Joliot dug his elbow into Yves d’Arle’s ribs. ‘Cheer,’ he whispered. ‘It was a good performance.’
D’Arle cheered. Several of the older people standing watching joined in.
‘To the battlements!’ roared Colonel Lorraine. He drew his sabre and ran towards the wall, his spurs jangling. His army followed.
‘Good God,’ exclaimed Morry Cohen.
‘Quite,’ said a gentle voice at his side. It was the young priest Morry had noticed the day before, while being unstrapped from his parachute. ‘And so another David challenges Goliath . . .’
‘I hate to remind you,’ said Morry. ‘But David was one of ours, not one of yours.’
‘Ours? ‘ asked Father Benoir.
‘A Jew . . . I’m Jewish.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Father Benoir. ‘The prisoner. Good morning . . .’ He held out his hand. Morry shook it. Father Benoir smiled. ‘A cool morning, but a good one for the Lord’s business.’
‘A lot of people are likely to get killed. Is that the Lord’s business?’
Father Benoir shook his head, sadly. ‘It is God’s will,’ he said. ‘We will win. We will win any battle against suppression for the simple reason that we have God on our side. The others haven’t. God cannot lose. Therefore, neither can we.’
‘A lot of people could die with that sort of reasoning,’ said Morry. ‘I’m one of a race which knows a lot about being right, and still dying.’
‘Noah must have had similar opposition, but he succeeded in what God wanted him to do.’
‘But everyone believes he’s serving God’s will. The Germans, the Japanese. And what about the Arabs and the Vietcong and the Americans? Everyone is right in war. But they still get killed.’
Father Benoir looked at him steadily.
‘Perhaps you don’t understand because you’re not of our faith. God told us what he wanted us to do, and we’re doing it. Everyone else is going to die, anyway. I will be happily surprised if the whole of my village flock survives to travel on the ark. The first ark only held eight people, and although we’ve catered for the whole village, it is just possible that the good Lord is planning on the same number again.’
‘But that’s awful,’ said Morry. ‘That means that you’ll go on fighting until you’ve just a handful of your people left.’
‘If it’s necessary, we’ll do exactly what we have to do. God has already made provision for those who will die doing his work. I would imagine that they’ll become minor saints, angels, perhaps. You must excuse me, now,’ added Father Benoir. ‘I wish to pray while the battle is in progress. In that way I make my little contribution.’
Barbusse was pacing the battlement half a step behind the Colonel, who was still brandishing his sabre. Morry noticed Joliot trying to stretch the stiff steel action of an ancient crossbow.
Morry peered over the battlements, and swallowed. Below, on the roadway leading to the chasm was a column of heavy, armoured vehicles. Lighter tanks and troop carriers spread out on to the rocky plain beside the track. Troops were already aligned in sections, their automatic rifles held across their chests. In a clump of rocks only a few hundred yards from the castle gateway, Morry could see a team of men assembling a heavy machine-gun.
‘Take aim carefully,’ Morry heard the Colonel order. ‘Don’t shoot until I give the word. Wait until they charge, then make every shot count.’
The man’s mad, Morry told himself. One salvo from the tanks and there would be very little left of the fortress - even less of the defenders. There was a creak as Farmer Joliot managed to spring his crossbow. Morry watched him fit the bolt and take aim at the nearest tank.
There was a shrill whistling of a distant loudspeaker on one of the vehicles, then a voice echoed off the walls. It bounced back across the valley to the mountains, and returned, confusing the speech and making it difficult to understand. Tmme- diateyeowhhhh surrenderoewchik . . . cuff cuff . . . one eeyow hour onlyeow . . .’ screamed the loudspeaker. The echo repeated the ultimatum.
‘Winch the second ballista,’ shouted Barbusse. Morry saw the siege engine’s arms, loaded with rocks, bending as the men turned the wooden capstans.
‘Ready, Barbusse,’ called Pierre Flambert, the grocer. He twanged one of the ropes with the chipped edge of a war axe.
Father Benoir faced his villagers. He raised his right hand in a blessing and began speaking. ‘Vox populi vox Dei ...’
