Sat, May 19 2012
Missing scene, Phileas' Bracelet: Rockets of the Dead
This is totally and completely irresponsible (but not in a "Sibling Rivalry" way, honest) and also unutterably silly. It places Rockets of the Dead after Crusader In The Crypt chronologically. I present it as an example, because Susan Garrett's Rules state that a "challenge" may not be issued unless it is accompanied by a first contribution by the person proposing it.
All other contributions to the Phileas' Bracelet workshop will be collected until February 2, 2004, and posted one-a-day after that! Thank you!
Halfway over northern Germany on the Aurora's return trip to London from Gradowicz Jules Verne came downstairs from sleeping in the guest cabin, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. He wasn't used to living in such luxury, but there were agreeably homey touches to the Aurora that continued to surprise him - the guest cabin was about the size of his room at home, and the bed was only a little bit bigger than the one in his garret, if it was considerably cleaner and warmer and softer.
He heard voices in the main salon below, and slowed his step on the spiral stair, wondering if he was going to inadvertently interrupt some private moment between the two Fogg cousins. That Phileas Fogg was mildly irrational on the subject of his beautiful cousin Jules had learned very early on in their acquaintance; it was perfectly reasonable to be irrational about Rebecca Fogg, in Jules' estimation, and his friend Nader had been considerably besotted with her from the moment of their meeting. Miss Rebecca Fogg was merely mad, utterly mad, absolutely mad, reckless to the point of insanity, fearless to a maniacal degree.
"No, no, no, that's all wrong," he heard Rebecca Fogg say, with her voice full of affection and amusement. When Rebecca was content with life her beneficent good-will warmed the entire universe - so far as Jules was concerned, at any rate. "No. Angelo protested very strongly against such slanders. Vampires do not turn into bats and fly."
There was the sound of something pouring, and a subtle fragrance of Passepartout's good coffee that suffused the air like perfume and reached Jules where he stood. Reassured, Jules continued down the stair; if someone was pouring, it was likely to be Passepartout, since Fogg didn't know how to pour a cup of coffee. Really, he didn't. Liquor Fogg could manage tolerably well even when he was completely drunk, but anything else was right out; Jules had watched him at breakfast, once, with an emptied cup, checking the status of the cup from time to time with an increasingly anxious expression that Jules had not understood at all until Passepartout - hurrying out from the galley - had muttered beneath his breath with an expression of horror and refreshed Fogg's coffee, at which point Fogg had casually reached for his cup and sipped from it as though he had had no fears on the issue of its refilling at all. It had been a priceless domestic moment that had explained a great deal about Fogg and Passepartout to Jules, and the memory strengthened Jules now. Of course it might be Rebecca pouring the coffee, but if so she was probably not wracked with anguish and suffused with grief over the demise of Angelo Rimini; anguish, grief, and Passepartout's coffee were mutually incompatible elements at the breakfast table.
Fogg was saying something, murmuring in a tone of voice that was resonant with affection and gentle teasing. Jules didn't quite catch the words, but Rebecca's reply was clear enough.
"Well, yes, he did do that, and it was something to see, I can tell you that, Phileas. I've never seen anything like it. I was wondering if he'd found a piece of jewelry like that one, or something of the sort, but - unlike you, dear cousin - Angelo was far too much of a gentleman to even dream of taking advantage. I'm sure. Oh, hullo, Jules, did you sleep well? Denmark for luncheon. Fresh milk, farmer's cheeses, just the thing for a starving student."
Fogg was addressing a soft-boiled egg with vigor and dispatch, nodding to Jules with a mouthful of egg yolk as Jules took his place at the table in the salon. Passepartout had already laid toast for him; Jules reached for the jam, and Phileas put down his knife to pass the marmalade.
"Sounds good," Jules agreed. "I used to be terrified of cows, though, Rebecca, I was traumatized by a goat in the street when I was little." This might not make any sense, and therefore the sooner he hurried past it the better all around. He also wanted to politely signal that he had heard a part of the conversation, so that they would know where he had come in, just in case there had been something private previous to his over-hearing. "What's that about jewelry, then?"
