The Caves of Etretat: Part One of Four

by Matt Chatelain

  Although the spore concentrate had given me what I sought, after a while, the numbness could drive me to explode into wild excesses, a result of craving sensation. It was my Achilles' heel, the one weakness which could expose me. Unfortunately, going on a berserker rampage would attract too much attention, likely resulting in my capture.

  Meditation had been my solution, which I came across while investigating another immortal, the Greyman, disguised as the Count St-Germain. During his unusually long life, he had immersed himself in various eastern beliefs and religions. While on his trail, I had examined some of these philosophies. In so doing, I discovered certain types of meditation would allow me to control the numbness-caused berserker rage, O'Flanahan being the exception.

  Though I had achieved a truly remarkable level of control over the numbness, I had admittedly developed one weakness while hiding in Transylvania following the war, having become addicted to the vampyric act of sucking blood from my victims to kill them, the only instance where I could still feel something, the pulse of the dying heart in the flow of blood as I ingest it.

  It's not like I'm a real vampyre. I don't crave blood or anything. My body doesn't even digest it. It doesn't digest anything. Only spores. After I've drained a body, all I need to get rid of the blood is go urinate somewhere. It's actually quite helpful in keeping the murder scenes clean of any mess and makes it much easier to dispose of the bodies without leaving a trail.

  I saw a giant.

  It was a most fleeting glimpse, a shape standing by the brush, moving back into shadows as we flew by. It was over so quickly, I doubted anyone else but someone with my enhanced abilities would have perceived anything. As it was, I'd had time enough to pick out a bald head, overlarge and bulbous, on top of a giant man, perhaps eight and a half feet tall, extremely muscular.

  I came out of my Parsons-induced reverie and paid more attention to the landscape. No sooner had I done so that I saw two more, not two hundred feet distant. This time they were hidden in the tall hay of a field, and I would surely have missed them entirely had I not been on the alert. Like the first giant I saw, I estimated these two to be above eight feet in height. Again, both were bald and extremely muscular, with large, misshapen skulls. One of them was holding an odd device, perhaps scanning the field with it.

  It was all I had time to take in before Parsons drove past the field. By the time we came to another break in the brush, I could find no sign of them. Had I imagined the whole thing? It had all happened so fast.

  "We're about to arrive at the Roman dig. It's where our team is set up," exclaimed Parsons.

  "Excuse me?"

  "The Roman dig," he clarified. "We were going to do a bit of filming around the site, look at some of the finds. I'm also hoping Mitch Answell will have news about the permits."

  "That sounds fine. Say, what's the general height of people in this area?"

  "Height? What type of question is that?"

  "Could you just answer instead of coming back with another question?"

  Parsons shrugged and grinned as he thought about it. "Perhaps the residents around here are a bit shorter than the norm."

  "That's what I thought. When will we reach the Roman Villa?"

  "Down the road we have to turn left, then right, and we'll be there. No more than another few minutes."

  "Good." I kept a sharp eye out but saw no other giants. Still, three big-head giants in one afternoon was a lot when you weren't expecting any.

  Parsons braked suddenly and we skidded into a field where several large tents were flapping in the strong coastal winds from the English Channel. "Here we are. We've beat the TV crew. If we're lucky, we could get you introduced to everybody before they get here. When they do arrive, you can pretty well guarantee the director will want to start filming right away. It's getting late in the afternoon and the light will soon fade. Luckily, we already did most of the introductions for the show this morning." Suddenly, he gestured frenetically while pulling on my sleeve like a little kid begging for lollipops in a candy store. "There's Answell. ANSWELL! OVER HERE! GUESS WHO I'VE GOT WITH ME?"

  An overweight, older man, with long, unkempt white hair and a wildly colorful tuque, turned around, a look of irritation directed at Parsons. The irritation vanished when he saw me and he took several fast steps towards us but slowed down right away, favoring a bad knee. He would be poor prey on a killing spree.

  "Mr Briar. I'm so glad you made it. I'm Mitch Answell, the lead archeologist for the site."