‘Fucking mad, all of them, ‘ murmured Morry.
The telephone vibrated so much that it almost shook itself from the Minister’s hand. ‘You’ve what?’ it roared.
Minister Duprès stammered, ‘Ordered in the troops, mon President.’
‘Troops ... army?’ screeched the telephone. ‘You homicidal lunatic. That’s a French village you’re threatening with annihilation - not a bunch of Asiatic mountain guerrillas. And what’s more, it’s my village, you blundering arsewart. What chance of re-election do you think I’ll get if I allow the extermination of my own people? That’s not a presidential act - it’s the action of a dictator. I warn you ...’ the voice became coldly threatening. ‘I’ll have your balls if so much as one of my villagers is harmed. Stop those troops now - and, Monsieur Duprès, you’d better pray that not one single shot has been fired. And get my helicopter ready for immediate take off.’
‘Yes ... yes, mon President ...’
‘Five minutes ...’ shouted Barbusse.
Morry looked at Father Benoir. The priest was now back on the battlements, pronouncing a benediction. The men, in their embrasures, listened. Below, in the square at the side of the ark, the village women prepared for the expected wounded. Morry watched one of them rewinding a long strip of white bandage.
Barbusse checked his watch again. The deadline set by the army below was almost up. ‘Four minutes.’
Father Benoir’s Latin muttering became louder. Morry Cohen ran over to him and shook his shoulder. ‘For heaven’s sake, stop it! Stop it now - before it’s too late.’ Father Benoir ignored him. ‘Colonel... Colonel!’ shouted Morry. The Colonel looked at him coldly. ‘Colonel, open the gates. Tell your men to put down those stupid weapons. You’ll all be killed . . .’ Colonel Lorraine turned his back on the journalist.
‘You’d better stay quiet,’ warned Flambert. ‘If you go on making that noise, I’ll fire you with my first salvo of rocks.’
‘Three minutes ...’ called Barbusse.
‘Check all weapons,’ shouted Colonel Lorraine. There was a rattle of wood and steel as the men followed his orders. Flambert swung his axe on to his shoulder in readiness for his swipe at the ballista rope.
‘Two minutes...’ Barbusse’s voice was deep.
‘Colonel ... for God’s sake,’ pleaded Morry. ‘At least get your men into cover. When the shelling starts these walls won’t stop anything.’
Colonel Lorraine continued to ignore him.
‘One minute to zero . . .’ Barbusse, his voice hoarse, began a loud countdown of seconds. Morry watched the immobile soldiers in the terrain beyond the battlements. ‘Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero . . .’ After zero there was a strange silence as the men waited. Nothing happened.
Nothing happened for a quarter of an hour, either. The troops below remained in position, unmoving, like neglected chessmen.
‘We must have become invisible,’ said Constable Chaminade. ‘Either that, or God has turned them into small pillars of salt. Still dressed in their uniforms, of course.’
‘Silence in the ranks,’ ordered the Colonel. ‘They will still attack. They are waiting for the moment we are unprepared.’
Flambert lowered his axe. His arms were stiff with holding it above his shoulder.
There was a musical twang further along the battlement. ‘Merde,’ groaned Joliot. ‘My crossbow string’s broken.’
‘There’s movement,’ warned Colonel Lorraine. ‘At the ready!’ The men stirred themselves, although it was difficult now to regain the lost urgency. In
the distance, behind the tanks that lined the track as far as it was possible to see to a bend in the rocky road, men were moving forward, briskly. The defenders watched a figure climb on to a peculiar kind of tank that seemed to have a piece of road attached to it. The tank moved slowly forward, the man on top balancing himself, legs apart.
‘The first wave,’ warned Colonel Lorraine. ‘A bridge layer.’ He brandished his sabre again. ‘Aim carefully and wait for my order.’ A dozen crossbows sighted themselves on the figure that swayed slightly as the tank made its way nearer.
There was something majestic about the way the enemy officer below stood, openly defying the defenders. Colonel Lorraine began to have an uncomfortable feeling. He resisted giving the order to fire. The tank stopped at the edge of the chasm. There was a whirring sound. The bridge section continued moving smoothly onwards, complete with its motionless passenger, until it stretched across the gorge to the oak door.