Rebecca smiled. Passepartout had broiled her a grapefruit, each segment peeled separately and sprinkled with brown sugar, garnished with a preserved cherry. Jules sometimes wondered whether there were actually several of Passepartout, one to take care of the kitchen, one to see to Fogg's socks, one to invent things in the lab; but there was only sleeping space for one of Passepartout on board. Maybe they slept in shifts, the inventing Passepartout resting while the cooking Passepartout sat up in the kitchen peeling grapefruit segments. "Angelo imparted to me the secrets of vampire lore, Jules. He disappeared. Before my very eyes. If I hadn't seen Phileas do that I don't know what I would have thought."
Phileas Fogg was a vampire? Surely not. A terrible flirt, yes, but hardly a vamp. "I don't quite understand, Rebecca."
"No, of course not, you dear man. Passepartout, here's Jules, doesn't he look thin to you? We must fatten you up." In connection with talk of vampires, Rebecca's observations on Jules' relative fleshlessness could be misinterpreted, so Jules decided to concentrate on positive thoughts. Eggs. Bacon. Ham. Steak. A broiled tomato. "It's just that Phileas has got this magic trick, though he doesn't use it very often. Show him, Phileas, show Jules your magic bracelet, oh, do. Passepartout shan't give you any more coffee until you have done, isn't that right, Passepartout?"
From the confusion on Jean's face it seemed clear to Jules that Passepartout knew as little about what Rebecca was saying as Jules did; but then Passepartout's expression changed, with a realizing sort of a relaxation to his eyebrows. "Oh. Yes, Miss Rebecca. No, master. No more coffee until you have shown, now, good master, Miss Rebecca has said, do not make Passepartout scold."
"Oh, very well," Fogg said, seeming moderately but not very seriously annoyed. "As you wish, my beloved tyrant." Putting his serviette down beside his now-empty plate Fogg reached into the left cuff of his quilted dressing-gown, his long fingers working; and then vanished.
Jules stared.
"Fogg? Fogg, where are you?"
Fogg was back again in an instant, pulling his cuff straight. "Yes, Verne? Right here, dear chap, haven't moved, haven't finished my breakfast. Perhaps Passepartout would be so good as to give me another egg. And some more bacon, I'm hungry."
For a moment Jules didn't know which was the more unsettling - Fogg's disappearance, or his claim to appetite. Fogg didn't eat much that Jules had ever noticed. Vampires didn't need human sustenance . . . but that was ridiculous. Fogg was a creature of the night in a sense, perhaps, and there were unquestionably supernatural elements about his luck and his intuition, but Jules was sure that he would have noticed any miscellaneous bite marks on his neck, and it was broad daylight.
"Now explain, Phileas," Rebecca said. "And you shall have some nice hollandaise sauce for your egg as well, shan't he, Passepartout? Good man. Feed Jules."
Sighing with theatrical exasperation - but clearly just as pleased to have the opportunity to show off, a bit - Fogg laid his left forearm on the table and pulled the cuff of his dressing-gown back to uncover his wrist. Fogg had bony wrists. There was a chain around his left wrist, a heavy gold-link item that Jules had noticed from time to time; he'd wondered why a man would be wearing a bracelet, but the piece was clearly substantial and almost certainly solid gold by its sheen, and if Jules had had such an investment policy against sudden insolvency he would have carried it on his person at all times as well. Maybe Fogg wore it for bargaining his way out of tight spots, like the Vikings did, cutting pieces of bracelets or neck-rings to weigh the gold out against a debt of one sort or another.
Turning the bracelet, Fogg laid one particular section of links uppermost on the back of his wrist - the clasp, apparently, some sort of a contrivance for fastening two half-links together. "Now watch carefully," Fogg admonished. Loosening the clasp, Fogg pulled the bracelet forward; Fogg put the two half-links to either side of the clasp together, put the middle finger of his left hand through the circle of gold that was created -- and was gone.
