by Adrien Leduc
* * *
We arrived in Brest an hour and a half later, tired, drained, and jet lagged. Uncle Marty lead us to the baggage claim area and after collecting our bags (I looked around for the bald man with the scar and was glad there was no sign of him) we made our way to the car rental desk.
“This is a pretty small airport,” says Josh as the three of us take chairs along the wall while we wait for Uncle Marty.
I nod, slowly and unenthusiastically, my brain too fried to take in any new information. “Yeah.”
“Brest isn’t a very big city,” says Troy. “It’s only got about a hundred and forty thousand people.”
Josh seems surprised. “That’s tiny!”
Troy laughs. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know...more than that, I guess. That’s like...a village.”
Troy makes a non-committal facial expression and starts digging in his bag for his laptop.
“You know what I mean, right Sair?” my brother asks, turning to me.
I nod automatically, not really caring. “Sure.”
“’Cause, I mean, most cities in Europe are pretty big, right? Like Paris has eight million people...right?”
“Yes, but, not all cities are that big,” Troy counters as he fires up his laptop and sits back to patiently watch the screen.
“Hunh. Well, I guess Mr. Grayson was wrong then,” says Josh.
I turn towards him. “How was Mr. Grayson wrong? What was he wrong about?”
“He said Europe has too many people. But I still see lots of space. And Brest is the second biggest city in the province of Brittany...?”
Troy shrugs. “I guess this part of France just isn’t as populated as other parts of France...but that doesn’t mean Europe isn’t crowded. If you look at the size of France compared to Canada...I mean, there are sixty five million people in France and thirty six million people in Canada...and yet France has about the same amount of land as Alberta.”
Josh’s eyes seem to widen. “Really? So...like...that would be like sixty five million people in Alberta?”
Troy nods. “Yeah, you got it.”
“Wow...” he seems to be pondering something, “and how many people live in Alberta now?”
“About three and a half million,” Troy replies mildly.
“Holy crap!” Josh whirls his head around so that he’s facing me. “Did you hear that, Sair? Only three and a half million. So imagine like...another sixty two million people...geez...”
Typing away on his laptop now, I see Troy smile.
“Yeah, well, I guess Mr. Grayson was right then,” I say to my brother. “I don’t see why you doubted him anyway...he teaches history and geography.”
“Yeah, but...” Josh still seems to be in a state of disbelief, “sixty five million people in Alberta...could you imagine?”
“No, I couldn’t imagine, because that’s not going to happen. At least not in our lifetime.”
Josh’s eyebrows furrow together. “Really? What if, like, a whole bunch of people move to Canada every year. Like say ten million people move to Canada this year - ”
“You mean immigrate to Canada,” I say, having less and less patience for his constant chattering.
“Yeah, immigrate to Canada...move to Canada...whatever. Same thing - ”
“No, Josh, it’s not the same thing. Immigrating is when you go to another country, moving is when you move to the other side of town.”
“What if you move to a different city? Then what?”
His tone is challenging and I can’t stand the smirk on his face.
“Then it’s still called moving because you’re still in your own country.”
Josh can’t seem to come up with anything to reply to this and so he leans back against his chair as we watch Uncle Marty finish up the paperwork at the desk and start to make his way towards us.
“Ready to go?” he asks cheerfully.
I groan. “Yes...when do we get to sleep?”
“Once we arrive at our destination. It’s not far from here.”
We follow the car rental guy out to the parking lot.
“I don’t get why we can’t just rent an RV,” I mutter as the rental guy introduces us to an electric-blue, sporty-looking Renault, “it would have been so much easier and then we could have actually stayed at the dig site.”
I direct this more to Troy, though it’s Josh who answers. “An RV would be awesome. Uncle Marty, can we get an RV while we’re here?”
“Absolutely not,” he says, not irritably, though in a tone that suggests such an idea is simply out of the question. “We’ll be staying at a cozy little B and B called La Mouette Blanche where we shall experience good, French hospitality.”
With a few words, the rental car guy has Uncle Marty sign a paper clipped to his clipboard before handing him the keys and wishing us a “bonnes vacances”.
It takes us only a few minutes to get our luggage loaded into the trunk and before long Uncle Marty’s climbing into the driver’s seat while Josh and I pile into the back and Troy takes the passenger seat up front.
“These damn French cars...” Uncle Marty curses irritably, adjusting and re-adjusting and squirming in the tiny seat. “Like little sardine cans...”
