Skavenger's Hunt

by Mike Rich

And in the few moments when he wasn’t thinking about the loss of Mattie, he’d catch himself thinking about the family he’d also lost.

  A father who was definitely gone. A mother and grandparents he suspected he’d never see again.

  “Henry?”

  He let out a deep breath. His head had decided to tease him with his father’s voice again.

  “Look at your mother . . .”

  And Henry was back under his father’s arm, watching an old movie that hadn’t kept Eloise from drifting off to sleep, her head peacefully resting on Nathan’s lap.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Henry could hear the smile in his father’s voice. “Not a care in the world.”

  That was the other thing Henry thought about. His mother. All those times he’d gotten so frustrated with her for protecting him from everything.

  No on recess, yes on French class. No to the rides at the school carnival, yes to the library.

  It was all because she loved him. Simple as that. She just needed a little more time with everything that had happened—same as he did.

  Henry restlessly pushed himself out of his cot and headed for the nearest set of stairs, his legs ached from doing pretty much zip for hours on end. Yesterday he’d gone down to wander the ship’s lower hallways, just to stretch out a bit. It had taken him all of maybe a half hour to discover that Le Chasseur was, when you got right down to it, a pretty boring ship—built to transport passengers and not much else.

  Clank clank clank clank . . .

  Henry’s footsteps echoed on the narrow metal stairs that led down to the storage areas, louder than he’d hoped. Even though he hadn’t seen anyone during his first venture down there, he still didn’t want to attract attention.

  Same as yesterday, someone had left the main door to the area slightly open.

  The forward side of the storage hold was where all the wooden trunks were kept. He had little desire to see those again.

  Way too easy to picture Mattie sittin’ on the box of clothes on the train to St. Louis. Thumping her heels against the side.

  Seemed like the littlest of things could trigger a memory of her.

  A rolling empty bottle did the trick a week ago, whipping him straight back to Mattie peering at the empty beer glass outside of the Jennings Establishment. The moment when she’d handed it to Henry and he’d spotted the same clue she had, prompting her to roll onto her back and shout up to the sky in celebration:

  YEEEEESSSSSSS!!!

  Henry shivered as he turned and set out toward the other side of the lower level. There was more light than he expected, but just as many trunks and stacks of luggage, almost forming a long corridor of sorts.

  Even if it had been darker, Henry’s fear of bumping into Doubt was gone.

  Nuthin’ to be afraid of. He’s there, I’m here.

  A few beams of light streamed through the slats above, joined by the raindrops also finding their way in. It was starting to get just a little darker back in the far stern, made darker still by the hallway of baggage that reached to the ceiling.

  Thanks to the stray beams of light, though, he could see where he was going. See the boxes, see the floor, see the . . .

  Door.

  Big door.

  Henry noticed it as he reached the end of the luggage corridor; it was tightly padlocked and enormous, and it was at least fifteen feet high from top to bottom, perhaps more, constructed of what looked to be extremely thick and unyielding steel.

  Whaaaaat is behind that? The ship’s engines sound pretty close. That could be it, right?

  Henry moved closer. The sound of the engines remained muffled and distant.

  All right. Can’t be the engines. They’re close, but not behind-this-door close.

  Henry reached out a cautious finger to give the five-inch-wide padlock an easy tug.

  It clanked, but held tight. He tried again, this time using his whole hand, pulling hard enough for it to make a dull clunking sound as it fell back against the door.

  He softly exhaled, perplexed.

  Well, it’s somethin’, that’s for sure. Nobody puts that kind of lock on an empty ro—

  Which was precisely the same moment a hand fell on his shoulder. Henry whipped around mid-gasp.

  “Y a il quelque chose que je peux vous aider avec, jeune homme?”

  An unfamiliar man stood directly in front of Henry. He had strangely sleepy eyes and wore a perfectly tailored black suit with a crisp vest and a green ascot. A gold watch chain led to the pocket where his timepiece no doubt was ticking with precision right now.