  "Just Briar, please. We've never met before but, of course, I've read most of your books, several of which I believe are now used as course texts in universities."

  "I only wrote about what I found and added the inevitable conclusions one must draw from such things," the old man replied.

  "What about the permit?" interrupted Parsons.

  Answell's face fell as he tossed a sheet of paper to the ground in disgust. "I'm afraid the only news I have is bad. We did get a message to Robertson but his reply proved to be most unreceptive. It has all been terribly frustrating." A few tears fell down Answell's cheek, which he wiped away surreptitiously. "This is our final episode. I can't understand that man, not one bit. He is deliberately causing us to lose our one chance at answering a crucial question. If we wait even one more week, it will be too late. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be ranting like an old man but I've given my heart and soul to this show. It's not right to end on this note."

  Parsons patted his shoulder in sympathy. "Don't worry, I'm sure things will work out,"

  "Maybe someone will nudge the man out of his obstructive stance," I suggested.

  "I'd like to nudge my foot into his behind," commented Parsons acerbically.

  "Well if it happens, it had better do so quickly," added Answell, as he pointed to the cloudy sky in the distance. "The weather is now against us as well. We are running out of time."

  Answell showed us the site, introducing me to the rest of the team. I met Tom Grundy, the geophysicist, a tall, skinny man, with a balding crown of brown hair. His long face was overemphasized by a thin mustache barely hanging over his top lip, in a weak attempt at a Fu Man Chu style.

  Howard Tennison, the landscape investigator arrived on a bicycle, pedaling madly across the rutted field. I couldn't figure out how he kept his balance. After dismounting, he shook my hand curtly. He was clean-shaven and impeccably dressed, a proper English gentleman out on an afternoon investigation.

  We reached the current dig area and I met William Wington, the main digger/archeologist featured on so many of the shows. He had an unkempt mat of red hair and crooked yellow teeth, a jagged grin on a weather-beaten, craggy face. He never shook my hand, merely giving me a nod and a grunt before returning to cleaning the hole he'd just dug.

  Noise in the background indicated the arrival of the TV crew. As predicted they emerged from their vehicles in a rush and buzzed around the site, moving several of us together to fit in their chosen camera angle.

  "Here we are again. It's late afternoon, near the end of day one. We have arrived in this beautiful field where an amazing Roman villa has been found," chirped Parsons. He walked rapidly, followed by cameras, and reflectors, arriving to the edge of Wington's now cleaned up dig site. "Hey Wington, I hear you've uncovered something."

  The cameras focused briefly in the hole, examining an old and weathered floor covered with an extensive mosaic pattern, before rotating to Wington's face. "You heard right."

  "Can I come down into the hole?"

  "No you can't, Parsons, you know that, but you can stand on the edge."

  "It's a grand design, isn't it?" Parsons asked.

  "I'll say," replied Wington. "I've never seen one quite like it. It looks old and tattered now but in its heyday, this would have been the fanciest floor in the villa."

  "Is it complete?"

  "Unfortunately, no. Almost half of it is gone, plowed away by thousands of years of tilling, but there's enough left to reconstruct the flo
or's original pattern."

  Parsons moved to my side, talking into the camera all the while. "Say, Briar, I'm told you are an expert on roman floors. What would you say about this one? Is it as unique as Wington asserts?"

  I stepped down and kneeled by the mosaic. After borrowing a small trowel and brush from Wington, I scraped off some dirt from the floor edge, to reveal a line of small reddish stones. "These caught my eye. As you may know, Roman floors are composed of a multitude of materials, commonly referred to as tesserea. We can find broken terracotta, pottery shards, chipped marble, pebbles, even semi-precious stones, like this piece right here. This is South African Red Stone, fairly rare and semi-precious, valued for its strong color. The reason the mosaic pattern is uncommon to Wington is because it is very early indeed. Early enough to be strongly influenced by other civilizations. In fact, I detect a Mediterranean influence to the design, similar themes to those found in Santorini, for example. I must agree with Wington. This is a very ancient Roman villa. It gives us cause to hope. The beach site may well end up as old as we suspect."

