The Dumnonian Hoard: Rosenberg Twins Adventure #1

by Adrien Leduc

  * * *

  The day passed quickly. Madame Duguay and I bought a box of éclairs from the Pâtisserie Legault, a large, busy pastry place where you can find just about every dessert known to man. There were muffins. There was marzipan. There were cakes and pies and tarts. I think I gained ten pounds just looking at the stuff.

  “And you know, because they’re closed on the weekend, on Friday afternoons everything left on the shelves is half off,” Madame Duguay had gushed as we’d left the store, the box of éclairs tucked safely under my arm. “It’s a dangerous place to come to on a Friday afternoon!”

  I’d laughed and agreed as we’d made our way down the street, along which, further ahead, we’d stopped at the hat shop so she could show me this white Eugenie Hat she adored.

  “They still make their hats by hand, you know!” she’d exclaimed.

  I remember being surprised by this and we’d spent nearly half an hour there because I suddenly found myself in love with French hat couture.

  “The problem is that they are quite expensive,” she’d noted, showing me the price tag on one.

  “That’s not so bad,” I’d said, upon seeing the figure.

  “That’s in euros, dear.”

  “Oh.”

  She’d given me a knowing smile and we’d left shortly after, though only after Madame Duguay had talked at length with the storeowner, a stout, round-faced woman with rosy cheeks and a chipmunk laugh.

  After leaving the hat shop, Madame Duguay had pointed out the pet store (I’d wanted to stop but then she’d explained that pet stores in Brittany don’t keep animals inside the store like they do in North America) and the café where apparently Alexandre Dumas had once stopped for tea.

  All the while, throughout our shopping excursion, I’d kept an eye out for the man with the scar. I’d seen him already - when Josh and I had gone to buy potatoes for Madame Duguay - and so I didn’t doubt I would soon see him again.

  But, Porspoder isn’t very big - there’s a church, a school, a post office, a gendarmerie, and a line of shops that stretches from one end of le rue principale to the other (these include the bakery and the hat shop) - and I must have looked in nearly every store and there was no sign of him. This surprised me - not seeing him - though I wasn’t disappointed. No way.

  At exactly four thirty we arrived home and while Madame Duguay put supper on, I unpacked and put the groceries away.

  “The cans go in the larder.”

  “What’s a larder?”

  “Goodness me, you don’t know what a larder is?”

  I’d shook my head and she’d laughed

  “Here,” she’d said, taking me by the arm, “I’ll show you.”

  Steering me to a door, she’d opened it to reveal a small, windowless room lined with shelves and filled with food cans.

  “This is a pantry.”

  “A...pantry? What ever is a pantry?”

  Then it had been my turn to laugh. “You don’t know what a pantry is!? How can you not know what a pantry is!? This is a pantry.”

  Madame Duguay shoots me a blank stare.

  I’d smiled. “This is a pantry,” I’d repeated, though more politely.

  “Hmm, well I suppose it’s just in England they call it a larder.”

  I’d giggled then and expressed my joy at saying the word lahr - der, especially with Madame Duguay’s accent.

  That had been the end of that discussion however as Armand had returned home with several boxes of books he’d picked up from a flea market in nearby Ploudalmézeau and Josh and I had to help him carry them inside.

  I think he’d felt bad about giving me that French book about the Dumnonii the other day (that I can’t read or understand) because he gave me a bag containing several English language novels. They were old and dusty, with yellowed pages and they were by authors I’d never heard of - Agatha Christie was one I think - but I did appreciate the gesture.

  “You know, once you learn French, you will find it easy to learn any of the Latin languages,” Armand had said once we’d lugged all the boxes of books to his study. “Do either of you know the five Latin languages?” he’d asked, looking at both my brother and I.

  “Italian” had been Josh’s offering to which Armand had nodded enthusiastically.

  I’d been able to throw in Spanish and Armand had to explain that Romanian and Portuguese were the other two.

  “And all of the Latin languages follow the same rules of grammar and gender accordances...is that a word? Accordances?”

  It sounded like a word and so I’d simply nodded though I really wasn’t sure.

  “So once you learn one, it’s easy to pick up another.”

  He’d seemed so excited by this fact that Josh and I had deemed it important to nod and smile and agree enthusiastically though neither of us were as excited as he.

  Supper wasn’t until seven - Troy and Uncle Marty had arrived at quarter to - and after recounting the events of their day, we’d dug in to Madame Duguay’s incredible scalloped potatoes.

