Empires of Sand

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Empires of Sand Page 29

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)


  Paul groaned inwardly. It always went this way. Moussa would have an idea, Paul an objection. Moussa would argue, Paul would give in. After they had done it and it was all over Moussa would agree what a stupid idea it was in the first place. The ideas never got any better, yet the pattern never changed. Paul’s dread of dark places was not as great as his concern over Moussa’s disapproval, even though Moussa never openly belittled him. He didn’t need to, since Paul always caved in before it got that far. Sure enough, Paul felt his resolve dying along with his objections. He cursed himself for going along, and then did.

  “Oh, d’accord, I’m coming with you.”

  Moussa held the lantern high. They made their way down the blackness of the corridor, tentatively at first. The ceiling was arched and quite high enough for their passage, but the darkness made them want to duck as they walked, as if something might suddenly appear from out of the gloom and hit them on the head. A cloak of cold and silence settled over them as they crept along, their senses fully alert. They tried not to make any noise, even though the tunnels were deserted and there seemed no need for silence.

  They walked for a long time. They passed through mid-sized rooms, then great galleries where vast quantities of stone had been mined. In some places the walls were smooth and perfectly straight as if cut with a razor, while others were scalloped, as if scooped with a spoon. They found old rusty tools, chisels and parts of saws, and wood handles that were worn smooth with use by long-dead craftsmen. Cart wheel tracks were ground into some parts of the stone. Planks from the carts were scattered among iron casings for wheel spokes. It had been a city beneath a city, the tools and wheels silent testament to the activity that had taken place there.

  Sometimes corridors branched off, or rough stairways disappeared up into nothingness. Some were blocked off with piles of stone. They passed through a junction where six corridors departed like points of a star from the one in which they were walking. They decided to keep going straight through. “If we don’t turn,” Moussa said, “we won’t get lost.” Once when they stopped they heard water rushing in the distance, but they couldn’t find it. There were other sounds, nondescript noises of the dark that their imaginations magnified a thousand times. Their eyes played tricks on them too as they walked. They’d look at the lantern, and then little floating lights of different shapes would dance around them as their eyes darted through the blackness, shapes of heads and bodies, Moussa’s spiders and Paul’s demons, things that wouldn’t go away when they shut their eyes. But they stayed close to each other and touched a lot and got used to it after a while, although their step was a little quicker than usual.

  At length they arrived at a set of rough stairs. They weren’t evenly carved like the ones that descended from the cathedral. They might not even be stairs for all the boys could tell, but they looked like they went somewhere. They climbed up easily at first, but then had to take turns holding the lantern while they pulled themselves up over ledges that grew steeper and farther apart. They had gotten quite high when their way was blocked abruptly by a stone wall.

  Paul had had enough. “Let’s go back,” he suggested after they’d climbed back down. “The traps are probably full by now.”

  “Just a little farther,” Moussa urged, and they continued down the corridor. They passed through an area where the floor was rough and uneven, their footing uncertain. Paul tripped over something and fell to the ground. Whatever it was rolled a little way, like a light stone.

  “What was that?”

  Moussa raised his lantern and looked down at the floor. At first they couldn’t tell what it was. But then Moussa gave a little squeak of fright. It was a human skull, smirking at them from the place where it had come to rest in its soft bed of dust. In a flash of panic they looked around, wondering if there were other parts, or killers with long silent blades and blood in their eyes. But there was nothing. No one else, no stray arms or legs or ribs. Just a skull in the dirt, disembodied and alone. Moussa moved closer.

  “Don’t touch it!” Paul hissed.

  “Why not? It’s just some old bones.” Carefully, delicately, Moussa nudged it with the toe of his boot. It toppled over and the boys jumped back. The skull regarded them sideways.