Reappeared again, with his fingers parted and the two half-links fallen away one from the other. "Now you try it, Verne, go on."
Well, if Fogg said so. Hesitantly, Jules reached over for the bracelet. The gold was warm from Fogg's skin, but the two half-links felt almost unpleasantly so. And when Jules touched the two half-links together to make one ring (stop snickering this instant) around Fogg's middle finger, Fogg disappeared.
Jules could still feel the ring between his fingers, the warmth of Fogg's body. Fogg wasn't disembodied; he was just invisible. Fascinated, Jules tested the effect: open, closed; open, closed. It was incredible. What could the scientific explanation be?
"Enough for now, dear chap, if you don't mind," Fogg said, and his voice sounded unexpectedly weary - startling Jules into dropping his hold on the two half-links so that Fogg appeared once more. Fogg was more white in the face than Jules thought he had ever seen him, slumping against the back of his chair as he raised his left wrist to clasp the bracelet closed again. He moved as though his body were suddenly much, much heavier, and his left arm in particular a terrible burdensome weight.
"Passepartout. If you wouldn't mind, bring Phileas a brandy, a very small brandy, yes, thank you. I'm sorry, Phileas, it was just such a splendid joke. Are you all right?" Rebecca put her hand to her cousin's arm, loving and concerned. Passepartout was at Fogg's side with rather a large brandy, actually, which Fogg drained - without seeming to taste it at all, which was a damned shame, Jules had had Fogg's brandy - and put his left hand over Rebecca's on his right arm.
"Oh, it's quite all right, my dear, and I couldn't resist either. So there's the trick of it, Jules, but it does rather take it out of one, so one does one's best to avoid situations in which one has no choice but to use it."
Passepartout was back again with plates full of food, one of which he set before Jules, one of which took the place of the egg-dish in front of Fogg. Fogg looked at his food as though it were an interesting fungus. He was apparently no longer hungry, but Jules was, so Jules attacked his breakfast with vigor and attention as befit the honor of France, thinking as he chewed.
"Eat your eggs, Fogg," Jules suggested, his plate half-emptied. "A bite of ham. And tell me all about it."
"Yes, eat your breakfast, darling," Rebecca urged. Fogg picked up his knife and fork; shook his head and turned his face away, as though he couldn't quite face it, but returned to the task with grim determination. "I'll explain. Jules. When the Prussians killed Phileas' brother Erasmus. They returned the body to Sir Boniface, in London, just to make a point. Savages."
Fogg took a bite, a very small bite, of ham; chewed it rather more well than Jules thought it could possibly need, and swallowed with evident difficulty. But his expression lightened, and his countenance began to suffuse with a more healthy color almost immediately. Cutting a rather larger bite of ham Fogg speared a bit of egg-yolk-sodden toast to keep it company down his gullet, hesitating only slightly before he put the forkful of food into his mouth to chew it with evidently increased relish. Rebecca talked, keeping a wary eye on her cousin.
"And it was winter, and they'd kept the body on ice, but still. I mean, really, Jules, it took a week. You could still see Erasmus, but - it wasn't pleasant. Sir Boniface was utterly devastated, as the Prussians had meant him to be."
"Deserved that," Phileas said, his lips somewhat compressed because his mouth was full of toast. "Murderer."
Rebecca simply shook her head, as if at the recurrence of an old quarrel that had almost lost its energy to wound. "Sir Boniface himself worked with the women to lay Erasmus' body out for burial. Phileas was there as well. And there was something in Erasmus' hand."
Jules looked at Fogg, aghast. Sir Boniface and Fogg, preparing the body of the one's son and the other's brother for burial? Fogg made a little shrug. "He was my brother," Fogg said. "The least I could do. I blamed myself, after all. That was before I found out about Father's mistake, but still I'm glad I was there for the both of them. Could someone possibly give a shout out for - oh. Thank you, Passepartout, yes, and I believe Verne could use a second helping of everything, as well."