I can’t help but smile at my uncle’s frustration. It’s nice seeing the shoe on the other foot for once.
“We could have rented an RV...” I say in a sing-song voice as Uncle Marty screeches out of the parking lot.
“No, Sarah, we couldn’t have,” he says tersely. “I’ve already explained that we’re staying at a B and B. Not to mention,” he says, turning onto the highway as cars speed past in other lanes, “an RV that would have cost twice as much. As the university is paying for this expedition,” (he changes lanes), “I don’t believe they would look very kindly upon me being so casual with their money.”
“But it’s for an important expedition.”
“Sarah, I don’t need your sarcasm right now.”
“But I’m not being sarcastic.”
“Sarah.”
“What?”
“I’m sending an e-mail to your mother this evening and I’ll be sure to tell her about the way you’ve been behaving.”
“But I’m not doing anything!? Holy crap!”
There’s silence in the car now - awkward, uncomfortable silence, as we speed along the highway - but I don’t care.
It’s bad enough I have to spend the next four weeks with Uncle Marty - but to be accused of something I’m not even doing! Gah!
“Hey cool!” Josh exclaims suddenly, pointing out the window.
We’re on the main autoroute now, leaving central Brest, and I see a good number of interesting things. I’m also surprised he’s managed to put down his Nintendo DS for two seconds.
“What’s cool?” I ask, half-expecting to hear some stupid thing about a billboard or signpost.
“That big tower over there...”
I follow the direction in which he’s pointing. There is indeed a tower. It looks pretty old - I’m guessing it’s from the Middle Ages - and it looks like the kind of tower Rapunzel would have let her hair down from.
“That’s the Tanguy Tower,” says Troy from the front seat.
“How old is it?” I ask, curious now, as I lean into my brother to get a better look out his window.
“About seven hundred years,” answers Troy stoically.
“Seven hundred years old! Is there anything in Canada that’s that old? I don’t think so, eh?”
“Port Royal in Nova Scotia is four hundred years old. Certain parts of St. John’s are five hundred years old.”
“Don’t forget l’Anse-aux-Meadows,” says Uncle Marty.
“What’s le - ants - oh - med - ohes?”
“It’s where the Vikings built a small settlement in the eleventh century.”
“And where is it? Is that in Canada?”
“It’s in Newfoundland.”
“Geez...Canada’s
so young...” says Josh, his gaze still fixed on the Tanguy Tower.
“Well, it is and it isn’t,” Uncle Marty counters. “Because our Aboriginals have inhabited Canada for about ten thousand years...it’s just that they didn’t urbanize the way Europeans did and so there isn’t the same physical record as in Europe when it comes to buildings and such.”
I’m surprised. “Ten thousand years!?”
“That’s right. Ten thousand years - YOU BLOODY IDIOT!”
Uncle Marty swerves dramatically to avoid a passing truck, nearly running us into the ditch before he corrects the steering wheel. “THESE DAMN FRENCH DRIVERS!”
“Uncle Marty!”
“I’m sorry, Sarah...it’s just...good heavens!” He glances in the rear view mirror. “Are you alright? I’m sorry.” He turns to Troy. “I’m sorry about that.”
Troy looks a little shaken. “It’s alright, professor...” he says with a heavy exhale. “Phew, I thought we were in for it there!”
Now Josh is grinning along with him. “Yeah, that was pretty crazy!”
Boys.
“Pretty crazy!’ I exclaim, “we could have been killed!”
“And again, I am sorry, Sarah,” says Uncle Marty.
“You almost put us in the ditch, Uncle Marty.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s these damn French drivers.”
“It’s also you though.”
Uncle Marty glances at me via the rear view mirror. “I’m sorry, Sarah. Really.”
“Yeah, well, I think I’m going to send an e-mail to mom tonight too and tell her how you almost killed us.”
“Whoa, Sarah. That was an accident.”
I shrug. “Didn’t seem like it to me. Seemed like you weren’t quite watching the road.”
“I was watching...oh no you don’t. You’re trying to blackmail me!”
I make the most innocent face I can. “Blackmail? How?”
“You’re saying that if I follow through on my promise to e-mail your mom about the way you’ve been behaving, that you’ll e-mail your mom and tell her I nearly caused an accident.”
“Well, now you’ve just given me an idea.”
“Sarah...”
“Yes, Uncle Marty?”
“Cut the act.”