‘Now? now, mon Colonel? ‘ Flambert flourished his war axe. Colonel Lorraine didn’t even hear him.
Below, for the first time, the man on the portable bridge raised his head and looked up at the battlements. He spoke calmly, and in forceful tones. ‘Lorraine . . . stop this pissing about. Open the gates and let me in. I want to share a bottle of your excellent wine.’
Colonel Lorraine snapped his heels together, his monocle bit deeply into his cheek. ‘Oui mon Admiral, mon President. At once.’
Ten
The villagers stood silently in a crowd just inside the village as the portals were opened to admit the Admiral. The doors creaked, and Admiral Dordogne strode through the widening gap. The villagers parted to make a path for him, and closed again behind him. They followed him to the square, where the mayor, Colonel Lorraine, now stood, waiting nervously.
Admiral Dordogne held out both his arms as he walked forward. Simultaneously, he slapped Colonel Lorraine on both shoulders, then drew him forward in an embrace, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘My friend ... my staunch, loyal friend,’ said the Admiral loudly. The crowd of villagers cheered. Admiral Dordogne released the Colonel and turned to Father Benoir. He smiled at him in a plastic and benevolent way that reminded the young priest of his mother’s expression when she smelt a bowl of sour milk. ‘Ahhh,’ said Admiral Dordogne reaching for Father Benoir with both arms. ‘Our man of God. The priest of the family. You are still a child, boy.’ He now held Father Benoir with both his hands on his shoulders. ‘It seems only a few days ago since I visited your mother, and carried you around the garden on my back.’
‘Yes, Uncle,’ said Father Benoir, embarrassed.
‘Ah, yes,’ the Admiral’s smile faded, then returned, more plastic than ever. ‘I remember that your pants were wet, then, too.’
Father Benoir frowned, but the Admiral quickly released him and turned to wave at the villagers. They cheered again. He turned back to the Colonel and swung his long arm around the old man’s shoulder. ‘A good summer,’ he said. ‘Pleasant weather. Dry. Good for the crops.’ He steered the Colonel towards the council office and made no comment about the cages and pens of animals they skirted on the way. He took no apparent notice of the stacks of food, the columns of barrels, piles of timber and the mixture of strange smells. And his eyes never once even wavered in the direction of the huge wooden centrepiece itself, although they narrowed slightly as he passed the statue of himself and noticed it had been blinkered by a lacy brassiere. He wondered who the upstairs window belonged to.
At the door of the council office, he released his hold on the Colonel, stooped to clear the lintel, and stepped inside. Colonel Lorraine and Father Benoir followed him. The council members clustered noisily behind them.
‘The wine, Father,’ called Barbusse above the clamour. ‘I’ll go and get some.’
Admiral Dordogne took off his military hat and hung it neatly on the back of the Mayor’s seat in the council room. He sat himself carefully and eased his long legs beneath the table. He waved at the other chairs and Colonel Lorraine and Father Benoir sat down.
‘And now,’ said Admiral Dordogne, folding his arms across his chest, and adopting a professional bedside manner, ‘suppose you tell me all about it.’
The main reason for Admiral Dordogne’s success as a leader was his ability to resist the temptation to make a decision until he was completely in possession of every available fact. And so he remained silent throughout the explanations - and the first, then second and finally the third bottle of wine. Even then, he voiced no opinion. He simply slapped his hands together, stood and replaced his hat. ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘I would like to look around the village.’ He drained the last of the wine in his glass, and turned to the door.
As usual, Bozio, the baboon, swung from the upper bars of his wooden cage. He waited until Admiral Dordogne was only a few feet away, then he farted. The sphinctered music ripped the otherwise respectful silence of the villagers.
Grand Admiral Dordogne stopped and looked at the baboon. It swung a little lower on the bars, turned its purple behind in the Admiral’s direction and repeated its performance.
‘Amazing,’ said the Admiral. ‘I’ve heard about this animal but the last place I expected to find it is here.’