  "There you are, folks. It's a rare occasion indeed, when two archeologists agree spontaneously. Let's see if we can't boost that number up to three by talking to Mitch Answell, archeologist in charge. Don't forget he generally dislikes Roman archeology, preferring to investigate medieval churches, so his opinion may be prejudiced..."

  "I'm not prejudiced," objected Answell curtly, as the cameras hurried to keep up with Parsons. "I just prefer churches to houses, that's all. Is that so bad?"

  My role finished for the moment, I allowed myself to think back to about one week ago, right after I had received confirmation of my invitation to the Archeo Troop dig site.

  I'd been working in the Etretat caves for so long by then, it seemed to me I needed a refresher on English and Roman history. I knew questions would come up and wanted to be ready with an impressive comment or two, displaying my expert knowledge. With that in mind, I decided it was time to get myself a professor.

  Using the internet, I located the perfect candidate in no time. He was a recently retired professor of Archeology, Pierre Norman, who had specialised in ancient ports and Roman history. Decision made, I left the caves and hurried to his house, straight-line running across the countryside at breakneck speed, thinking about what questions I would ask. As part of my plan, I located an abandoned barn before collecting the professor. I wore local clothes and stooped to appear shorter. A wig and false beard would confuse the rest. No one would recognise me.

  I found the right apartment and broke the door open with a quick shove. The lock and doorknob went flying, clattering across the hall to stop against a coat rack. Norman looked up from the kitchen table in surprise. I hit him once on the temple, a quick jab intended to cause unconsciousness for about one hour.

  He woke in the barn, trussed up in the air, baling wire twirled tight around his arms and legs. He struggled and jiggled delightfully but could not get free in any way. I pulled off his shoe and ripped the smallest toe from his left foot. Blood spurted from it in exact rhythm to his screams.

  Having gotten his attention, I plied him with questions, each one accompanied by a small slash to his body, using a six inch nail I'd found stuck in a post. The process was well worn and delightful. I would scrape the rusty nail across his skin as I asked another question, "Tell me everything you know about Roman mosaic floors. Speak!"

  "No, stop, please, don't... Don't do that, no... All right, all right, please stop, I'll tell you, I'LL TELL YOU! Roman mosaics floors are... OWWW, I'm telling you right now, you said you'd stop..."

  I found lesson retention was always enhanced if fear tainted the professor's answers. It was amazing how much information I could glean in one night this way. It was one of my favourite activities. I'd honed the process over the decades, tortured all sort of people but, without a doubt, kidnapped professors, forced to teach or die, provided me with the strongest personal satisfaction. As a group, they succumbed easily to the extreme fear I induced, ensuring my lessons would be predictably effective.

  Best of all, at the end, as reward for a lesson well-learned, I got to kill the professor. In this case, I had used the vampyric method, pulling the crying professor down from his spider-web of bailing wire until his neck was by my mouth. He blubbered some vague plea, pleading in the most delectable tone, before I ripped into his throat with my incisors and drained him dry.

  I felt the blood pulsing in my throat, his last heartbeats. He died in less than a minute. Licking my lips dry, I examined his body and reflected how I had missed doing this while masquerading as Briar. It was so dangerous to do such things while involved with the caves. It this case, I had thought the risk was warranted, a necessary danger in order to keep up appearances.

  Parsons was still talking to Mitch Answell, who had refused to predict the age of the site. The host of the show gave up and moved to Tennison. "What about you? What have you found about the villa?"

  "As you know, I examine the landscape, and whatever maps I can find, searching for reasons why these sites were selected. In this case, the villa overlooks the long descent to the beach and the entire port town. I don't think this placement is a coincidence. The luxurious villa is uniquely located to provide its inhabitants a most special vista, the town, the port and the channel waters beyond. However, it plays a double role because the port town's inhabitants would also see the villa, high above their town. Its placement must be intended to make a statement of lordship over the town. Also, the selection of a site at the top of intersecting hills is a very ancient tradition indeed, implying the Romans built their building on an earlier site."

