Fri, May 18 2012
The morning after his youngest brother's Qujica ceremony, André le Griffe strolled along the south side of the island, trailed by Philippe. The path snaked treacherously between the cliff's top and the sheer drop to the sea below, but André moved with the easy grace that bespoke the swagger of youth. Each step was confident and well placed. His brother chatted behind him, but André paid little mind. His father had given him this job to do and he would do it, although he would have rather left Philippe behind.
"I do not see why father allows you to go sailing with him and not me," Philippe complained.
André smiled, but kept his eyes focused upon the rocky outcrop as he walked. "I am nineteen; you are fifteen. Why do you suppose?"
"I am nearly as tall as you, André."
"Height is not the problem," the older brother retorted as he spotted the large, carved hole in the cliff's side before him. "You cannot shoot a pistol accurately and your knife throwing skills could use practice."
"I practice!"
"Not enough." André dismissed his brother's defense with a wave of his hand and turned his attention to opening of the fougasse.
The word "fougasse" was not the most apt description of his father's coastal defenses along this part of the island. These chambers actually combined three kinds of weapons: the fougasse, the explosive mine, and the mortar. André himself would have described them more precisely as "fougasse-pierrier," the pierrier being a stone-firing cannon. He was not, however, inclined to correct his father about such things.
André approached the mouth of the chamber. It was about two meters wide and had an outer wooden cover on it that was sealed against the elements. Below the cover was a tumbler-shaped crevice cut directly into the cliff rock, filled with 300 boulders of various sizes. Below the boulders lay another chamber, filled with gunpowder – enough gunpowder to hurl the boulders over 300 meters across and 80 meters high. These chambers were unique to Malta because of the terrain of the islands. The fougasses were set directly into the rock, giving the weapon its form, solidity and - more importantly permanence. André smiled. He would only need to perform a quick check on the mortar and fuse. It might not take all day, after all.
Unable to refrain from one more prick at his brother's pride, André's mouth tweaked into a devilish grin. "And what man would want you to guard his back against the British, the Turks or even the Sicilians, for that matter?" He waited until Philippe was about to speak before turning more serious. He nodded to the fougasse, "Now come, we need to check this. I will lift the lid and check the fuse of this one. You do the next."
Philippe kicked at a nearby shrub. "Why? We should be sailing! The whole camp knows that no ships come here! Outsiders do not even realize that we live on Filfla! There is no one to throw these rocks at, André!" Philippe took a stone and flung it off the trail and watched as it tumbled down into the sea below.
"I will be throwing rocks at your head soon, Philippe!" André barked, his patience dwindling. "I should have brought Lucien, instead. Do you never listen to father? The fougasses are not only to stop anyone from entering Filfla; they prevent anyone from leaving. What ship would survive this narrow pass with boulders spitting down at them from the very cliffs that rise up around them? You may think it a waste of your precious time, but I do not. These old fougasses have saved our family many times in the past. Pirates have been known to raid other pirates, you know."
The younger brother gave the older one an unconvinced look.
"Help me," André commanded.
The two lifted the round wooden cover of the first fougasse. André stuck his head in the hole, examining the entrance.
"I am climbing in to check. Just keep watch, little brother," he ordered before entering the cannon's chamber.
Philippe muttered under his breath, "Keep watch for what? Lizards?"
As André disappeared into the gaping hole, Philippe scanned the surrounding countryside. To his right, beyond the trail, was the cliff that dropped sharply into the sea. He peered over the edge at the few scattered shrubs that clung to the cliff's side for life. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were no boats and no people. To his left, above the fougasse, the terrain became a steep slope, as opposed to a sheer drop. One could climb up and over the edge from the trail by using the stubborn vegetation for foot and handholds. A few lizards and some honey bees were the only things moving.