“What act? What am I doing?”
Uncle Marty snarls and then we continue where we left off with our silence until he finally relents.
“Fine. I won’t tell your mother about your misbehaving and you don’t tell her about our near car accident. Deal?”
I nod, happy to have won. “Deal.”
The highway takes us out of Brest and into the countryside where a checkerboard of green and yellow fields stretch off into the horizon.
“It looks just like Alberta...” I say quietly.
Not expecting an answer, I’m surprised when Uncle Marty says: “It does, doesn’t it?”
“So people are farmers here then?”
“That’s right. Farmers and fishermen...among other things.”
I nod and turn to look out my own window, allowing myself take in the many sights to be seen. Fruit trucks parked on the side of the road, selling their produce to passersby. Cows in a field. Windmills on a hill. A busy service station where, if the sign is to be believed, gas is € 2.29 a litre.
“How far is it to Porspoder?” asks Josh after a time.
“Not much farther,” Uncle Marty replies, changing lanes to pass a slow moving minibus. “About twenty kilometres.”
“So that’s like how long? Twenty minutes?”
“Yes, about thirty minutes.”
“Where are we staying again?” I ask.
“We’re staying at a B and B called La Mouette Blanche.”
“La moo - ett blahn - sh?”
“It means, the white seagull,” says Troy.
“Mouette means seagull?”
Troy nods. “Yep.”
“Mouette.” I giggle. “Mouette. Mouette, mouette, mouette.”
“Having fun back there?” asks Troy with a grin.
“I just like saying it. Mouette. Moooooo - ett.”
The car grows quiet once more, Josh returning to his video game and Troy to his book.
“When do we get to go and look Dumnonian Hoard, Uncle Marty?”
“Tomorrow, if all goes to plan.”
“What’s the plan?”
He doesn’t answer for a moment, instead concentrating on a tricky stretch of road where he has to pass through two semi trucks and change lanes to make sure we get the right exit.
“The plan is to meet Fabrice at the site,” he says eventually.
“Where’s the site?”
“Just outside Porspoder. About two kilometres. Right by the sea.”
“Which sea?”
“The Celtic Sea,” Uncle Marty replies, though somewhat impatiently.
“The Celtic Sea? I’ve never heard of the Celtic Sea...”
“It’s part of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Ohhhhh, okay. That I’ve heard of.”
“I should sure hope so.”
I ignore the jab and press on with my questioning. “So...why do you guys think the Dumnonian Hoard is there? Like, at this exact spot where we’re going?”
“We believe the Dumnonian Hoard is there because a church once stood on the site - a churchwhere Saint Budoc was priest.”
“And Budoc was the leader of the Dumnonii, right?”
“No. Have you been listening at all!?”
“I have been listening,” I answer flatly, annoyed by my uncle’s tone, “but I’m just getting all this stuff mixed up. It’s all these words I’ve never heard before and people I’ve never heard of. So excuse me!”
“Budoc was a very important saint to the Dumnonii,” says Uncle Marty as though he hasn’t heard me. “He was also active in both Dumnonias - the one in England and the one that existed here in France. For the longest time, historians and archaeologists have assumed the saint referred to in the Scroll of Isca to be Saint Petroc. But it’s much more plausible that the saint referred to in the Scroll is in fact Saint Budoc.”
“Who’s Saint Petroc anyway?”
“Another important saint to the Dumnonii.”
“Oh.”
“Only trouble is, Saint Petroc restricted his religious activities to England. He was rarely, if ever, active in France. While many in Brittany hold Saint Petroc to be an important saint, he wasn’t really thought of in these parts until the eleventh century. Budoc, on the other hand, was equal in his importance to both the Dumnonii of this part of France and the Dumnonii in England.”
“And why were there two Dumnonias again?”
“There were two Dumnonians because many Dumnonii from the Dumnonia in England migrated to northern France and established a second Dumnonia.”
“Oh yeah. And they did that to get away from the Saxons, right?”
“The West Saxons, yes. Good memory, Sarah.”
“Thanks...”
“Uncle Marty?” Josh cuts in.
“Yes, Joshua?”
“You said something about a scroll. The Scroll of Isaiah?”
Uncle Marty chuckles. “The Scroll of Isca.”
“What’s the Scroll of Is - ka?”
“Troy? You want to take this one?”
Troy smiles. I can tell he’s been waiting for an opportunity to jump into our discussion by the eagerness with which he sets down his book.
