by Robert Wise
‘I’m parched,’ he said coldly, ‘and that bottle of bourbon sits atop my desk, unscathed.’
He then leaned into the private’s quivering breath. Without at all meaning to, Private Schulze retreated, tucking his chin into the olive neck of his uniform. With a cough, Gestapo Major Heinrich Anaheim swallowed a cloud of smoke and tossed the cigarette out onto the carpet of tainted white. Then he walked away, leaving Private Schulze alone in the yard, standing beneath a bridge of broad wings, fearing that today may be day he would never forget. He would pass the bodies with closed eyes. But still he knew they lay in a heap, twisted and atop one another, drinking from the red snow.
TAKING IN STRAYS
Part I
Emile was daydreaming. The jungle grew all around her, tall and dark and damp. With her trusty sword, Grey Thorn, in hand she swiped and swatted her way through the forest, catching drops of dew against her skin as she went on, reckless and wild. The smell of rain had already befallen the dank clearing where she stood and by now, the echoes of her pursuers were only whispers in the distance. She risked a moment’s breath, knowing that a footbridge sat somewhere beyond the clearing. Emile sheathed Grey Thorn, thinking the sword may slow her down, and headed onto the glade. She rushed and found herself panting over the birth of bridge in no time and with a careful step, Emile edged onto the rickety overpass, testing the first plank before committing her full weight. It was getting dark and the last remains of the sun began to splinter. Emile clinched at the banisters of hanging rope and pondered a look down the way. The bridge narrowed and finished beneath an arch of gathered leaves and vines and she hoped that the way across was shorter than she remembered. A flock of birds suddenly burst away from a nearby tree and passed overhead, black and fast against the pink sky. Emile glanced up and forced a frown. Something had disturbed them. With a hand on Grey Thorn she turned down her chin and listened to the crackles and splits coming from the undergrowth. The arch beyond the bridge became full in an instant. Emile needn’t have turned. She knew what lay behind her shoulder, beyond the flow of her red hair. Settling the rise of her stomach, Emile faced the crowds of savage apes with a smirk. It was the same pack that had found her on the hillside this morning, stroking Grey Thorn at the heads of dandelions, minding her own business. They had chased her since, and she had done well to elude them, but now, stranded atop the swinging channel of a rickety old bridge, Emile felt trapped and found. They snapped and scratched at the air, their eyes red and smoky with rage. Grey Thorn emerged from his scab. And the armoured apes took to the bridge in their hordes, twisting and tearing towards Emile with gritted yellow teeth and sharp, straying claws. She readied herself and took stance. The bridge rumbled beneath her boot heels.
The chat of dinner came back to her like a warm breeze and she set down her bread knife before nursing the grumble of a hungry belly. Her dreamy absence had gone unnoticed. And the stolen escapades of her most adored explorer, Rupert Montjoy, disappeared with each blink of cloudy realisation. Emile lifted a spoon and dug a hole in the lukewarm puddle of red and black peppered soup, swishing the paste round and around boorishly before saying,
‘What is this?’ she said, poking out her tongue.
‘It’s the tail of a dragon,’ joked her uncle Pierre, sniggering from across the table.
‘You know, like the ones in your book.’
He had a kind face, her uncle. But there was a pain behind his eyes. It always looked as though they were ready to unleash a fall of streaming tears. Emile knew there was a story behind that welled stare of his.
‘Don’t encourage her, Pierre,’ said Emile’s mother with a half smile and a shake of her head, ‘she’ll be climbing the treetops tomorrow morning in search of them.’
‘I’m not silly mama I know they’re not real,’ Emile huffed, ‘monsters don’t exist.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Uncle Pierre said bitterly.
Ignoring his brother’s loose tongue, Emile’s Father, Francis leaned forwards and poured himself another glass of wine.
‘Can I have some?’ squeaked Emile’s youngest sister, Sophie, holding up an empty glass.
‘Non,’ yelled her Mother, ‘ask your Father what wine is made from. Go on.’ The youngest set of hopeful eyes latched onto the unready expression of Francis, who at first seemed to have no quick witted response.
‘It... It is made from the drool of a particular type of dragon.’
Emile rolled her eyes at the unconfident suggestion.
‘The Beaujolais dragon is an extremely rare breed, only found in certain parts of the world.’ Francis did well to conceal his lack of imagination, taking a large gulp of wine in triumph as his family thought over his words. Emile’s eyebrows arched in disbelief.
‘If it’s so rare then why is there so much wine?’ she replied hastily.
‘Because,’ Francis began (he quickly slurped at the glass that was pressed against his lips hoping that the liquor would expand his imaginary knowledge of vineyard dragons) ‘have you ever seen a dragon? They are enormous! Do you know how many bottles of wine you can make by using the slime that lies across just one dragon tongue?’ Finding herself quite amazed at the string of lies her Father seemed to be telling Emile studied the expressions of everyone who sat around the table, searching for a baffled face that matched her own. Her two sisters seemed enticed, their wide stares begging for more to be told. Pierre’s wine glass hid an obvious grin and her Mother had been distracted as she attended to her younger brother Jeremy, who was now covered in a gingery coloured sauce that spilled messily across his pyjamas.