  Satisfied that it wasn’t going to move on its own, Moussa knelt next to it and held the lantern near. The light cast deep shadows. They could see through one eye into the empty interior, and the little zigzag lines on top where the bone was fused together. The nose was a gaping hole, the teeth intact. The skull had a quizzical, friendly expression. Moussa decided it was harmless. He set the lantern on the ground and gingerly picked up the skull. It was dry and lighter than he expected. He briefly wondered if he was committing a sin somehow, just by touching it. Fooling around with what used to be someone’s head was probably near the line. But he turned it over and over in his hands, and decided it wasn’t any different than a piece of old cow bone. Whoever had lived in it was long gone and probably wasn’t even Catholic.

  “I’m taking him with us,” he announced. “We can get him a hat and keep him in the tree house. We can call him Napoléon the Next.”

  Paul came closer, his initial queasiness melting before his curiosity. He was not amused by Moussa’s choice of names. Napoléon had caused enough trouble. “How about Fritz? We can say he was a Prussian we killed.” Moussa giggled. It was perfect. “Trés bien.” He held him up at eye level. “Fritz, je m’appelle Moussa, et voilà Paul.” He bowed politely, from the waist, and took Fritz in his hands. He tossed him lightly in the air. Fritz grinned. Paul decided Moussa’s idea to explore hadn’t been so bad after all.

  Their attention shifted back to the passageway. It was getting late and they needed to keep moving. A little farther along there was another widening, and then a huge cavern that must have been a major collection point for the quarry. They could tell the room was large only by the way sound echoed in it, because the light from their lantern was lost in the gloom long before it lit the ceiling or the other side. Near where they stood another set of ledges resembled a steep set of stairs. Old fragments of rope were wound together in huge braids that cascaded down the ledges like cotton waterfalls, and were still attached to slings of dried leather from old stone harnesses. From the size of the room and the ropes it was obvious they had come to a station where stone had been hoisted to the surface. Moussa set the lantern down and peered up, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

  “Look!” he said. “Light!” At first Paul couldn’t see it, but he waited and saw it too, a diffuse glow that barely lit the walls above them. They set Fritz down next to the lantern and began climbing up, eager to discover where their secret passage had brought them. The ropes made it easy to climb, and they ascended more quickly than before. They had gone up a considerable distance when they heard a piece of metal striking another. They stopped and listened, hardly daring to breathe. They heard it again, and then other noises, lower and indistinct – a voice, a man’s voice, although they couldn’t make out anything he was saying. He laughed. They looked at each other. Careful not to make any noise of their own, they crawled up. The climbing was growing easier, the steps closer together than before, and the ledges were covered with dust that muffled their passage. The voice became more distinct, and then they made out others, four or five altogether. Moussa could tell from the light that they were just below the top. He put his hand on Paul’s shoulder and they stopped. He could hear more clearly now, and what he heard brought a flicker of recognition. At once it came to him, and he knew what he was hearing as certainly as he knew his own name. He saw from the look on Paul’s face that he knew it too.

  The voices were speaking German.

  Cautiously they worked their way up, sliding up on top of each step, then moving again, being careful not to dislodge any rocks or stir up the dust. Their hearts were pounding. The stairs grew less distinct until they became a ramp, and they were at the top. Moussa raised his head to look. They had arrived at the edge of an alcove tha
t was the size of a large parlor. The room was empty. Two sides were natural stone. The third, from which the light was coming, was a wall made of stone blocks, carved and stacked nearly twenty feet high to the ceiling. The stones at the bottom of the wall were quite large, with smaller ones higher up. Daylight filtered through gaps in the wall. Someone had intentionally blocked off the entrance to the quarry a long time earlier. The boys were in the back half of the entrance to the quarry. The voices were coming from the front half, on the other side of the wall.

  When Moussa realized they couldn’t be seen, he motioned to Paul to follow him, and they crawled into the alcove. They waited to be sure no one heard. There was no break in the conversation. They could smell the smoke from a fire and the aroma of cooking food. Hair standing on end, they crawled on hands and knees to the wall of stone and peered through one of the cracks. On the other side, not ten feet away from them, six Prussian soldiers were gathered around a small fire. They were sitting under an overhang of what resembled a cave, which was the outer opening of the old quarry. They had removed their boots and were laughing and smoking. They drank liquor straight out of a bottle they passed among themselves. Two of them played a card game. One of the soldiers tended to the food cooking in a tin pot that balanced on the stones at the fire. It was a comfortable, peaceful scene, the men sheltered from the chill fall wind, the siege momentarily forgotten.