“The Scroll of Isca - Isca, by the way, is the old Roman name for Exeter and was once the capital of Dumnonia.”
“Like Ottawa?”
“Like Ottawa is the capital of Canada, yes.”
“Cool. So are there like lots of big buildings there and stuff?”
I stare at my brother. “Of course, nimrod. It was the capital.”
“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking!”
“Children!”
Josh glares at me.
“Sarah. You need to stop calling your brother name
s. And Joshua, you need to learn not to respond to your sister when she calls you names. Sticks and stones, right?”
“Sticks and stones?”
Uncle Marty gives a sigh of exasperation. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
“Ohhhhhh.”
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Uncle Marty.”
“Okay. Good. Now, where were we?”
“You were telling us about the Scroll of - ”
“Sarah, I don’t want to hear you right now. You started an argument when there didn’t need to be one. You can sit and be quiet until we get to the B and B.”
Fine.
“So, Troy was explaining the Scroll of Isca and Joshua, you had some very good questions,” says Uncle Marty. “You also mentioned buildings. Troy, would you care to tell him where the Scroll of Isca was found? Because that certainly involves a building.”
Troy nods. “Yeah, the Scroll of Isca,” he continues, turning to look at my brother, “was found beneath a Exeter Cathedral during renovations back in the eighties.”
My brother looks confused. “The nineteen eighties?”
“The nineteen eighties.”
“So, like, thirty years ago.”
“That’s right. And so these construction workers discovered the Scroll - among other things - and they turned it over to the local museum. Well, the museum took it and upon realizing what it was, called in the experts.”
“Who are the experts?”
“Archaeologists, medieval historians, et cetera.”
“Okay. And what did the experts do with the Scroll?”
“They translated it. It was written in Old Gaelic and it took awhile, but after about six months they had it all done.”
“And, what did it say?”
“It spoke of the troubles the Dumnonii were having with the West Saxons. It spoke of certain families who had migrated. It gave a story about a famous battle.”
“Did it say anything about the Dumnonian Hoard?”
Uncle Marty looks in the rear view mirror and smiles. “You’re getting sharper by the second, young man.”
Troy and Uncle Marty share a laugh, though Josh can’t understand why. “So...wait,” he continues, “the Scroll of Isca did say something about the Dumnonian Hoard...or it didn’t?”
“It did say something about the Dumnonian Hoard,” says Troy, not willing to let my brother suffer any longer. (Personally, I would have let it go another minute or two.)
“What did it say?”
“It said, and this is it word for word, so pay close attention - because this is real history right here.”
Josh nods enthusiastically. “I’m listening.”
Troy takes a breath and continues. “It said, ‘protected by our beloved Saint, where Dumnonia meets the sea, lie the prizes of the Dumnonii’.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means,” Uncle Marty cuts in, revving the engine as he does so that we seem to shoot forward, “that the Dumnonian Hoard could very well be here in Porspoder.”
“Why?”
“Because,” says Troy. “Let’s start with the Saint. For the past thirty years - since the Scroll was discovered - historians and archaeologists have assumed the saint to be Saint Petroc. However, as your uncle explained a few minutes ago, Saint Budoc is the more likely candidate. For Saint Budoc was active in both this Dumnonia (Troy gestures out the window) and the Dumnonia in England. And most if not all of the sites with ties to Saint Petroc have been examined and nothing has been found.”
Josh shifts in his seat so he can see up front better. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Troy repeats. “Now, as for the second part - where Dumnonia meets the sea - it was assumed that this meant the Cornish coast.”
“What’s the Cornish coast?”
“The coast of Cornwall. Hence the name, Cornish coast.”
“And that’s where Dumnonia used to be, right?”
“My word, Joshua!” Uncle Marty exclaims. “You are getting this! Perhaps you’ll have a career in archaeology someday too!”
Josh blushes. My brother. He actually blushes. I shake my head in disgust at all the pampering he’s getting and direct my gaze out the window.
“I don’t know, Uncle Marty...it all seems pretty complicated.”
“Ah, but see,” says Uncle Marty in a correcting tone, “there’s where you’re mistaken. It’s actually quite simple and that’s why I believe we’ve not managed to find the Dumnonian Hoard as of yet. You know, historians and their ilk like to complicate things.”
“So it’s easy to find?” Josh asks, sounding incredulous.