‘So how does it end up on our farm? Does the dragon deliver it itself?’ Francis’ smirk disappeared and Pierre bellowed a great laugh, slamming his hand down against the table top.
‘Okay,’ Francis yelled, appearing to finally confirm his dishonesty, ‘bedtime.’ Emile opened her mouth in an attempt to argue only to notice that her siblings had already declared themselves defeated and had hopped down from their chairs and were now scuttling towards their bedrooms. A sigh escaped her lips.
‘Good night Emile,’ the adults sang as she followed suit, scowling as she disappeared into the gloomy living room. Francis shot Pierre a heated look.
‘You might want to hide your disapproval a little better brother; they are children, not idiots.’
‘Don’t fret Francis, I’ll be visiting the Beaujolais first thing tomorrow morning, just to let it know that its drool had me spilling secrets over dinner last night.’ A grin set across both of their candle glazed faces.
‘How can you both be so calm,’ hissed Isabelle as she pushed away her chair and began rounding the table, gathering each empty bowl and piling them into a steady heap.
‘Relax…’
‘Do NOT tell me to relax.’ Her pink hands plunged into the sink of hot water and she began scrubbing frantically at each dish. Sighing, Francis got to his feet and came to her side, resting a hand on the neck of her knotted apron.
‘In a few days this will all be over,’ he said reassuringly, ‘please Isabelle, trust me, at least a little.’ A tear threatened to blossom across one of her cheeks.
‘It’s only a matter of time before…the children Francis, our children.’
Francis kissed her blushing cheek and then the curve of her neck followed by her shoulder,
‘Two days my dear, you have my word.’ The three adults continued to speak in hushed whispers, completely unaware that Emile now wore an excited yet nervous grin over her hidden face.
Emile woke from a shy sleep. The secret conversation at the dinner table had been replaying in her mind for most of the night and when she finally had drifted off in the early hours of the morning the words took centre stage, roaming her dreams until her eyelids felt the kind sun. As she slowly opened her eyes she wondered at what point the thoughts had exhausted her and sent her into a deep sleep, glowering as she scrambled away from her bed sheets. To an adventurer, time asleep was time wasted and before she
knew it she was standing at the foot of her wardrobe, rooting out a bundle of mismatched attire. Her bare feet hit the warm wood of the corridor and she continued through to the living room, paying no attention to her younger siblings who were sat on the floor, eagerly awaiting their breakfast. The smell of freshly sizzled rashers filled the air and a hot bout of steam lingered around the kitchen. Her Uncle sat at the table, jabbing a fork into a heap of sausages while her Mother nursed the stove.
‘Come on, Emile sit down,’ her mother said as she turned to see the curious youngster standing between the two rooms. Emile obliged, sliding carefully onto one of the many chairs.
‘Here you are,’ chanted Isabelle as she pushed a hot plate down onto the table,
‘Jeremy,’ she continued, ‘Sophie, Laurin!’ A bustle of small children hurried into the room, each climbing their chairs with extreme determination. Chuckling at the progress of his nephew, Pierre grabbed at his dungarees and hoisted him onto the cushioned base,
‘Nearly,’ he chortled. Emile didn’t say a word. Every remark, every comment spoken was stored inside her mind hoping that one would shed light on last night’s development. She found herself growing impatient. Her Mother was busy wiping at the counters and stove, too distracted to get caught up in any kind of conversation and her Uncle seemed stuck in a daydream. The only noise in the room happened to be the echoing gurgle that Jeremy was now performing with a mouthful of food. Pushing both of her palms down onto the base of her chair Emile lifted herself just a tiny bit so that she could look out through the window and into the fields. A vast stretch of rich green and yellow rippled into the distance. Her Father was nowhere to be seen.
‘Emile,’ she almost jumped from the sudden exclamation, plodding her backside down against the seat almost immediately.
‘Come on you, eat your food.’ Her Mother took a seat beside her, sporting an unhappy expression as she looked over the untouched assortment of bacon, egg and sausages. Emile winced. She wasn’t in any mood to eat. She needed to find out what was going on.
‘Your Mother is right,’ muttered Pierre, ‘even the bravest of adventurers need their breakfast.’ Emile nodded glumly and took up her fork, scooping effortlessly at a rasher with absolutely no intention of picking it up. A knife slipped from Pierre’s hand and clattered against the table top. Emile looked up, it was then she saw it. At first it must have eluded her but now, brought to her attention by the clattering silverware, Emile found herself staring at the first clue of her latest escapade.