Philippe turned to toss another stone into the sea when he noticed… the gulls. A moment ago, the gulls had been diving and swooping for food in the sea below. Now they were all screeching and flapping in a mass gull exodus for safety. As they flew off and their calls receded, Philippe heard another sound. This sound was not native to the islands. He shielded his eyes with his hand to focus upon the source of the sound. Its shadow passed over the cliffs like God's palm as Philippe dropped to the nearest bush to take cover. He watched in amazement as the Aurora drifted directly overhead and beyond the top of the slope above.
"André! Come out! What is that? André! It's…a ship!!"
André scrambled out from the chamber and immediately looked down at the sea below. All the while, his brother was pulling at his shirtsleeve. He turned and hissed, "Philippe! No tricks! I will tell father about this lie!" He was about to deliver a brotherly blow to the boy's head for emphasis, when he stopped in mid-swing at the boy's state.
Philippe was white, but not from his André's threats or the thought of his father's punishment. He stared up at the sky, "Not down there! Up there=!" He pointed to the slope above them.
André's eyes widened in disbelief as he saw the back of the Aurora disappear over the cliff top. He grabbed his brother and shouted, "Run back to the camp! Stay under the trees! Do not stop for anyone or anything! Tell father or Guyot that outsiders are here. They will know what to do. I will stay and watch."
"But André – you cannot! We don't know who they are! What if they kill you?"
"Just go, Philippe! The family will be warned and the outsiders will not know that warning was sent. Go now=!" He pushed Philippe in the direction of home.
Philippe began to race along the path, being careful to follow his brother's warning. He looked back at André once, but the older boy commanded him to go with a decisive point. As soon as Philippe turned back toward the camp, André used the nearest bush to begin his ascent to follow the ship.
Hand-over-hand, André used the rough vegetation to his advantage to pull himself up. It did not take him long to reach the summit. Once there, the sight of the Aurora landing in a nearby clearing greeted him. André skirted from bush to bush, creeping closer to this unknown invader. He would have much to tell his father and he could hear his father's words in his head, Keep your right hand near your knife, hold the pistol in your left, and wait. He did.
---
The Aurora slowly descended to the earth, touching down in a clearing ringed by small trees and low-lying shrubs. After a moment, Fogg exited the ship, stepping onto Maltese soil. The Aurora's engines were cut and Fogg stood silently absorbing this new environment. The sound of the sea crashing against the shore was still quite distinct and the gulls had returned to their normal foraging for food. A fat bee lazily drifted towards Fogg, whose scowl at the insect evidently worked, because the bee immediately flew off. No doubt, to inform his hive-mates that the Aurora was not the hymenoptera equivalent of Queen Victoria.
Verne came out and stood beside him
"I believe we have landed on Filfla!" Fogg's eyes swept the landscape a full one hundred and eighty degrees. The amount of vegetation that surrounded them initially surprised him; after all, Passepartout had said that the island lacked water. That was obviously not the case, given the amount of plant life present. He glanced at the grass in the clearing. It was not the lush green of his fields at Shillingsworth Magna, but rather a desperate, anemic attempt at verdant. There was water, just not enough. Seawater was undrinkable, so how did le Griffe manage a camp in such a remote place as this? Fogg searched for signs of civilization; finding none, he turned his attention to Verne, who was clearing his throat conspicuously.
"So, what happens now?" Verne asked. "Do we just stroll into the camp, or what?"
"I have no idea. Perhaps, you should ask Passepartout," he answered. A quivering tree branch suddenly drew is attention, producing the smallest furrow in Phileas' brow. He scanned the landscape a second time, only slower. His eyes narrowed at some unseen sign and Fogg spoke with deliberate nonchalance. "However, I believe we shall meet our corsair king in less time than you may think."
"How do you know?"
"Let us just call it a hunch. Now Verne, I should like your opinion on something in particular…" Fogg placed a hand on Verne's shoulder, steering him gently towards the stern of the ship. Phileas' peripheral vision watched for any unusual movements in the nearby flora. Something was not right. Fogg had seen it again and stiffened slightly.