’It wants a nut, mon President,’ said Barbusse, apologetically. ‘It needs a cork,’ scowled Colonel Lorraine.
‘Baboons, camels, chickens, dogs, pigs, horses, ducks . . .’ Admiral Dordogne walked along the battery of cages. He stood, tall, his hands locked behind his back. ‘Phew . . . foxes, goats, rabbits and hares... ah, yes, a badger... and, good God, what’s this?’ he nudged a wickerwork basket with his knee.
‘Snakes,’ said Father Benoir. ‘Not all snakes are as the Old Testament serpent. They are God’s creatures like the rest of us.’
‘Hmm . . .’ The Admiral turned and took a long look at the side of the ark. ‘And they . . . the animals ... they all go inside this? And the people as well?’
‘All,’ said Father Benoir.
Admiral Dordogne recalled the aerial photographs and the strange shape of the ark. ‘Who designed it?’ he asked.
‘Some of the internal design was mine, mon President,’ Colonel Lorraine told him. ‘But the hull, and the actual construction is the work of Monsieur Moreau ...’
‘Our undertaker,’ added Father Benoir.
‘It is an appropriate design,’ said the Admiral, flatly.
‘Tell us, Admiral,’ said Colonel Lorraine. ‘You are a great seaman, an expert, will it stay on the surface of the sea?’ Admiral Dordogne walked to the side of the ark. He rapped its side with his knuckles.
‘It’s good sound timber,’ he declared. He knocked the ark sides again. The dull clunk was obvious as they waited for him to speak again. ‘Trees float,’ he continued. ‘There’s no doubt that this will, too. It may, of course, float upsidedown, or sideways. Even on its end, but it will float. . .’ He paused. ‘But it won’t go anywhere.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Father Benoir. ‘But you must remember that it’s not supposed to go anywhere. Just up with the water, then down again when it subsides.’
‘When there are large masses of water,’ said Admiral Dordogne, firmly, ‘then there are waves. And, I must warn you that if the mass of water is large enough to cover all the earth, then it will allow waves of enormous size to develop. The waves could easily capsize a craft of such innocent design.’
‘But we do have God looking after us,’ said Constable Chaminade.
‘Yes, He is our protection,’ agreed Father Benoir. ‘God will take care of us.’
‘Don’t mess about with the controls,’ ordered God. ‘You’ve made the picture wiggly again!’
‘I’m trying to get the colour right,’ said Saint Peter. ‘It’s never been the same ever since you allowed those cherubs to watch the France versus England game at Twickers.’
‘Ah,’ grunted God. ‘That’s better, now leave it alone... look ... who’s that?’
‘Admiral Dordogne,’ replied Saint Peter.
‘It’s incredible,’ breathed God. ‘It makes me feel most uncomfortable. The resemblance, I mean. Do you think we’re related?’
‘It seems probable,’ said Saint Peter. ‘I believe he has other Godly characteristics.’
God peered into Saint Peter’s face. ‘For a moment then, I thought you might be hinting at failings.’ He looked back at the monitor. ‘He carries himself well, I must say. An impressive bearing. Do you notice the effect he has? I could almost be jealous. I’m tempted to save him.’
‘If the circumstances were reversed, he might not be so generous,’ suggested Saint Peter, leaning forward so that he could adjust the volume. Admiral Dordogne’s voice boomed across God’s office.
God shuddered. ‘He even sounds like me. Interesting ... do you notice that what he’s saying isn’t what he’s thinking? ‘
‘He thinks they’re all mad,’ said Saint Peter. ‘But he’s humouring them. Because . . . wait . . yes, because . . . dear me, because he thinks they’re pig ignorant, and they’ll all be proved wrong soon, anyway.’
‘How extraordinary,’ exclaimed God. ‘But these people are the foundation of his proposed Empire. How very naughty.’
‘But, you think much the same things about the smallest species of life on earth... ants, insects ... bacteria. I’ve heard you classify them as the foundations of your world,’ said Saint Peter, accusingly.
‘But I’m God,’ thundered God. ‘Who the Hell does Admiral Dordogne think he is? ‘
Beyond The Rainbow Page 13