Stile Maus

by Robert Wise

  ‘And where are you off to?’

  Even an honest answer would have probably attracted a watchful suspicion from her parents given her long stretch of previous escapades. A dash of sunlight stretched warmly over her face as she slinked through the living room. She peered into the kitchen, quickly ducking against the wall as she caught sight of her Mother. A rattle of juddering beats emerged within Emile’s chest, a clear indicator that her testing quest had begun. She stooped low, brushing the wooden floor with her fingertips. Her Mother seemed engaged, hands sweeping a damp cloth over an already gleaming stove and her lips were pursed, humming along to a song that had arisen from the archives of her past. Emile took shelter behind an armchair a few feet away from the front door and peeked over its large, flowery rests and towards the kitchen. The entire room bathed in a warm blaze. Any sudden movement would ruin her chances of escape and see her banished to her bedroom for the rest of the day. Her timing would have to be perfect. She stretched a foot forward, carefully pulling herself towards the edge of the chair. With wide, attentive eyes she searched the room. Her glares were quick and soon enough they fell over a wicker basket full to the brim with dirty clothes. Eventually her Mother would throw the contents of the basket into the sink where she would then scrub at each garment until they were clean. After that she would pile them back into the basket and carry them out onto the green at the back of the house which was host to a long stretch of washing line where the attire would then be pinned up to dry. A door stood to the side of the pantry, close to the wash basin. That would be where her Mother took the mound of soaked laundry. That was her only chance. Emile ducked down even further, almost sitting against the floor. The humming stopped. Footsteps clapped at the stone kitchen flooring. Emile’s heart raced, her eyes shut, her hands scrunched. The silence was torturous. Through the blackness of her eyelids she envisaged her Mother standing over the armchair, scowling and pointing towards the gloom of the hallway. The suspense got the better of her and one eye twitched open, slowly followed by the other. The worn fabric of the chair slid beneath her palms. Her glare met an empty kitchen. The pantry door swung gently in the breeze. A smile charmed her face.

  This is the part in the story where Rupert Montjoy would land upon the unsound stones of a cliff top, snapping his whip back and sniggering at a gang of ravenous trolls who sat beyond a large fall, arguing amongst themselves and blaming each other for his escape. Of course, in the French countryside there were no gargantuan mountains, nor were they inhabited by enormous trolls. In this case however, Emile thought of the task as the impossibly high mountain and of her family as the lumbering beasts that roamed its rocky cliffs. They wouldn’t devour her over a roasting fire but they might cause quite a stir if she was discovered to be snooping around where she shouldn’t be. Whatever her Uncle was up to in the early hours of the morning was obviously something that he and her Father didn’t want anyone else knowing about. She couldn’t prove it yet but she knew it had to be linked with the hushed conversation that took place after supper last night. Emile’s knee hit the grass as she fumbled loose the shoe lace on her left shoe, pretending to amend the scraggily fabric into a firm knot. As she hunched Emile glanced up, scanning the yellow fields and ivy meadows. Explosions of white cloud launched across the skies of perfect sapphire, stretching further than her eyes could see. The sun was warm but threatened to hide behind the breeze of oncoming clouds and cast the farm and all of its budding meadows within a shadowy gloom. The figure of her Father shimmered in the distance. His stooped form trudged behind a great bulk of steal that he ploughed across the land, coming to a brief halt every now and then to swipe at the irritating mask of sweat that had gathered upon his brow. Her Uncle Pierre was nowhere to be seen. Across the lawn of blossoming green and quaking dandelion heads, sitting upon a slight rise of grassy slope sat the old barn. It was a stable structure, built with dark timber that had undergone a harsh discolouring within the winter months. A memory sprang to mind. She sat on the dusty rafters of the first floor, tying shards of hay into knots and throwing them down onto the ground below. Her Father scampered across the whining floorboards, scattering buckets under each rain soaked beam. His urgency was in no way surprising. It was a night of lightning and deafening thunder. Rain had attacked the roof, dribbling through its weakened boundaries with no regard for the contents which lay within. The main priority was obvious to everyone. Beneath the leering balcony of the first floor sat her Father’s most prized possession. An instrument used in a previous life, a life which was in fact not that long ago. Her Father’s motorcycle (the motorcycle that he had famously pulled around the corners of Paris before zooming to triumph in front of speechless locals) sat on the underside of a thick dust sheet hidden within one of the darker corners of the barn. His memories lined the walls, black and white photographs framed in silvery gold that bore the dust of a forgotten age. His racing career had finished just before Emile was born, courtesy of a fall that threatened to take his life. Emile didn’t know much about it, although she did know that the front wheel of the motorcycle was crooked, bending slightly to the left and missing a host of spindles. Scratches tore into the paintwork, black and grey, stretching across its thin body like a cluster of shooting stars. Before her curfew had been introduced, Emile would sneak into the barn regularly, sneaking lengthy peaks inside each of the many boxes that had been thrown into the darkness by her Father. It was obviously a part of his life that he wished not to revisit, however Emile could not help herself from trying to unearth the mysteries and memories that lay within the dusty confines of each box.