  Now, as we sit around the living room, burping and digesting (and Uncle Marty farting), sipping our teas and coffees and licking the dregs of our chocolate éclairs from the corners of our mouths, I plot our night time excursion.

  It won’t be easy. To leave in the middle of the night. We’ve got the rope. And Josh found a flashlight in the bathroom cupboard. But we have to sneak out without any of them noticing. Four adults. Well, Troy isn’t really an adult. But still.

  I cast a wary eye in Uncle Marty’s direction. He catches my gaze and clears his throat, stretching out his feet on the freshly vacuumed carpet and wiggling his toes.

  “Sarah, you and Joshua are welcome to come to the dig site with us tomorrow.”

  I don’t really care about the stinking dig site now that I know where the treasure is, but, whatever.

  “Yeah?”

  He nods and takes a sip from his coffee mug. “Yeah. Provided, of course, that you two can be on your best behaviour. We’ve got some important stuff happening at the moment and we couldn’t have you causing any kind of trouble.”

  “We wouldn’t cause you any trouble, Uncle Marty,” blurts Josh from the couch where he’s curled up with his Nintendo DS.

  “You wouldn’t sneak away like last time?” he asks with a small smile.

  Madame Duguay clicks her tongue and taps my brother on the leg.

  “You mustn’t sneak away from your uncle. You’re in a foreign land where you don’t know the language. You need to listen to your uncle and do what he tells you.”

  “Uncle Marty doesn’t speak the language,” I say, aware I’m being somewhat rude.

  Madame Duguay looks at me. “No, he doesn’t. But Troy does. And your uncle is also much older than you and therefore much more experienced than you. You have to listen to your elders. That’s the problem with society these days. Young people have no respect for their elders.”

  “We have respect for our elders! Just...not if what they’re saying doesn’t make sense.”

  Madame Duguay looks unimpressed. “It doesn’t have to make sense. It’s enough that they say something. Us older folks know a thing or two, you know.”

  I hate that Madame Duguay seems irritated with me. Especially when we had such a good day today.

  “Alright,” I mutter, feeling completely defeated. “I’m sorry.”

  Madame Duguay gives me a knowing stare as she pulls out her knitting from a bag in the corner. “You don’t need to apologize, just be more respectful. Respect goes a long way in France, you know.”

  “I know.”

  There’s an awkward silence in the room now. I’m too embarrassed to say anything - well, not exactly embarrassed - but I don’t really have anything to say. Judging by the look on Uncle Marty’s face, he doesn’t want to override what Madame Duguay just said. Troy looks like he’d be happy to just stay right out of the conversation completely.

  It’s Josh who breaks the silence.

 
; “So can me and Sarah come to the dig site tomorrow?”

  Uncle Marty nods as he drains the rest of the coffee from his mug. “Yes, you may.”

  “Cool.”

  “I should like to come to the dig site some time,” says Madame Duguay with a hopeful smile.

  Uncle Marty returns her smile. “How about tomorrow? You can help me keep an eye on these two,” he adds with a glance in my direction.

  “Certainly.”

  “Excellent.”

  Uncle Marty yawns, stretches, and gets slowly to his feet. “I think then that I’ll retire early tonight as it’s been a rather long day.”

  “Would you like anything more to eat?” asks Madame Duguay, setting down her knitting.

  Uncle Marty looks at her as though she’s asked him to strip naked.

  “More to eat!? Goodness, no. I’m absolutely stuffed!”

  “Stuffed?” Madame Duguay looks confused.

  “Stuffed,” I repeat for Uncle Marty. “Like...really full.”

  Madame Duguay laughs. “Is that what you say?” She laughs again. “That’s a funny word for it.”

  I giggle. Madame Duguay can be really funny at times.

  Uncle Marty pats his belly. “Yep. I’m full. At this rate, I don’t think I’ll have to eat until next week.”

  “Next week!?” says Josh, his tone incredulous. “Can you go a week without food?”

  Uncle Marty looks annoyed by my brother’s question. “Yes, you can go a week without food. So long as you continue to get nutrients and enough water.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know,” Troy interjects, looking up from his book, “there was a story in the paper a few months ago about this guy who got lost and he lasted a week without any food or water. He did have to drink his own urine though.”

  I stare wide-eyed at Troy. “Ewww!”

  Troy grins and Josh laughs.

  Boys.

  “He drank his own piss!?” Josh is practically guffawing.