“Not...easy...but not as difficult as they’ve made it out to be. The only reason I even got into looking for the Dumnonian Hoard is because I grew frustrated by how damned confuddled they’d made it out to be. You see, as Troy just explained, you’ve got your saint. Saint Budoc, not Saint Petroc. So where did Saint Budoc have churches? Where was he a priest? There are only three places in France and only two in England. They’ve all been checked except for the site at Porspoder.”
“How come no one checked Porspoder yet?”
I see Uncle Marty smiling in the rear view mirror.
“Because Fabrice - or rather, Dr. Rondeau I should say - as that is his proper title - only came across this source last year. He and his team stumbled upon a reference to Budoc and Porspoder in an old church records book from the Charlemagne era. Which, oddly enough, they found at St. Malo.”
“So wait...Dr. Rondeau and his team - that’s like his team of archaeologists?”
“Correct.”
“They found an old church records book from the what era?”
“The Charlemagne era. Also known as Charles the Great. He was king of the Franks during the mid eighth century.”
“Who were the Franks?”
“The Franks were the forerunners of the French. Though not everyone living in France at that time were Franks. For example, here in Brittany, you had Bretons.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Franks are a Germanic people whereas Bretons are a Celtic people.”
“Okay.”
“Excellent questions, Joshua. Never be afraid to ask questions for this is how you learn.”
Troy murmurs his agreement as Uncle Marty pauses to concentrate on the road for a second, changing lanes to avoid a line of cyclists.
“And so,” Uncle Marty continues, “Dr. Rondeau and his team found this reference to this spot near Porspoder - this spot where we’re going. It made reference to a church that once stood there and Budoc was reportedly the priest of that church.”
Josh nods slowly. “Okay...I think I get it...”
“You’ve got it? Good. So, stay with me now,” (Uncle Marty changes lanes again), “Fabrice got in touch with a colleague in Rennes who happens to be an expert on medieval churches and was told that, yes, there was once a church at this spot.”
“Wow...and so...the Dumnonian Hoard could really be here,” says Josh in a wondrous voice.
Uncle Marty and Troy share a laugh.
“Yes, it could really be here! What, did you think we’d come all this way and not expect to find it!?”
“Well...no...but - ”
“Your uncle is rarely wrong when it comes to this kind of thing,” says Troy. “In the two years that your uncle has been my thesis supervisor, he’s been right about practically everything.”
“What’s he been wrong about?” Josh asks with genuine curiosity.
Uncle Marty laughs. “All sorts of things. What Troy’s referring to is a specific matter - ”
He looks at Troy and the two burst into another round of laughter.
“You insisted that it was Pope Gregory the sixth who had granted Robert de Molesme the right to establish a new monastery at Molesme when in fact it was Pope Gregory the seventh!”
I stare at Troy, who’s now completely unrecog
nizable from the other Troy, the cool Troy. Wow, geek out much?
Uncle Marty chuckles and throws Troy an appreciative smile. “You got me with that one.”
“So, basically,” Josh interjects, “Uncle Marty’s not wrong about anything when it comes to this kind of stuff.”
“You got it,” Troy answers.
“Wow...so we could find this treasure and like, be rich!”
“Ah, remember, Joshua. This is purely for the sake of history. Whatever we find is to remain with the French government and will likely end up in a museum somewhere.”
“That’s so...boring.”
I smirk, expecting him to get an earful from Uncle Marty.
“Boring, maybe. Just, most definitely.”
“Just?”
“Just. Fair. Righteous. Related to the word justice. Seriously!? Are they teaching you kids anything in school these days?”
Josh gives a non-committal shrug.
“Don’t answer that,” says Troy. “Your uncle’s just upset we don’t all have his vocabulary.”
Uncle Marty scoffs. “I hardly consider words like just to require a thesaurus.”
Troy shrugs. “It’s all iPhones and iPads these days...texting and chat has diminished our speech.”
“You seem to be okay with that.”
“I’m not okay with it, it’s just, I don’t think it’s a dire problem.”
“Well I do,” says Uncle Marty, sounding somewhat huffy now. “Anyway, we’ll continue this discussion another time as I see our turnoff up ahead and we should be there in about two minutes. That’s of course if the map I consulted was correct. One can’t be sure...these days...all you young, unedu-ma-cated folk coming out of school with hay for brains.”
Troy laughs. “I resent that.”
“Well, I don’t. Now, tell me, do you see a sign for chemin Poncelet?”
