Chameleon (The Ripple Series)

by Cidney Swanson

  Mickie’s eyes dropped. The kind words about her former advisor appeased her. “Okay, listen,” she said. “I believe you’re Sir Walter. I believe Pfeffer trusted you. But for the love of all that’s holy, why didn’t you stick to our plan to meet up in Amboise?”

  “Ah, yes.” Sir Walter looked self–consciously at the table–top before us. “I have waited so long. You must forgive me for meeting you thus unannounced. I found I preferred to wait no longer. You must forgive an impatient old man; the old are of course incorrigible.” He smiled at us and then turned his gaze towards the sky, now clear of clouds.

  Mickie stared at him for a moment and then guffawed. “Yeah, okay, we forgive you.”

  Sir Walter returned his gaze from the heavens. His lips tightened and thinned as he addressed us. “I am in hopes that you have brought the manuscript for which I believe my dear friend was killed.”

  The black book. Now came the moment of truth. Did Mickie trust Sir Walter enough to hand over the writings?

  She stared hard at the old gentleman, then slowly nodding her head, she withdrew the book from her bag and surrendered it to him.

  “We had trouble reading it,” she said.

  Sir Walter’s lip curled into a smile. “I should imagine. It is the language of my youth, spoken in Helmann’s childhood, but no longer common.”

  Suddenly I was the one with trust issues. “You’re not … you aren’t the man who wrote it, are you?” The words tumbled out, echoing like an accusation.

  Sir Walter looked up from the black book at my question. “No, child. I am not Helmann. But he and I have a shared history; he is my cousin, whom I once knew as Girard L’Inferne.”

  The cold iron of the chair made its way through my jeans, and I shivered, pulling my scarf higher.

  Sir Walter spoke. “For a very long time, Pfeffer urged me to act upon knowledge I held regarding my cousin, the man credited with discovering the chameleon disease. To my shame I did nothing. Or very little. At great personal risk, Pfeffer obtained this record of offenses with which he hoped to damn my cousin.”

  “I’m sorry to doubt you, but no way did Pfeffer risk death just to show the world how some dead Nazi–dude used to be evil,” said Will.

  “Dead?” Sir Walter looked at us, gaze intense. “No, unfortunately Helmann is very much alive. And more dangerous than ever.” Sir Walter took out a small French cigarette. “Do you mind?”

  None of us had the nerve to tell him he couldn’t smoke.

  “How old would you say I am?” he asked.

  “We were expecting someone in their upper–eighties,” said Mickie. “But you look maybe fifty.”

  “You’re older than that, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “You three have discovered one of the advantages of being a chameleon?” replied Sir Walter. “I’m surprised Pfeffer taught you of this.”

  “He didn’t,” said Will. “Sam thought of it.”

  I’d suggested that maybe Will looked younger than his eighteen years because he’d spent so much time invisible when he was little.

  “You will not age during the minutes or hours when you ree–pill, as you call it,” said Sir Walter.

  Mickie’s face had gone pale. “So Helmann is a chameleon as well?”

  Sir Walter nodded. “Very well deduced, Mademoiselle.”

  “Helmann, the same Helmann, now controls Geneses,” Mickie said, looking anxious. “Of course. Of course. He alone was able to distinguish between Helmann’s disease and leprosy in an age where genes couldn’t be examined. He understood the difference because he was a carrier himself.”

  “Precisely,” said Sir Walter.

  “So, if you don’t mind my asking,” said Mickie, “how old exactly are you and Dr. Helmann?”

  “We were born to sisters–in–law in the same year, being the tenth after the onset of the Papal Schism,” he replied.

  “No way.” Will laughed at the old man.

  I didn’t get the joke.

  “As in, the Papal Schism?” asked Mickie, looking doubtful.

  Will turned to me. “The Papal Schism occurred when two separate Popes were elected following the removal of the Papal court from Avignon, France back to Rome. Only that’s impossible.” He squinted, looking at Sir Walter. “That would make you …” He broke off, trying to calculate.