  “Joshua! Mind your language!” snaps Uncle Marty.

  Troy nods. “Yeah.”

  “Joshua.” Uncle Marty looks mad. “You don’t use that word when you’re a guest in someone’s house.”

  “Sorry...I didn’t mean...” he looks haplessly at Madame Duguay, the offended party, half expecting her to slap him.

  But all Madame Duguay does is burst out laughing. “Oh, child, I’m an old woman. I’ve seen and heard it all. There’s not much you can say that will ruffle my feathers.”

  I can tell by her tone she’s directing this remark as much as Uncle Marty as at my brother.

  Uncle Marty shakes his head. “Well, Joshua still shouldn’t be talking like that in someone else’s home. Right, Joshua?”

  “I already said I’m sorry!”

  Josh’s outburst instantly changes the mood in the room.

  “Joshua...”

  “What?”

  Uncle Marty looks disappointed. “Why are you behaving like this?”

  “I’m not behaving like anything.”

  Uncle Marty shakes his head again and looks at me,

  “Don’t look at me!”

  “What kind of spell did you put your brother under to make him talk like this all of a sudden?”

  I laugh. “Spell? Oh my god, Uncle Marty.”

  He returns his gaze to my brother. “Joshua, you’ve been so good so far on this trip. Please don’t ruin it by behaving badly.”

  “I’m not ruining anything.”

  “I can’t bring you to the dig site tomorrow if this is the attitude you’re going to have.”

  “Holy, you make it seem like you’re giving us this big privilege by letting us come to the dig site. Whoop dee doo. We get to stand around and watch you dig around in the dirt. The treasure isn’t even - ”

  I shoot my brother a warning stare. Josh! What are you doing!? Don’t you dare tell him about the cave!

  “I mean...the treasure probably isn’t even there...”

  “Young man, you are way out of line right now.”

  “How I can be out of line if there is no line?”

  “Perhaps we should all go to bed,” says Madame Duguay quietly.

  Uncle Marty smiles, a maniacal smile. “You’re grounded. For the rest of our time here in France. You get to stay here every day and help Madame Duguay.”

  I gape at Uncle Marty, hardly believing what I’m witnessing. Josh turns and looks at me and I can see he’s as shocked as I am.

  “I will compensate you for the extra burden, Madame Duguay,” says Uncle Marty, turning to our gray-haired host, his tone sympathetic.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble for me to have Josué...you don’t need to, how do you say, com - pen - sate me.”

  I can tell she’s trying to soothe things over.

  But Uncle Marty’s having none of it. “No. I insist. I shall compensate you, Madame Duguay.” He returns his attention to my brother. “As for you, you can go to your room and tuck in early tonight. I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “Uncle Marty...holy - ”

  “GO TO YOUR ROOM!” he bellows, pointing a finger down the hallway.

  Josh looks at me, almost as though he’s about to cry, and then slides slowly off the couch.

  “I’D BETTER NOT GET ANYMORE ATTITUDE FROM YOU TONIGHT, YOUNG MAN.”

  As my brother walks past, my brother who only I’m allowed to be mean to, I’m suddenly pissed at my Uncle Marty. “Leave him alone! You keep yelling at him and he didn’t do anything!”

  Uncle Marty looks at me. He looks tired. “Don’t you start now.”

  “I’m not starting anything. I will finish it though. I’m telling mom you freaked out on Josh and that you’re being a total douche,” I say, getting up from the couch and heading down the hallway after my brother.

  “Tell your mother whatever you like. I’ll be writing a full report to her before I go to bed.”

  I ignore him and continue after my brother. “Josh...”

  Uncle Marty’s voice follows me down the hallway. “YOU CAN BOTH STAY HERE TOMORROW!”

  I continue to ignore him my uncle as I follow my brother out the door that leads to the rear part of the house.

  “Josh...”

  “Holy crap is he a piece of crap or what?”

  Josh turns and faces me as the door swings shut behind us, leaving us alone in the darkened hallway.

  I can tell he’s as mad as I am.

  “Screw him,” I say.

  “I can’t believe he freaked out like that.”

  “Who cares. Guess what, when we find the Dumnonian Hoard, we’ll make him look so stupid. That a couple of kids found a long lost treasure him and all the rest are looking for.

  Josh’s grin is mischievous. “Yes. When are we going to get it?”

  “How about tonight?”

  Josh nods, his eyes gleaming. “Tonight.”