by Adrien Leduc
* * *
I thought the cab ride to the airport would be boring.
It wasn’t.
First we had to stop at the university so Uncle Marty could check to see if everything in his office was okay, you know, since his apartment had been broken into and all. He’d kept us waiting in the cab, but then when he came out he told us we’d be switching cabs.
“Was your office broken into too!?” I’d asked.
He’d shaken his head and grumbled something about “not bothering him.”
However, the cab driver was sure bothered by the fact that all of a sudden Uncle Marty wanted to change cabs.
“You told me I was bringing you to the airport! That’s why I took this call!” he’d screamed, his accent so thick it took great pains to make out precisely what he was saying.
Uncle Marty didn’t really have much to say to this and so he’d just dug into his wallet and taken out a fifty.
“That won’t cover it!” the cabbie had screamed.
Troy then added another twenty to this and we were on our way. Though not until the cab driver had thrown our bags on the sidewalk.
“Is he allowed to do that!?” I’d protested as he’d squealed away, swerving past crowds of pedestrians and making them jump to the side.
Uncle Marty had of course said that, no, he wasn’t allowed to do that, but he added that we were in too much a hurry to worry about it.
“I’ll send a complaint via e-mail once we’re in France. I got his number.”
After that little fiasco we then had to flag down another cab. This turned out to be a task requiring all four of us as every cab seemed to be occupied and we had to run all around the loop trying to find one that wasn’t.
Josh had been the one to find a free cab though we had to drag our bags three hundred metres over to where the cab was parked. Needless to say, it was a lot of added stress to an already stressful start to our trip.
In the end we’d made it to Pearson International Airport with time to spare. Well, not much time. Forty eight minutes by Troy’s watch - just enough to check in and make it through security.
Now, lounging in the terminal and waiting to board our flight, I relax with a bag of chips and my magazine. Sprawled out on the comfy chairs beside me are Troy with his laptop and Josh with his Nintendo DS. Uncle Marty's gone to get a newspaper and a coffee.
“How much longer, mom?” the little boy seated in the row of chairs behind ours asks the pretty redhead beside him.
“Not much longer, sweetheart,” the woman answers, smiling at me as I look on.
“He's a cutie,” I say.
“Thanks. Wanna have him?”
I laugh. “Why, is he being a handful?”
The woman rolls her eyes. “A handful and then some.”
I laugh and wave at the little boy who, suddenly shy, burrows his face in his mom's sweater.
Now it's the woman's turn to laugh. “Tyson! Don't be so shy!” She looks at me. “He can be so shy sometimes.”
I nod. “My friend's little brother is like that.”
DING.
I stop and look up, waiting to hear the message from the intercom.
“Canada Air flight four seven two to Paris – we will now commence priority boarding. Those in first class, and those with small children or those needing extra assistance, are invited to board at this time. Please have your boarding passes and passports ready.”
DING.
“That's us,” says the woman as the same message is relayed in French. She pries her son's fingers from her blouse and stands him on his feet. “Come on, Tyson. Can you - ”
He falls on his bum and looks up at her.
I giggle as she smiles and picks him up in her arms.
“Oh, you're getting too heavy for mommy to carry you.”
She looks at me for some support and I offer her a sympathetic smile. “See you on the plane.”
She smiles and they head to the front of the gate as I swing around in my chair. Troy is still on his laptop and Josh is still off in his own little world with his Nintendo DS.
“Did my uncle come back yet?”
Troy shakes his head without removing his eyes from the screen. “No. I'll text him though and see where he is.”
“Good idea. Oh, wait, you don't have to. There he is.”
Troy glances up. Uncle Marty is approaching, a coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
“About time,” I say once he's within earshot.
He scowls and takes a seat, unfolding The Globe and Mail as he does so.
“So...Uncle Marty...”
He sighs. “Yes, Sarah.”
“Did we switch cabs at the university because you think someone’s following us? And is that why you came to the patio door last night?”
He lowers his newspaper and looks from me, to Troy (who seems to be as interested in his answer as I am), and back at me. “I came to the patio door last night because, yes, I wasn’t sure if I was perhaps being watched or followed and I didn’t want anything to jeopardize this expedition.”
“Okay...”
“And yes, we switched cabs just in case whoever broke into my apartment managed to follow me to your guys’ house last night.”
“And do you think anyone did?”
He shakes his head. “No. I was very careful.”
I chew on this for a minute. “I just don't see how we can go on this expedition with some bad guy potentially following us...I mean, what if this person kidnaps me and Josh and sells us to people who take our organs. I saw that in a movie.”
Uncle Marty looks thoroughly exasperated. “Sarah, no one is going to be stealing your and Joshua’s organs.”
My brother looks up at the sound of his name and I find myself smiling at the worried expression on his face.
“Who’s stealing our organs?”
“No one,” Uncle Marty snaps. He glares at me. “See what you’ve started?”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Marty! But like I said, what if this guy who came to your hotel room is like a really bad dude?”
Uncle Marty looks at me, his expression grim. “I don’t know what to say.”
“What exactly did this guy want?” asks Troy.
“He offered to help us find the Dumnonian Hoard. I told him I wasn’t going to share any information with him and then he said - ” Uncle Marty stops short, as though he’s swallowed a bug.