  “I am a quarter–century past my six–hundredth birthday,” Sir Walter announced, wreathing all of us in the smoke of his gauloises cigarette.

  Excerpted from My Father’s Brilliant Journey, by Helga Gottlieb

  Early Years

  In speaking of my father’s development as the Savior of Mankind, it is impossible to underestimate the importance of his early years; that is, the years prior to age sixteen, when he began to live regularly as a chameleon.

  My father was the only child of a nobleman’s second son born at the close of the 14th century, CE.* Underprivileged, as such families of younger sons often were, my father also lost his parents during the conflicts with Northern Frenchmen and was raised through the so–called charity of his aunt, the Lady de Rochefort, wealthy and of noble birth. Her own daughter, Helisaba (or Elisabeth) de Rochefort, eventually became wife to my father.

  But for years prior to my father’s accession to a noble inheritance, he had to endure the petty injuries and daily insults accompanying the lives of those born in unfortunate circumstances. His cousin Waldhart (later known as Walter de Rochefort) in particular delighted in inventing new torments for the young Girard.

  Chief of these was the unfortunate appending to my father’s name of “L’Inferne.” The nickname, alternately translatable as “fire,” “fiery one,” “Hell,” or even, “Hell–ish one,” ultimately became adopted by my father as part of the name by which we know him today. So, while the miscreant Waldhart intended the name as a form of abuse, ultimately my father transcended his cousin’s intentions and adopted the name by which we have all been saved, Girard Helmann.

  *In fairness to my father’s system of beliefs, I could use A.D., but as I myself am not a believer in such antiquated constructs, I choose to use the designation “Christian Era” instead of Anno Domini, or “Year of our Lord.” It is my hope to bring about a system of B.H.E. or Before Helmannic Era and P.H.E. or Post Helmannic Era in the future.

  Chapter Ten

  L’HISTOIRE

  “The destruction of the Mayan Empire,” said Will, the following morning. “And Timbuktu, the Battle of Agincourt, the Turkish capture of Constantinople, the Spanish Armada …” Will continued chanting his strange rosary as we made the short hike from the Castle of Amboise to the smaller Clos–Lucé, final home of Leonardo da Vinci. We’d all slept remarkably well, considering that we’d met a six–hundred–year–old man the previous day.

  “What’s he muttering about?” I asked Mickie.

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Used to fall asleep with a copy of Encyclopedia Britannica on his face.”

  “Does he do this reciting thing often, then?”

  Will broke off at “Hideyoshi attacks Korea,” and turned to Mickie and me. “Don’t you see? These are all events Sir Walter lived through—things he heard about first–hand. It’s amazing!” His arms flew wide like he was conducting a symphony.

  “I’m more interested in what he’s seen in the last seventy years, myself,” said Mickie. “Or the last decade, since the human genome was mapped.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “No kidding.”

  “When’s he meeting us today?” Will asked.

  “Given his flair for drama?” Mickie shrugged. “Expect him when we see him.”

  Or when we don’t see him, I thought. Aloud I observed, “He’s certainly different from what I expected.”

  “Yeah, lots of swagger for such a short little dude.” said Will.

  “People used to be smaller,” said Mickie. “I bet Da Vinci’s bed is short.”

  “Sir Walter could have met Da Vinci, you know?” Will’s eyes took on a faraway, transfixed q
uality as we approached Leonardo’s last home.

  “Will’s biggest hero,” Mickie explained.

  We took the tour with our group through Da Vinci’s modest château and then found ourselves released with two hours before the bus took us back to the hotel. Most of our group headed for the gift shop and chocolat–chaud at the snack bar, but Will wanted to view an exhibit of Leonardo’s inventions more than any of us wanted to drink hot chocolate.

  “He had ideas for flying machines, tanks, and all kinds of stuff that no one else tried to make for centuries.” Will’s enthusiasm proved contagious, and we followed him only to find Sir Walter waiting for us in contemplation of a drawing that did, indeed, resemble a tank from modern warfare.