"What is it?"
His agent-trained ears had detected a sound that was not part of the atural order of the island clearing. "Stay with me, Verne. I believe that we are being observed."
"But, we just got here."
The smallest of smiles pulled at Phileas' lips. "Thank you. I am aware of that," Fogg's movement and tone remained calm, his movements fluid and unhurried, but his eyes never stopped scanning the countryside around them.
Jules hesitated and Fogg tightened his grip slightly on Verne, as he continued his unhurried pace down the port side. He gave his instructions, "I should like you to continue walking with me for five more paces. Then, I shall turn left out of the vision of our unknown observer. Keep talking." He was perfectly conversational in tone. "Raise your voice a bit to cover my departure."
Jules obeyed without question. He continued talking without a break, pitching his voice louder as Phileas moved away through the brush that ringed the clearing. He could move like a cat when he chose, and not a sound marked his passage as he circled around to home in on the spot where he had heard the odd noise. A flash of bright color caught his eye and he followed it, careful not to go too quickly.
It was a young man, a boy really, crouching in the bushes behind where Jules stood. Phileas studied him, trying to decide his next move. They were the intruders here and he did not wish to start hostilities. On the other hand, he was the one ultimately responsible for their safety, regardless of Passepartout's "leadership."
There was a knife clutched in the young man's hand. He could see its glitter in the sunlight and, worse luck, the other hand held a pistol. In Fogg's experience, few things led to disaster quicker than youth, inexperience, and fear - add a pistol, and tragedy was the often the result. Therefore, in order to avoid any tragedy, the youth would need to be disarmed.
Fogg took a step closer, when a bee passed close to the young man's ear, momentarily distracting him from watching Verne. It was too late and Phileas was unprepared for the quickness with which the boy could move. He stood to call a warning, but the boy swung around to face him, pistol cocked and ready.
There was no time to think, only to act. Fogg lunged for the gun, noting the surprised look upon the face of his opponent. The gun discharged safely up into the air before Fogg knocked the pistol away. But even this was not enough to catch his opponent totally off guard. He spun sideways as Fogg slapped the gun away, only to turn and, in one seamless movement, replace the gun with second knife that had been concealed behind his back.
Fogg instantly froze. This is not what he intended.
They stood facing each other, each measuring the other's strengths and abilities. Fogg decided not to test the young man's quickness with the knives. To the youth's credit, he showed no signs of either fear or cockiness – even when faced with a superior, though unarmed, opponent. The young man's eyes were quick and intelligent. Fogg decided to try communication; he spoke first in English.
"I mean you no harm. My name is…."
"Fogg? Fogg! Are you alright?"
The sound of the gunshot should have been Verne's signal to get help, Fogg hoped, but that was not the case. Jules' particular mixture of surprise and fear instead manifested itself in curiosity and investigation. Pushing aside some low vegetation, Jules stumbled into the standoff between Fogg and the youth.
The distraction was enough for the knife wielder to pounce on Jules before Phileas could warn him. It all happened incredibly fast: the stranger turned, grabbed Jules, and held him hostage with two knives to his throat. If Fogg so much as moved and this man didn't like it, Jules would be dead.
"Fogg..?" Verne whispered hoarsely.
"Easy there, now," Fogg's voice was smooth and calming. "As I was saying, before we were so rudely interrupted…"
"I don't think he understands English," Verne volunteered.
In the distance, Rebecca called, "Phileas? Jules? Where are you?"
Damn it! Fogg thought. This situation is getting worse by the minute!
The young man had become skittish by the prospect of more company. He shifted his gaze from Fogg to the direction of Rebecca's voice, all the while exerting steady pressure upon Verne's throat with the blades.
"Phileas?" Rebecca was closer.
Fogg watched the young man's eyes; they were dilated and his breathing was rapid. The blades against Verne's throat were exerting a bit more pressure than was necessary.