  The man wasn’t Hiram Doubt, wasn’t the shadowy Grace, wasn’t anyone Henry had ever seen before—though he certainly would have guessed he was French had he not even said a word.

  “Whew, man . . . dude, you scared me.” Henry took in a breath to calm himself.

  “Man? Dude? Moi?” the unfamiliar man inquired with a bemused, somewhat puzzled expression on his face. “I confess I am not too familiar with your country’s . . . how should I say it? The manner in which you young Americans speak?”

  “Sorry . . . sir,” Henry apologized. “I was just looking around. Je regardais juste autour.”

  The man—who looked to be in his early fifties, with a fine beard and mustache and carrying a thick satchel—smiled and seemed to be mildly impressed.

  “Ah . . . I see,” he replied in decent English. “What is it going to be then? Français . . . or Anglais?”

  The gentleman’s words, and more importantly, the tone in which he said them, quickly put Henry at ease.

  “English would be great, thanks.” Henry nodded. “I guess I probably shouldn’t be here, should I?”

  “I don’t see why not. You do have a ticket for travel, oui?”

  “Oh, oui, I do,” Henry assured him, patting at his pockets, forgetting for a moment which one held it. The man was rummaging through his own pockets as well.

  “No need to offer proof,” he said with a smile. “I was an explorer when I was your age too. I remain an explorer. So yes . . . you should absolutely be here.”

  The man pulled a key out from one of his other coat pockets. “Excusez-moi?” he politely asked as he gave a nod to the massive door.

  “Oui, sure.”

  Henry stepped aside as the gentleman slipped the key into the lock and asked him, “And what is your name, young explorer?”

  “Oh, it’s, uh . . . Henry Babbitt.”

  “Monsieur Henry Babbitt,” the man repeated as he removed the lock and gave a mighty pull on the door. “I am Monsieur . . . ummpph.”

  The gentleman gave a short groan as the door opened a bit. He gave another mighty pull.

  “. . . Gustave . . .”

  Followed by one more.

  “. . . Eiffel.”

  TWENTY

  Mother of Exiles

  THE VISIONARY CLAPPED his hands free of dust and motioned for Henry to lead the way inside the mysterious room.

  But the twelve-year-old was unable to take a step.

  Ei . . . Ei . . . Ei . . . Ei . . . Ei? As in Eiffel Eiffel? One of Riggin’s Three E’s Eiffel? Here? Me? Him?

  “I’m sorry, you’re . . . you . . .” Henry was having a little trouble standing. “You’re Gustave Eiffel?”

  “Indeed,” the man confirmed, gesturing a second time for Henry to go in. “Well, you wanted a look inside? Let’s look inside.”

  Henry stepped in, never once taking his eyes off his unexpected host. Monsieur Eiffel closed the door behind him, latching it on the inside while tucking his thick satchel under one arm.

  “Where are you from, Henry?” Gustave wiped the last bit of dust from his hands before walking to the center of the cavernous area.

  “Well, sir . . .” Henry followed, until his eyes rose and his voice dropped away.

  Scattered on the floor of the mostly empty room were seven very substantial . . . well . . . Henry wasn’t quite sure what they were. The closest thing they resembled was a long, thin
pyramid—ten feet long and spiked at one end. The base of each was about three feet wide.

  “Henry?” Eiffel asked again. “Your hometown? Where is it?”

  “Oh, New York,” his still-stunned young guest answered.

  “Ah. So your family is here with you then. On Le Chasseur.”

  The long spikes rested on heavy sections of canvas, which Eiffel was busily inspecting. Impressive as they were, and as impressive as the legendary designer himself was, Henry had fallen silent again because of a trio of tarp-covered items taking up most of the large storage room.

  “Henry?” Monsieur Eiffel’s sleepy eyes still twinkled as he moved from one spike to the next. “Your family?”