  The memory fizzled away and Emile chose to skulk around to the side of the cottage, rubbing shoulders with the red brick. A large forest lay towards the back of the land, its bellowing oaks and reaching willows almost spilling onto the wicker fixed roof of the cottage. Emile knew she couldn’t just stroll up to the barn and walk right in. No. She would sneak into the gloom of the woods and embark through a carpet of fallen leaves and spiky branches and head up towards the barn. The wall of shrubbery and distorted twigs would cloak her movement, leaving any nosy onlookers none the wiser. Emile entered the dim shade of the tree line and her skin soon forgot the warm touch of the sun, bubbling into a pattern of chilly goose bumps. She embarked warily upon a bed of fallen leaves, brushing aside tall weeds and protesting branches. After hastily stepping between each mazy obstacle the path had offered, Emile came to a halt. She crept to the edge of the tree line, peering through the fencing of sliced ferns and stray branches. The barn sat only a matter of yards away, just beyond a lake of bobbing dandelion heads and a neatly heaped pyramid of jagged fire wood. It was paint thirsty, mourning the lost colour that the sun and rain had washed away over the years. Birds flustered against its roof, pecking and squawking and hopping after one another, eager not to lose their place upon the thick stretch of sun glazed beams. Emile edged forwards, careful not to breach the gloomy confines of her hiding place. Twigs crackled under each wary step.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  Emile froze. Her heart kicked, thumping against her trembling chest. It took her a few seconds to realise that the voice, smooth and immature, did not belong to her Father, Mother or Uncle Pierre. She turned to see the smug face of Benjamin Bouvier . A part time friend, full time nuisance.

  ‘Spying are we?’

  ‘You’re one to talk,’ Emile snapped with a whispered hiss, looking back towards the cottage to make sure her cover had not been exposed.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You ought to talk to me a little nicer than that,’ he smirked, ‘especially if you want me to show you what I’ve been looking at all morning.’ A cigarette rolled across his bottom lip.

  ‘Maybe I should tell your Father that you’ve been pinching his cigarettes again,’ she replied, grinning at the possibility of temporarily quenching his infinite arrogance.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll have a walk down to the fields, I’m sure I could find someone who would be inter
ested in hearing about your little adventure.’ Emile grimaced.

  ‘So what’s this thing you’ve been looking at?’ she questioned, looking back at the barn and speaking with little interest. Benjamin plucked the cigarette from his lips and dropped the butt, squashing it beneath his boot.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ Though she hadn’t been looking at him she knew Benjamin wore a smile, the confidence in his soft voice gave it away. She shot him a curious glance.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, stretching out a hand, ‘you’re always complaining that nothing interesting ever happens around here.’

  ‘Maybe I’m on an adventure already,’ she provoked.

  ‘Spying on an old barn? Doesn’t look like much fun.’ Emile rolled her eyes.

  ‘Well if you change your mind,’ Benjamin began, turning away from the thick bark he had been leaning upon,

  ‘You know where to find me!’ His boisterous yell echoed amongst the crowded treetops. Emile scowled, glaring at his shaded figure as he trudged off into the woods. She feared that her concealment had been compromised, how could it not have been? The horses and cows drifting off in the meadows had most probably heard, raising them from a shallow, sun incited sleep.

  ‘Imbecile,’ she rasped. Taking one last look at the barn she sighed before following in the noisy footsteps of Benjamin Bouvier.