  It took a few moments of silent observation for the enormity of their circumstances to sink in. They were in a cave with Prussian troops! Prussians! After the shock passed and the realization set in, Paul stared intently at the faces of the ones he could see. He had never seen Prussian soldiers, not up close. He was surprised by their common features and simple bearing. He didn’t expect them to look so normal. One was an old man with snow white hair and kindly eyes, who smoked a pipe and reminded Paul of a portrait of his great-grandfather. Another, a baby-faced youth with bright pink cheeks, the one tending the fire, might have been his grandson. But Paul was not fooled by their simple look. He knew theirs was a clever disguise.

  These were the men who were at least partly responsible for what had happened to his father, men who had brought war to his country and nearly destroyed it.

  These were the men who were now choking his city, who would first starve it, and then plunder it to rubble. These were the very men who people said ate babies and raped women. He had no idea what rape was, but it sounded awful and thoroughly Prussian. No, he told himself, as ordinary as they might pretend to be, theirs were the faces of evil.

  As Paul’s hatred simmered, Moussa peered out past the opening, trying to determine where they were. His range of vision was limited by the mouth of the cave and there were no visible landmarks. From the position of the sun he could tell only that he was looking to the south. He could see down the slope of a long gentle hill. Beyond that the roofs of small farmhouses were scattered among the trees, with smoke blowing sideways from their chimneys in the strong winds. There was a road in the distance. It wasn’t enough. They could be anywhere. The only thing he knew for certain was that the tunnels ran all over the place. There were miles and miles of them, and they ran underground all the way from St. Paul’s to tbe enemy positions encircling the city.

  He looked at Paul and saw his intent expression. He tugged on his sleeve and motioned that they ought to leave. Moussa had no desire to toy with a bunch of Prussian soldiers. The longer they stayed the greater the chance they would be detected. The memory of their close call at the hands of French troops still made his insides flutter. It was time to go. He thought Paul would be eager to leave, but Paul shook his head stubbornly and gestured at Moussa’s back pocket. Puzzled, Moussa looked around. The band of his slingshot was hanging from one pocket, a sack of pebbles bulging in another. The color drained from his face. Could Paul actually be thinking that? A slingshot? Against a half-dozen Prussian soldiers?

  Angrily he shook his head and turned to crawl away. Paul grabbed him by the sleeve, and drew his face up close. “If you won’t do it then give it to me!”

  “Do what? Merde, it’s a slingshot, not a gun!”

  “We have to at least hit one with it!”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Well, you’re a coward.” The word struck Moussa like a blow. He didn’t know what had gotten into his cousin. Paul’s face was red, his look deadly earnest. Paul had never, ever called him that before. Moussa was bigger and bolder, always the one in front. He was not the one who usually needed persuading, even though just now he thought it wise to gather up Fritz and be gone, while Paul had some notion about taking on Bismarck’s infantry. Although he wasn’t about to admit it, Moussa had realized something as he peered through the stones. Up close, the Prussian soldiers scared him to death. But there was no way he’d let Paul think him afraid.

  “I am not a coward,” he hissed, “and you know it!”

  “Then do it!”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just hit one in the eye with it,” Paul whispered.

  “Just hit one in the eye?”

  Paul nodded eagerly. “Oui. That will be enough. Then he’ll have to go home.”

  Frustrated, Moussa looked around. He couldn’t let Paul do it. They both knew he was a lousy shot. He’d bungle the job and get them both caught. He looked at the wall again. It would protect them for a long time, even if the Prussians decided to give chase. They’d have to tear the wall partly down, and the boys would be gone long before that. Still, the whole idea was insane, even for Moussa. Yet his choices were limited. His cousin was determined, and now his own honor was at stake. At last Moussa gave in. “D’accord,” he said, “but just one try. If I miss we get out of here anyway.”

  “All right,” Paul agreed. “But don’t miss.”