  “Ah, bonjour, my friends,” said the French gentleman. “You are enjoying Amboise today?”

  “Totally!” said Will.

  “Clos–Lucé is a special place. I often spend time here during the slow season. Fewer tourists.” He smiled at us.

  “Did you know him? Leonardo?” Will kept his voice low and directed towards our quartet only.

  “We met. My cousin befriended him first, however. I can still recall my cousin’s interest in these machines of war.” Sir Walter paused to gesture to a drawing of a gun that could fire multiple times before requiring re–loading. “It took centuries for Girard to find generals and engineers who exploited these possibilities.” The old man sighed heavily. “I should have stopped him then, or at least tried …”

  Will spoke softly. “Your cousin was French like you, right?”

  “We wondered because the stories seem to be set in Nazi Germany,” I added.

  “Girard saw more promise in the German State for his own ambitions of domination. He had long since abandoned any loyalty to la France.” Sir Walter looked around. “Shall we remove to where there are fewer ears, yes?” He began walking, beckoning us to follow.

  We trekked into the wintry grounds below the château, the only ones choosing this route back to the bus.

  “The book you so kindly placed in my possession is no work of fiction; it is a journal recording the day–to–day thoughts and discoveries of my cousin Helmann. He has been a keeper of diaries all his life. This particular black book is but one of hundreds.”

  Will shot me a look that said, We were right!

  Sir Walter continued. “He believes that when, one day, he dominates all of the world, these journals will be invaluable to his biographers.”

  Will mimed making himself puke.

  “Professor Pfeffer may have given the book to you, my dear,” here he looked at Mickie, “but he always intended it to raise me from inaction.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Mickie.

  As we waited for his response, the old man pressed fingers to the corners of his eyes. Tears?

  “I have been a selfish creature. As bad, in my own way, as my cousin. Helmann acted according to principles, however diseased. I have rarely been led to action by my own principles. Pfeffer believed that I needed a reminder as to why I should act against my cousin. The experiments recorded in that journal are intended to, how do you say … light a blaze beneath my derrière.”

  “So, if the man keeping the journal was Helmann,” began Will, “What was up with all the kid–torture? Sam thinks he was trying to create some kind of Special Forces.”

  “An astute guess.” Sir Walter nodded at me. “Conditions in Germany during the Second World War allowed Helmann the opportunity to raise from infancy an especially loyal group of followers, some of whom serve him to this day.

  “At the war’s end, I rescued Pfeffer from Helmann’s abandoned compound. Pfeffer was a child of ten years. Girard had already taken four of his favorite children to South America once it became clear Germany would lose the war. Of those who remained imprisoned, only Pfeffer and two girls were still in health when I arrived. I placed the girls, who were not chameleons, with kind German families. Pfeffer, I raised myself. It was clear to me even then that he had chosen a different path from my cousin.”

  “So Pfeffer did grow up with those kids,” Will said. “Like Sam thought.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Mickie. “But, wait—Pfeffer wasn’t a chameleon. He would have told me.”

  Sir Walter looked thoughtful. “He must have decided it was not in the best interest of your safety to know that of him. Yes, he was a chameleon. But he did not choose to live as one. This was one of our great disagreements. Some thirty years ago, Pfeffer began to take the Neuroprine drug to counteract his abilities.”

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

  Sir Walter continued. “However, he monitored the drug’s effects upon mice so that he would know if one day Girard decided to destroy the gene pool of potential chameleons through the use of a tainted drug.”

  “Why wouldn’t Pfeffer want to maintain his ability to ripple?” I asked.

  “We argued constantly over his choice to deny his true nature as a chameleon. He told me there was no choice—that for him, the ability was tied to Girard, that is, Helmann, and his aims. He chose to live an ordinary lifespan as a distillation of his rejection of his father.”

  “You just said his father.” Mickie’s face turned ashen.

  “Ah, yes. But more of that later.” Sir Walter gestured to the clusters of students arriving at the bus.