"In your brother's hand?" Jules asked, fascinated. Fogg nodded.
"Yes, Verne. Now, who knows exactly where Erasmus had gotten hold of it, because he certainly didn't have it with him when he went over the cliff. I was there. I'd have known." The somber memory seemed to slow Fogg, for a bit, but he swallowed - a bit of tomato, as it happened - and continued. "And yet there it was, when the Prussians sent him home to us. A ring, a gold ring, river-bottom, as though he'd grasped something as he fell. Meaning he was alive when he hit the bottom of the rapids."
Fogg took a hasty swallow from his cup, not seeming to notice that there was no coffee in it. He shook himself - or was it a shudder? Rebecca took up the thread of the narrative.
"It was a queer thing, too, Jules, and when it was removed from Erasmus' dead hand it fell into two pieces. Sir Boniface put a locket with a strand of his wife's hair - Erasmus' mother's hair - into the palm of Erasmus' hand, to take its place."
"And Erasmus closed his hand," Phileas added. "Terrified me, Verne, I don't mind telling you, and Father nearly fell over. Of course the body had been on ice for days, and the mortuary chapel was a bit warmer. Bodies do strange things, even dead ones. Still it was very unpleasant, to imagine - to just imagine - for that one moment - but Erasmus was dead, and it was just muscle warming. Or relaxing. Or something. The fist had been clenched over that ring, it was merely - returning to the position it had been in when my brother had died."
Jules could put some of the pieces together for himself, now, and did. What a story this would make. What a dramatic interlude. How was he going to work it into his next play? "So you incorporated the artifact into something to wear," Jules speculated. "In memory of your brother. But how did you ever find out what it did?"
"Well, we cleaned it, of course," Phileas said to a poached egg in Hollandaise sauce on a bit of toasted muffin. There was parsley. "See here, Passepartout, what is this stuff? I don't care if it is good for me, take it away. - Oh, very well. You're a brute, Passepartout, did you know that? A brute and a bully. We cleaned the ring, Verne, and then naturally one fit it together. It gave a very unusual effect when one fit it together, it seemed to glow. There was writing. Well, naturally one thought about whether one should have it rejoined and wear it, handsome piece of jewelry, really, its own peculiar fascination and all that."
"Tried it on," Rebecca explained, in case Jules hadn't been able to mine that piece of information out of Fogg's nattering. "Wasn't there. Out like a light. Very surprising, but damned useful thing, but Phileas, the selfish pig, has never offered it to me, not even though I could make very good use of it indeed."
From the tone of her voice this was another old quarrel, the stuff of families; she was resentful, but resigned. Fogg glanced up at her with sudden seriousness. "Absolutely not, Rebecca," he said, very firmly indeed. Almost too firmly. Jules had just seen what effect the use of the ring had on Fogg; it could well be, he decided, that Fogg could simply not bear to expose Rebecca to any more stress than she so efficiently sought out for herself. "It's mine. Erasmus gave it to me, from beyond the grave. And as a last token from my brother it's unutterably -- precious to me."
Then suddenly Fogg coughed, an uncomfortable sort of a retching sound as though some of his breakfast was trying to escape -- gollum, gollum. Worried, Jules half-rose in his seat to go thump Fogg between the shoulder-blades; but Rebecca took Fogg's hand between two of her own, and Fogg seemed to master whatever difficulty he had been experiencing.
"Of course it is," she said, with cheerful warmth. "Yours, my dear, only yours, I do just wish I could borrow it sometime. But I quite understand. Really."
Fogg smiled at her happily, doing that thing that Fogg could do with his expression that made him look three years old and absolutely innocent. It was an excellent trick in its own right, but Jules didn't think that Fogg knew how to do it on cue. "Yes," Fogg said. "You've only ever tried to pinch it once a year. Jules. Your bacon will get cold."
The temperature in the salon seemed comfortably warm once more, and Passepartout was here with coffee. Jules put the story he'd just heard away for later, and concentrated on his toast.
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