  Emile couldn’t help but be slightly sceptical. The last time Benjamin had appeared boasting to have found something sight worthy they had ended up trekking half way across the countryside only to find that ‘the biggest frog he had ever seen’ had now vanished into thin air. Lies were something he was not a stranger to and Emile knew that more often than most, each tiny white tell-tale was told to impress her.

  ‘So where are we going?’ she asked, finally catching up.

  ‘Quiet,’ Benjamin insisted, ‘I’m trying to think.’

  ‘You’re lost already?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So where then?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  The forest soon became dense and ballooned with vast shrubbery. Flowers and weeds carpeted the ground and thin spikes of grass emerged in small patches. Benjamin snapped a twig away from the outstretched branch of a tree, picking off the stray leaves and then gently swatting it against the flowers at his feet. Emile strayed a little, brushing her fingers against the flourishing orchestra of budding blossoms. Shoots grasped at her dress, pulling and yanking at the weaves of white cotton.

  ‘Over here,’ Benjamin hollered. They came to a shallow slope which tumbled down into a forest of rich undergrowth.

  ‘After you,’ Benjamin gestured with a smirk.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied sarcastically, ‘besides, how will I know which way to go?’

  ‘It’s a slope Emile, the only way is down.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ she conceded.

  ‘Oh you’re scared are you?’ he teased. Emile blushed and peered cautiously down into the waterfall of cascading plantation.

  ‘Here,’ Benjamin said, ‘take my hand.’ Emile looked into his dark eyes.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he smiled, ‘I promise.’ Stretching out her hand, Emile shivered as his fingertips delved gently into her palm. Slowly Benjamin began to back up over the edge, prodding each foot firmly into the lumpy hillside as they disembarked across the grassy downfall. With her spare hand Emile clung to the lengthier bunches of grass, using each clump as a hook for her next fearful step. As they neared the bottom each step transformed into an uncomfortable skid and before they knew it they were tumbling down the hillock in a disorientated heap. Emile hit the ground first, scowling and muttering beneath her breath as she climbed from her grazed knees to her aching feet.

  ‘You okay?’ Benjamin asked, brushing the dirt away from his shirt and shorts.

  ‘Fine,’ snapped Emile. The boy looked into the water surrounding her pale green eyes. He wondered if she knew.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘it landed not far from here.’ Emile stopped, throwing her stinging arms down by her side.

  ‘Benjamin,’ she exclaimed with a tetchy whisper. He came to a halt a few steps beyond her and turned, shrugging his shoulders, desperately trying to hold back the barrel of words emerging from his throat and keep the mystery from wilting. Emile blinked as the cool breeze carried a curtain of tawny hair across her face.

  ‘Where are we going Benjamin, what are we looking for?’ The boy took in a deep breath of pretence, just so that he could enjoy a few more seconds of Emile’s confused, tired, mystified stare.

  ‘The star,’ he said with a grin.

  It wasn’t often that Rupert Monjoy enjoyed the company of a companion. In many cases he relied solely on his trusted satchel and the notebook within, stating to curious strangers in crowded towns and fishing docks that their addition would only slow him down. There were times when he was thankful for the passing stranger however; take for example the evening he had found his hands slowly slipping away from the weak tangle of vines that towered above a rustling pit of hungry baboons. A fall seemed imminent, his death even more so. His whip sat below him, wrapped around a vine that would surely plummet into the crowds of starving monkeys if he even attempted to disturb its frail standing. A relic lay inside his satchel, a statue of pure gold that had been crafted into the image of a lion head. It belonged to a small town just over the hills however for over ten years the relic had been in the clutches of the fearsome baboon chief who took it deep into his jungle fortress. Rupert had reclaimed the piece and escaped, sprinting through the tropical forest as an army of the chief’s minions pursued him. An angry pack of voracious apes had appeared before him creeping down from a ceiling of draped vines, snarling and snapping their sharp teeth as he neared. Beyond them sat an old bridge, his only route of escape. With a snap of his whip Rupert latched onto one of the hanging vines and hurled himself over the vicious reach of swiping claws. Landing at the foot of the bridge Rupert glanced back at his dumbfounded enemies and smiled before leaping onto the wooden channel. He was nearing the halfway point when an incredible roar sounded behind him. Birds flocked from the trees, animals whimpered in fear and backed into their havens. Rupert turned to see the baboon chief standing at the birth of the bridge, his red eyes glowing in the dying sunlight. His broad shoulders and wide chest were hidden within a cloak of battle worn armour. A gauntlet cased his left arm, its spiked knuckles blunted by combat.