Every morning at precisely five-thirty Emile’s Uncle Pierre would wake up, bath and then sit at the kitchen table smoking his favourite brand of French cigarettes until the rest of the cottage rose from their slumber. Every evening Pierre would come in from the fields, bath and then sit at the kitchen table waiting for his supper, like everyone else. He would only head out and tend to his duties at nine o’clock, every day, without fail. Emile’s Father joked that his need for routine came from years ago when he ran a clinician practice in Paris and now the habit was too profound to shake off. To the children, his reason for leaving was unclear. He had appeared to have had everything in Paris, however now he had nothing, merely working his keep by helping her Father with the animals and the land. Nevertheless he had a ritual. A procedural habit that meant he only started work after breakfast. So, taking into consideration his strict schedule, Emile found it odd that there seemed to be a strange type of black liquid smudged over his hands and between his fingers. It wasn’t mud that much was clear. It was much more, oily. She studied him with intense concentration, searching for any other sign of the mysterious sludge. His arms and knuckles were hidden in a forest of entwining hair not to mention the thick dark stubble that dashed across his face. Anything could have been under there. Her eyes fell over his tunic, a rugged old maroon jumper that had more holes than buttons. Ripples of greyish seams ran over his shoulders and down to each rolled up cuff. Emile squinted, desperately trying to focus. A faded blotch of black seemed to rest upon the underside of her Uncle’s sleeve, barely noticeable against the rippled bundle of fabric. Her eyes glared with promise. She looked towards the opposite arm, finding exactly the same mark yet slightly lighter. Pierre stared up from his breakfast, finding an awestruck Emile gawping at his plate. Taking his fork away from the dish he tapped the blunt silver curve onto the table twice before exclaiming,
‘Get your own, petite canaille.’ Emile broke away from her thoughts and smiled innocently before taking a sip of cold milk. With a huff Pierre rose from his seat, taking his plate and coffee mug with him and plunking them into the basin. Emile watched him leave, thinking that he would almost definitely take to the washroom for a bath. She was wrong. Instead of heading for the bathroom he continued through the living room and out through the front door, spilling a hot douse of morning sunlight across the worn flooring as he disappeared across the lush emerald lawn. Emile grimaced. She knew she wouldn’t be able to leave the table without finishing her meal so reluctantly she began cramming as much as she could into her mouth, chewing only when it was uncomfortably full. Isabelle looked at her with wary eyes,
‘You are a peculiar one,’ she whispered with a smile.
When it came to a real adventure, Emile took nothing for granted. She knew this wasn’t one of her usual capers, crawling across the forest floor in search of frogs or timing how long it took her to clamber up to the top of the tallest tree, this was something else. She could feel it. Her fingers grabbed at the worn binding of her favourite book and she yanked it away from its dusty shelf, flicking through the pages until she came to one particular chapter. Fortunately for Emile, she had at her finger tips first-hand advice from one of the world’s finest explorers. Rupert Montjoy. A smooth faced, knuckle grazed, dungaree wearing traveller who loved nothing more than to venture into forbidden swamps and lava plugged volcanoes. Emile owned four of his beloved tales and sat up throughout most nights, smiling at each faintly printed word by candlelight and occasionally the simmering glare of the rising sun. Her favourite tale, which she clutched at within her restless hands, saw Rupert voyage to a magical land, an island in fact which he had discovered whilst pursuing an incredible sea beast. At this point in the story Rupert had taken refuge inside a small cavern, taking a break from mending his cherished vessel which had taken considerable damage from the sea bound foe. It had attacked unexpectedly, thrusting its hammer like head into the underbelly of the boat and forcing the brave Captain Montjoy to harbour upon the red sands of the mysterious island. Rupert listened to the sounds of the night, wary of what other creatures may be hiding amongst the forests of tropical trees. The cave in which he found himself appeared gloomy and damp and the fire that he had started promised to soon wither and die. He worried about his boat, shored against the melting sands of the red beach. The tide that had carried him ashore had been strong and given his anxious rush to escape the thrashing sea monster he had had failed to think about the risk of becoming permanently marooned. The Endless Summer sat a matter of yards away from the tree line, its wounded belly buried beneath a cruel blanket of sand. Rupert knew that if the tide decided not to come in that far again, he would be deserted. From his back pack he pulled out a small journal to which he opened towards the back page. Lowering the pad down to the glowing fire he studied a bundle of small diagrams and sketches intently before turning the page, repeating the same process until he shouted,
‘Aha!’ His husky bellow aggravated an army of bats and they flew towards the entrance in flocks, whistling at a startled Rupert as they passed. Regaining his footing he glanced back at the page with a confident smirk. He would have to build his second pulling device of the month.
Emile tapped her finger over the chapter’s final sentence. What did Rupert Montjoy do every time he faced an obstacle? He made a plan. And that’s exactly what she was going to do. Right after she knew what she was up against.
Since the Germans had begun to occupy Paris Emile’s playful schemes had become somewha
t limited. Her Father had forbidden any of the children from venturing out of sight and he allowed no exceptions. If the Beaujolais dragon himself would have risen from over the hills, spewing fire as it flew, Emile would have been instructed to hide under her bed rather than head deep into the woods where it’s snapping jaws could not reach. She understood. The Germans brought trouble and a certain tension that she had not before witnessed. Her family didn’t talk about them, there were only warnings. She couldn’t be seen leaving the cottage. If she was, a question would arise, the type of question she didn’t want to answer.