"Rebecca, stay where you are! We have a visitor and he is bit shy of company."
Rebecca remained silent and proceeded no further. Good girl! he thought, as he tried once more to speak to young man.
"We mean you no harm. My name is Phileas Fogg and the man you are holding hostage is my friend, Jules Verne…"
The youth spoke in a garbled tongue, which was unfamiliar to Fogg.
He tried again only this time in French, "Je suis Phileas Fogg. Nous vous voulons aucun mal," and received an indecipherable response in a dialect that was unintelligible.
Fogg was about to try Greek when the bushes parted, revealing Rebecca and a transformed Passepartout. Gone were the bow tie, the bowler hat and the waistcoat. Free of his uniform, his own valet was barely recognizable in snug grey pants fitted into supple, black leather boots. A dark, silver-blue shirt replaced the starched white one Passepartout usually wore, and around his neck hung a gold Maltese cross. A cummerbund of red linen was belted around his waist and from beneath that dangled a silver sheath with his knife. He walked with confidence upon his native soil.
The young man looked over at Passepartout, his eyes darkening with confusion, as Passepartout, too, hesitated for a moment. Seen together, the youth bore an unmistakable resemblance to the valet. The hair color was lighter and his frame was sleeker, but the shape of the face and the eyes... Passepartout paused a moment before speaking in Maltese.
"To stain God's day with innocent blood would be a sin, as well as foolish, my young friend," Passepartout spoke quietly.
He answered, "Who are you? You speak the dialect of Filfla, but I do not know you. Who is your father and how do you come here? Answer me truly, outsider, or this one will surely die." André pressed the knife just slightly for emphasis.
Passepartout remained calm, "My name is Jean. And I am the son of one they call Francois le Griffe. I am also known as Passepartout."
"Passepartout?" André said more to himself than to the others. "Passepartout? You… you chose the ring, but that was long ago. If you are Passepartout, then you are… my brother."
The knives were slowly lowered from Jules' throat. The young man still kept a wary eye on Fogg as he walked over to Passepartout. He looked his brother up and down from head to toe, as if convincing himself of this latest revelation. The youth pointed to Passepartout's sheath with his own knife and asked, "Show me your proof."
Moving very slowly, Passepartout unsheathed his long knife, offering the younger man the handle of the weapon that was engraved with an ornate claw on its handle. The youth examined his own knife bearing the exact same emblem. Passepartout smiled at seeing them match and said, "So, do you have a name my brother?"
The young man replied, "I am André le Griffe."
Passepartout encased his brother in large bear hug and turned to make introductions, "This is André - my brother that I have only just met. And André this is…"
"…Phileas Fogg, Jules Verne and Rebecca," André continued in excellent English. He grinned at Fogg, "I understood your French, as well, Monsieur, but I wondered how many languages you would offer me." André bowed to the gentleman.
Jules shook his head, "But…I thought he didn't understand."
Fogg nodded his approval back to the young man, "No, Verne. He simply was not revealing any advantages until he knew by how many he was outnumbered. Your teacher is to be commended. You have learned well."
"You may have that honor yourself, sir, when you meet my father. It will not be long. I am sure he has already sent an escort."
Fogg raised an eyebrow, "Already? You have sent someone ahead." He studied André, who merely grinned.
"Yes. But if we leave now, we can meet them on the path and they will not see your flying ship."
Passepartout turned to Fogg and nodded in agreement. "That would be best, Master. The Aurora will be safe here, for the time being."
No one noticed the shadow that crossed André's features at the mention of the word "Master." Nor did the clench of his jaw draw any undue attention as he retrieved his fallen pistol. André merely glanced from this newfound brother to Fogg and back again, remaining silent. The `outsiders' failed to recognize the serious connotation of that single word, "Master," to the pirate-in-training. The only people who had Masters on Malta were…slaves.
...To be continued...
End of Chapter Eight
Chapter 7 | Chapter 8