  ‘Take one last look at the sun,’ the chief bellowed, clunking across the bridge, ‘for it is the last time you will ever see its warmth.’

  Rupert reached for his pistol, his left eye instantly shutting tightly as his fingers dipped into the emptiness of his leather holster. He must have dropped it during his escape. Tucking the relic into his satchel Rupert wrenched his sword away from its sheath, pointing it towards his enormous adversary. A horde of savage apes and restless baboons jostled at the bottom of the bridge, cheering for their leader. The chief stopped a few beams away from Rupert, his panting breath wheezing through the slits in his mask. A small baboon hopped onto the twinging support rope, fumbling at the trigger of a hand canon before firing an exceptionally loud blast into the melting sky. Rupert grimaced, livid that his beloved firearm had fallen into the hands of an enemy. With a roar he swung his sword towards the chest of the chief, only for the gigantic baboon to deflect it with his gauntlet and then thrust a trailing hand into Rupert’s unprotected stomach. A series of applause and cheers ascended from the subjective crowds. The chief gave him time to recover, holding off the attack until Rupert stumbled to his feet. The sword was hurled once again, this time clanging off an armoured shoulder. Agitated the chief threw forward a barrage of clawed punches which Rupert did well to block and avoid. The bout had caused the explorer to back track and they were both coming towards the opposite end of the bridge. The clans of babbling spectators had leaked onto the rickety confines of the wooden connection, rocking and swinging whenever a successful hit landed.
Rupert heaved up the steel bulk of the sword once more, this time thrashing it into the quivering rope that held the bridge. The cheers stopped. The chief snorted, glaring at Rupert who now placed the sword at the rope yet again. The onlookers couldn’t contain themselves and crowded further onto the narrow bridge, growling, hoping for a gruesome end to the fight.

  ‘Call them off and let me leave,’ Rupert shouted, handling the grip of the sword so that his clasp was slightly tighter. The chief bowed his head, staring down into the abyss that lay below.

  ‘If the fall kills us, then so be it,’ he claimed.

  ‘That is unless you wish to hand over the artefact.’ A toothy grin set over his face. Looking into the swamp of forest below Rupert sucked in a deep breath before sneering at the chief and beating the sword down against the frail rope. A lash sounded and the bridge capsized, sending half of the chief’s servants down into the dark nothingness. Rupert clung on for dear life, sheathing his sword with his spare grasp and reaching for the whip that was clipped to his belt. The chief squirmed, gnarling and clawing at the wooden beams in an attempt to pull his armoured bulk to safety.

  ‘Help me you fool’s!’ he boomed. Within seconds a cluster of baboons scuttled along the top of the quaking platform, squawking and pulling at the leather clefts that held their chief’s armour intact. Rupert thrust his whip at the wall of vines covering the nearest cliff. His first attempt pinged off the bed of ivy. The chief had regained his bearings and now edged along the bridge, his minions following in vast numbers. With a desperate surge Rupert swung the whip again, crying with relief as it wrapped against the pattern of weaving vines. Turning into the direction of the oncoming hordes Rupert yanked out the sword once more, lashing a number of exhausted hits down onto the worn rope. Finally with one last strike the bridge fell, its wooden frame dismembering and crumbling into the chasm of darkness below. Rupert’s arm jolted, carried by his whip that sent him crashing into the vine smothered cliff side. The chief’s baffled face plummeted down and down until the red glow of his eyes could no longer be seen. The screeches of his understudies echoed for what seemed like an age. Desperately grappling at the ladder of plants that led up to the edge of the cliff Rupert released his hand from the whip, clambering onto the string of vines above. Kicking at the crag of bubbling shrubbery the explorer glanced beneath his scuttling boots. Rocks with heads of grass and loose vines shook away from the cliff side and tumbled into the dark sea of tiny treetops below. Rupert glared at his trembling hands. Screeches surfaced from the pit of darkness. Who knows what kind of creatures lurked beyond there, perhaps an ape or two that had survived the fall? It wasn’t something that Rupert wanted to find out but as the vine began slipping further and further away from his embrace he knew that his fate could be decided within the next few seconds. From the skies a hand beckoned, wrists covered in thick decorative bangles and fingers trapped by golden rings, reaching down from the purple clouds.