  Together they crawled back to the wall, their knees stirring the heavy dust on the floor of the quarry. Moussa fished for his slingshot and drew a few pebbles from his pouch. He chose a rose quartz with a jagged edge. A sure killer, he thought. Carefully he loaded it into the leather sling, feeling the edges and moving the rock around until it nestled just right between his fingers, the fat part in back for a good grip. He’d done it a thousand times without looking, but this time he looked anyway, to be absolutely certain. Satisfied, he stood up and rested his elbows against the stone. He could see the heads of a couple of the soldiers. He stepped to the left a little, to find an opening big enough. He was thankful for the blustery fall wind that blew outside the mouth of the quarry. He could hear it whipping the branches of the trees. It would mask any noise he might make.

  He chose his target, the soldier with the baby face. As he did he flushed hot. He was actually going to do it. Slowly he drew the sling back until it was stretched taut next to his ear, all the way to the breaking point, farther than he had ever pulled it. He squinted and framed the face of the soldier between the posts of the slingshot, judging the range carefully, measuring, moving his hand a little up, then a little down until he was sure he had it right, and his eye had the other, dead-on. The soldier was perched on a stone with his back to one wall, his profile exposed to Moussa. He held a big spoon in one hand and gazed blankly into the cook pot, his expression lost in reverie. At last Moussa was ready.

  He swallowed hard and held his breath, and let go.

  The stone streaked through the opening in the wall and found its mark, striking the soldier in the cheekbone just below his right eye. Startled, he brought one hand to his face and jumped to his feet. His spoon flew from his hand and clattered on the rocks.

  “Gott in Himmel!” he bellowed in rage, blood gushing from the wound. “I’ve been shot!” He spun around and staggered toward the opening of the cave as the others sprang to their feet in a panic, scrambling for their weapons and helmets. Moussa and Paul kept looking just long enough to see the blood, and then dropped to the floor and fled, terrified, on hands and knees. They slithered over the edge and down the stairs into the dark protection of the deep quarry, a
nd were gone.

  In the front of the cave the wounded soldier danced and hollered in pain, the skin of his cheek laid clean away from the bone. The others looked around uncertainly. There had been no gunfire, no sounds of assault. No one had seen the stone or heard it drop to the ground, where it fell among a score of others. They peered out the opening of the cave, in the opposite direction from which the stone had come, none of them with the slightest idea what they were looking for. The hillside below the cave was deserted. They looked up, wondering whether something might have dropped from the ceiling of the cave. Nothing. Shrugs met puzzled looks. One of the soldiers walked around the perimeter of the cave, stopping at the wall where the stones were piled up. He climbed up on one and peered through an opening. Looking in that direction, with the light behind him, he could barely make out the void behind the wall. Empty.

  Nichts, he decided. Nothing there. He climbed back down.

  The old man examined the boy’s injury. “It’s not a bullet wound,” he said. “Quit whining. Your eye is all right. You probably stabbed yourself with the spoon.” The boy groaned. The others laughed and sat back down, the excitement forgotten.

  Moussa and Paul heard nothing. They moved as if the entire Prussian army were at their heels. They fairly flew down the ledges, slipping and sliding, bumping and scraping, desperate to reach the corridor that would lead them to the safety of St. Paul’s. They clung to the ropes, flaying elbows and skinning knees in their mad descent. They listened for footsteps or shouts, gunshots or cannons, and heard nothing but the clatter of their own escape echoing around them. When they hit bottom Paul tripped and fell to his stomach, letting out a cry as he hit the ground. The lantern glass rattled loudly, filling them with dread that now they’d been heard for sure. Paul struggled to his feet and snatched up the light, which luckily hadn’t broken. Moussa picked up Fritz and carried him under his arm like a kick ball, and they ran as fast as their limited light permitted. On and on they plunged through the corridors, straight through past the widenings and the yawning black holes of other corridors that departed for places unknown. For twenty minutes they kept up their headlong pace, never slacking. They abandoned their efforts at running in silence, and as each moment passed with no sign of a pursuit their fright turned to ecstasy as they decided they’d gotten away with it.

 

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