I look at him, my eyes urging him to continue. “And? What did he say?”
“He said...” Uncle Marty looks almost sad now as he looks at me and then at Troy. “He said...I hadn’t seen the last of him.”
“He said that!?”
Even Troy looks shocked. “That’s a threat.”
Uncle Marty sighs. “Perhaps...perhaps...I have been a little wanton in my disregard for the threat this man might pose...”
“Wonton?” Josh pipes up. “Like wonton soup?”
“Want - tun,” says Uncle Marty, clearly unhappy with Josh’s interruption. “As in casual. Lackadaisical. Dismissive.”
Josh draws a blank. (So do I, though it’s not like I’m about to admit it. Not with Troy, Mr. College Boy sitting beside me.) “Lackadaisical?”
Uncle Marty gives a great sigh of annoyance. “Just what exactly are they teaching you kids in school these days!?”
Josh looks almost hurt by Uncle Marty’s angry outburst.
“Our teacher’s twenty three,” I say.
“So he or she has probably never even looked at a real dictionary. Everything’s online now or on your iPad or laptop or whatever.”
“Yeah...so?”
“So? It’s because of all those gadgets that everyone’s going soft in the head.”
“Soft in the head?” asks Josh, and I swear he’s not even trying to piss off Uncle Marty.
“Good grief...” says Uncle Marty, looking away and taking a sip of his coffee.
“Look, let’s get back on topic. Uncle Marty. This man who came to see
you in your hotel room. Do you think he’s the one that broke into your apartment?”
“I don’t know, Sarah. I have no idea. All I know is that whoever that man was, Nigel Cook was the name he gave, though who knows if that’s even his real name. He’s certainly not the kind of fellow I’d like to meet in a dark alley...”
“I can take him, professor,” says Troy, flexing a bicep.
I feel my eyes gravitate to his muscular torso and I like what I see. “Yeah, Troy can take him.”
Uncle Marty purses his lips and shakes his head in annoyance. “No one’s taking anyone. Any sign of trouble and I’ll be contacting the authorities. The French take the preservation of their artifacts very seriously and they’re not about to let some black market antique dealer try and take off with valuable artifacts.”
“I thought we were going on a treasure hunt,” I say quietly.
“It’s not a treasure...good grief, Sarah. This is an archaeological expedition. We are seeking a fifteen hundred year old stockpile of valuable artifacts. Yes, many of them could be classified as treasure, though I’m loathe to use that word as there isn’t anything financial about this. This is purely for the sake of history and uncovering history. Anything we find goes through Fabrice. He’ll be overseeing the dig site.”
“Who’s Fabrice?”
“Fabrice is Head of Artifacts at the Museum of Brittany in Rennes.”
“Oh.”
“Troy and I have been collaborating with Fabrice since last year,” Uncle Marty continues. “In fact it was Fabrice, or I guess I should say, Dr. Rondeau, who initially suggested Porspoder as a possible location for the Dumnonian Hoard.”
“Pors – poh – dair?”
“Yes, Porspoder. That's where we're going.”
“Oh. And that's in Brittany?”
“Yes. Right on the coast.”
I nod and sit back. I need to let all this new information settle.
“Sarah,” says my uncle after a time, “I don't want you to be worried. Whoever might be following us...we’ll be fine. You’ll be safe.”
“Promise?”
Uncle Marty emits an exasperated sigh. “Promise. The minute I sense some sort of danger, I'll be contacting the local authorities.”
“What if they don't listen to you?”
Another sigh. “Sarah, they will listen because I'll have Fabrice with me.”
“What's Fabrice got to do with anything?”
“Fabrice is a French citizen. He speaks the language. And he's from Brittany.”
I nod, slowly, my next question already forming in my mind. “You promised you’d tell us the one thousand year old story.”
Troy laughs. “She sure doesn’t let you forget anything!”
“No, I don’t,” I say, seriously, though I shoot Troy a smile.
Uncle Marty sighs, crosses one leg over the other, and sets his newspaper aside. “I did promise, didn’t I? Alright...well...here it goes. In about the seventh century A.D. - ”
DING.
“Canada Air flight four seven two to Paris – we will now commence general boarding. We will begin with those seated in rows forty through twenty five. Please have your boarding passes and passports ready.”
DING.
Uncle Marty folds up his newspaper and rises slowly to his feet as the message is replayed in French.
He looks at us. “Well?”
“I want to hear the story!”
Annoyed as I am at being prevented, yet again, from hearing the story, I have to laugh with the rest of them.
“We’ve got a seven hour plane ride ahead of us, Sarah. That’s plenty of time to tell you the story.”
“Yeah, Sarah,” Josh chimes.
“Oh, shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Kids,” says Uncle Marty sternly. “Your mother has asked me to keep her updated on your behaviour over the next four weeks and so I’ll be e-mailing to her every few day. What I report depends on how you behave.”
“Sorry, Uncle Marty.”
“Yeah...sorry, Uncle Marty.”
He nods, happier than I’ve seen him all morning, as we move to take our place in line. “Apologies accepted. Now let’s see if you two can keep from arguing between here and France.”
Psssh. Fat chance.