  Hearing this, Tom Grundy opened a file folder and pulled out a display printed on transparent sheet of acetone. "The geo-phys results prove exactly that. If you look here and here, you can see the foundations of a totally different structure. The Roman villa was probably built long after the town and port had been established."

  "If that's true, Tom, and the port is indeed the oldest port in England, we may finally have a reason for the arrival of the Romans in the UK," replied Tennison. "We've long been looking for the first Roman location in England because we thought it might help us understand when they came here and why. Now, perhaps, we are on the cusp of finding that reason. Our ancient port and this villa might well prove Romans came from the Mediterranean and found this amazing island, led here by the winds of naval trade. Finding Mediterranean shipwrecks in the port would do much to convince me of this possibility."

  Answell shook his head in frustration. "All this speculation is pointless. None of our theories will matter if we don't get down to the beach, an event which is seriously in doubt. The permits still haven't been issued and our time is running out."

  The cameras flipped to a concerned Parsons. "So there you are. The end of day one and we have only deepened the mystery. A storm is coming, the permit is delayed, and we have only two days left. Will we be able to find our answers in time? Let's hope tomorrow will bring better news."

  "Cut," yelled the director.

  The boom swung away from Parsons, who sighed in relief. "Well, I'm glad that's done."

  Wington jumped out of the hole he'd been digging and wiped off his dirty knees. "It's about time. Where's the beer in these parts?"

  "Relax, Will. Just hop into my truck and we'll be on our way. There's a tavern back in town. You coming, Briar?" asked Parsons.

  "Actually, I was thinking of retiring for the night. I'm a bit tired after the ferry trip and all."

  Wington sneered derisively as he climbed into the back of Parsons' 4X4. "An amateur, obviously. Everyone knows beer is the best thing to help you sleep."

  Answell and Grundy laughed out loud.

  "For you perhaps, Will," replied Answell. "We would be saddened by your absence, Briar. We were looking forward to an informal talk after a good supper."

  "Yeah," added Parsons, as he turned the motor on. "You've got to come. We'll only be there for a
n hour or so."

  There was head-shaking from Wington. "An hour, is it? That's barely enough to wet your whistle."

  "Come on, Wington, you're not helping," complained Parsons good-naturedly before glancing at me. "You heard them. They want you to come."

  "Fine then, if you insist," I replied.

  "Good man!" exclaimed Wington from the back. Answell got out from the front seat and graciously offered it to me. It was a dubious honor, considering Parsons was the one driving.

  Since I had not come here to kill these people, at least not right away, I had to go along. After all, I was masquerading as Briar. They would expect him to join them. Even though I knew my time could be better used elsewhere, this was, once again, a necessary evil to keep my cover. Was my entire life doomed to be a Briar compromise, even on vacation?

  Answell's corpulent bulk squeezed into the already tight back seat, squishing the three men uncomfortably close together. Parsons hit the gas as soon as the rear door closed and we were propelled back into our seats in the sudden burst of acceleration.

  I attempted to ignore Parsons' wild careening across the mud road but it was impossible. In the back seat, the three squished men fared no better, incessantly tossed left and right violently. No one spoke, except for Parsons who, perversely, wouldn't stop talking. I was amazed at the consistent triteness of his comments.

  "Say, where's Tennyson? Isn't he coming?" I wondered out loud, more to shut Parsons up than anything else.

  "He went on ahead," informed Grundy.

  "Yeah, on his bicycle," chuckled Wington. "I can't believe the guy. Why pedal when there's a perfectly good vehicle to drive in?"

  "I suggested he try a motorcycle," admitted Grundy.

  "What did he say to that?" wondered Wington.

  "He didn't. He just snorted and walked away, as if I'd insulted him."

  "Sounds like Tennison," riposted Wington.

  "Hold on everybody. There's a rough patch of road coming up," warned Parsons. For him to warn us, the road had to be really bad. I checked the way ahead and saw a long stretch of deep muddy ruts. There was also a tight turn to negotiate. Before anyone had time to object or utter a word of caution, we were into it.