  Mick wasn’t about to quit asking questions. Lowering her voice, she herded us away from the bus. “Okay, listen, Sir Walter. The history lesson was nice and all, but what we’re really here for is to fight Helmann, right? And I for one would like to start as soon as humanly possible.”

  Sir Walter regarded her with amusement. “Indeed, I thought you were here,” he gestured towards the students, “to learn about La Belle France. Unless your school system provides such opportunities on a regular basis?”

  Mickie fumed. “Oh, come on. You know what I mean. I’m not here to learn about France.”

  “How charmingly Américaine,” said Sir Walter, looking anything but charmed.

  Mick scowled.

  “I shall have completed my translation of the black book by morning,” said the French gentleman in cool tones. “I will provide copies for each of you to examine as you travel tomorrow.”

  “My sister meant no disrespect, Sir Walter,” said Will, glancing at his sister like she might contradict him. “It’s just that we’ve come a long ways to meet you, and we were hoping, especially after that video you sent, to do something a little more … you know, badass.”

  Sir Walter chuckled and patted Will’s shoulder. “My dear young man. Rest assured the time will come for that. In the meanwhile, are you perhaps familiar with the phrase about the doom awaiting those who do not appreciate L’Histoire?”

  Will rattled off the familiar quote. “Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. Jorge Santayana.”

  “An adequate, if imperfect, rendering of what Monsieur Santayana wrote,” said Sir Walter. “My dear children,” (here Mickie bristled like a pinecone,) “Allow me to reassure you that if haste were necessary, we should act swiftly. You must understand that neither Girard nor I regard time in an altogether normal fashion. A year, or even ten years, we regard as a tiny nothing.”

  “Meanwhile the clock’s ticking for the rest of us,” muttered Mickie.

  Sir Walter smiled. “Indeed. Your friends await you even now,” he said, gesturing to the bus.

  We climbed aboard, Mick grabbing two seats to herself, Will and I sitting together.

  Across the aisle and up a few seats, I noticed Gwyn nodding her head as another student whispered and pointed at me. When the whisperer noticed that I observed her, she stopped mid–sentence and turned her face forward. No longer staring at me, she continued to drop quiet somethings about me into Gwyn’s listening ear. A quiver ran through me—an involuntary shudder as I remembered the silent years when I’d decided I wouldn’t talk to anyone. When they’d made fun of me. But Gwyn didn’t giggle. And she didn’t make faces at me. No
, what she did wounded me far more deeply. She ignored me.

  I forced myself to pay attention to Will, still flushed with the thrill of having walked where Leonardo Da Vinci once walked. Finally, Will appeared to have talked himself out on the subject and we switched to a discussion of Sir Walter. The chatter of twenty–four students created sufficient white noise, especially when half of them were ear–budded to electronic devices. Among other things, we wondered if we should give the book we’d stolen from Helga to Sir Walter.

  “We need to wait for a chance to tell him when my sister’s not in the room,” said Will.

  “Right,” I agreed. “And I guess he’s got his hands full with translating Pfeffer’s volume for now. Although, no matter what’s inside it, I don’t think the journal Pfeffer stole is going to be enough to make people turn against Dr. Helmann,” I said. “I mean, the kind of people who would sit through the video presentation we watched without denouncing him for it, I don’t think they’re going to be all that disturbed by what he did to a handful of children in the last century.”

  Will nodded. “But Sir Walter’s not stupid; I don’t think those guys at the presentation are the ones he’s planning to persuade.”

  “Do you think he’s going to the government?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Will looked behind us at his sister, who was sleeping with ear–plugs. “I looked at the Geneses website back on the hotel computer. Helmann’s name isn’t anywhere to be seen.”

  “He ought to be dead by now. Plus, it wouldn’t make sense for him to be listed under the name he used during World War Two, would it? The name of a war criminal?”

  “Guess not. I found one name I recognized on the Geneses site, though. Our friend Hans is listed there.”

  I shuddered involuntarily at the mention of my mother’s murderer.

  “You okay?” asked Will.

  “Um, yeah, I’m just … it’s all so …”

  “I know,” said Will, smiling and taking my hand in his.