard of them, with advanced technology, in order to detect buried artifacts across the world. On the other hand, if I'm wrong, how do you explain the similarity between robberies? It can't be mere coincidence."

  "Either way, this is not what we came here to discuss," redirected Answell. "The real problem is tomorrow. If we can't dig the beach, we will be forced to re-examine the port town, something I am loath to do. It would be a waste of our resources."

  "Maybe not," stated Grundy. "When we filmed our first episode here, we focused mainly on the town itself, rather than the industrial area. Also, I never did any geo-phiz of the section leading down to the beach. Neither area is restricted to us. I could get up early and work my ass off before the TV crew arrives. If we're lucky, maybe we'll find something to prove the presence of an ancient port, despite Robertson's antics."

  "Ohh, wouldn't that be perfect justice?" crowed Answell. "Well, beggars can't be choosers. Do your geo-phiz and find us a prize to put Robertson in his place. I don't want all our eggs in one basket however. While Grundy does his thing, let's pull out the geo-phiz results from our previous investigation and take a fresh look at it. Maybe we can find a spot for Will to dig."

  "What a lovely word. To dig. My favorite activity," muttered a barely awake Wington.

  Taking that as my cue, I stood and made my excuses. No matter what I said, Parsons insisted on walking me back to my room, which was on the second floor of the Metropole, a hotel a few blocks from the Brasserie. He chattered lightly all the way. I thanked him for his help, bid him a good-night, and closed the door on his face.

  I waited in the dark of my room, watching through a cracked-open door, until he had gone to the end of the hall and vanished down the stairs. I opened my suitcase and pulled out my night outfit, a pair of black pants, a black sweater, and a balaclava. Peering through the curtain, I examined the parking lot. It was deserted.

  I opened my window, removed the screen, and hopped out. I fell two stories and hit the sidewalk hard. I remained where I was, examining my surroundings. nothing moved. I was alone.

  Keeping to the shadows, I slithered along several building until I reached the edge of town. With a glance at the stars to get my bearings, I headed in a north-west direction and started straight-line walking. It couldn't be more than half past ten, so I had plenty of time, since I wasn't going far.

  I thought back to the afternoon, while Parsons was wrapping up the show. His blabbing had given me all the time I needed to go to his truck and search it. It took me less than two minutes to find a log book with the address I sought and return to the dig without anybody the wiser.

  A thick hedge appeared in front of me. I plowed straight through, as required by the rules of straight-line walking. You weren't allowed to deviate in the slightest. You had to go through, under, or over whatever obstacles you encountered. It was a game only immortals could play.

  Unfortunately, this landscape did not offer much challenge. It was mostly tilled land, with the odd fence or barn. I saw my goal in the distance, a large house. I ran a bit, getting excited but forced myself to slow. I had to maintain a calm condition even if I enjoyed these activities. Otherwise I would find myself in a berserker state.

  Reaching the house, I paused in front of the porch to lower the balaclava over my face, making sure the eye holes were properly aligned. The lights were on, my prey was home. I meditated for a few moments, reminding myself my purpose here was altruistic. I was only here to help my fellow archaeologists. Murder was not necessary. I walked up the stairs, across the porch, and knocked on the door, using a familiar rat-a-tat.

  It had the intended effect and, after a brief commotion inside, slow steps came down a creaking staircase. After an interminable wait, a chain was removed from the door and it opened, revealing a short, balding man in need of a shave. "Mr Robertson, I presume?"

  "Who are you? What do you want?" he squeaked with a high-pitched voice.

  I pushed my way in, ignoring his blustering. "Are you alone here?"

  "I want you to leave right now, or I shall be forced to call the constables."

  I wrapped my hand around his throat and lifted him off the ground. He uttered a strangled 'GAAKK', his face going deeply red. His arms and legs flipped and flopped comically, like some drunken marionette. I brought his face near mine, until our eyes were peering into each other. "If you want to live, shut up and listen, do you understand?" I whispered.

  I felt him try to nod. It was enough for me so I released him. He dropped to the floor and rebounded, falling flat on his face. His hands grasped his throat and he gasped, hacking and coughing dramatically. His noise stopped the i
nstant he saw me raise a finger to my lips. He crawled back to the wall to lean against it, trembling and shaking, a cowering mess.

  "You have been a bad boy, Mr. Robertson. You have not issued the permit for the Archeo Troop."

  "But-- They-- They--"

  "Shush. Just listen. You will go to your office at the crack of dawn. You will issue a permit and then write a letter, quitting your post. Your last official act will be to bring the permit in person to Mitch Answell. Make sure they have it before their day starts."

  I reached down. He tried to scuttle away but failed miserably. My hand clamped around his neck and I lifted him into the air again, shook him like a rag doll for a few moments, then whispered into his ear, "If you fail me in any way, I will be back. I guarantee next time will not be so gentle." I dropped him and he collapsed loosely on the floor again, groaning and gasping though much more weakly this time. "Are you left or right-handed?"

  "W-what?"

  "Answer me. Now!"

  "RIGHT! I'm right-handed," he whined.

  Kneeling, I seized his left hand and, while looking directly into his eyes, started squeezing. "You are going to make me a promise. You will never speak a word of my presence here, to anyone, for any reason. If you ever do, I will return and you will die horribly. Promise." I applied more strength. The bones in his left hand cracked. He screamed and whimpered. "Promise!"

  "I-I promise, I promise, I promise," he blubbered.

  "What do you promise?"

  "I-- Aarrgghh-- I promise n-never to r-reveal your presence here to a-anyone, for a-any reason."

  "Good." I crushed the hand into a pulp for good measure, eliciting several more satisfying screams from him, then tossed him through the staircase railing for good measure. Wood went flying as he flew past the railing and hit the wall hard. He rolled down several steps, bruised and battered, every bone in his hand broken. "Remember. Not a single word to anyone or I will return."

  I walked out the front door and ran off into the night, letting the darkness surround me in its warm embrace as I basked in the feeling of a job well done. Though most humans would consider this night pitch-black, to me it was clear as day. The seeing-in-the-dark ability had come on soon after I had started taking spores. Since several of my senses had been dulled, it was logical the remaining ones should become more acute.