  “Oh, no. I’m, uh . . . I’m here with two friends,” Henry finally answered.

  Eiffel looked genuinely surprised, shocked even. “Just you and two friends? Crossing the Atlantic?” he asked as he leaned against the base of one of the pyramids, gesturing that it was fine for Henry to do the same.

  Henry hesitated to say much more. “We’re traveling with this family from Paris. The father’s name is Philippe. It’s kind of a long story.”

  “The best ones always are, jeune ami.” Eiffel pushed himself away from the long pyramid he’d been leaning against, smiling at the wonder in the young man’s eyes.

  “What is this?” Henry finally asked. “Something you’ve designed, something you’re building?”

  “This?” Gustave held his arms out. “Oh no, this is something a friend asked me to help him finish. His design, not mine. Though I did make the framework, which . . . was a distinct challenge to be sure.”

  He cocked his head and fixed Henry with a curious look. “How is it a young American knows I am a designer?” he asked. “I haven’t found many your age that know of my work, especially across the Atlantic.”

  “Pffft. Who hasn’t heard of Gustave Eiffel?” Henry asked. “I mean, you’re the reason my friends and I went to . . .”

  Oh c’mon, can you think before you talk just once?

  “The reason your friends and you did what, Henry?” Eiffel put two fingers on his perfectly bearded chin. His was the curious expression now.

  For the first time since he’d walked in the room, Henry looked at Eiffel instead of everything else. He should have done it sooner, because no matter what was in that room, Eiffel was the reason they’d all ventured to Paris in the first place.

  Gustave Eiffel. Looking at him right now. Standing in front of . . . something. Something big.

  Wait . . . I may have been right about the clue after all! “Find me on a nine-day journey. Paris. New York.” We’re going from Paris to New York now! THIS was the journey all along. We just had to turn around and come back. Le Chasseur. The HUNTER!

  Henry took in a nervous breath.

  “Monsieur Eiffel? My friends and I came to Paris because we thought you might be part of Mr. Skavenger’s Hunt.”

  The churning of the steam engines was the only sound for a moment.

  Eiffel now scratched the corner of his mouth, just below his also-perfect mustache. “Monsieur Hunter Skavenger?” he asked. “The man behind the greatest of adventures?”

  Henry nodded.

  “And why would you think that I might be part of his hunt?” Gustave asked in all seriousness.

  Well . . . because . . .

  Henry was hoping this part of the conversation might end the same as the other encounters. Vanderbilt had been part of Skavenger’s Hunt. The same went for Mark Twain. Maybe Eiffel was no different.

  Henry decided to roll the dice. “Well, sir,” he began, “we found a clue that pointed us to one of your designs. I mean . . . at least I thought it did. Turned out I was wrong.”

  Monsieur Eiffel’s interest went up a notch. “A design of what?” he inquired, moving closer.

  Henry knew he had to be careful. Very careful. He looked up at the great designer and very subtly revised his earlier words. “What I meant to say was . . . we found a clue that pointed us to you.”

  “No, no, no.” Gustave shook his head. “I am a student of detail. You said the clue pointed to one of my designs.”

  The young man now really did need one of the metal pyramids for support.

  “Go on, you can tell me,” Eiffel encouraged him.

  “Well,” Henry tried again. “I thought I’d read somewhere that you wanted to design a tower. In Paris.” He sighed and then added, “But . . . like I said, I was wrong.”

  Gustave Eiffel didn’t say a word. Long enough to convince Henry that he’d blundered once again.

  Super. Terrific. Not only hasn’t he designed a tower, he hasn’t even thought of a tower yet! How’d you ever get that A in histo—

  Henry’s private kicking of his own rear end screeched to a stop as the great designer gently rolled up his shirt cuffs, reached into his leather satchel, and removed a large drafting paper which had been carefully and meticulously folded several times.

  He crouched down, placed it on the floor, and slowly, fold by fold by fold, revealed the plans for . . .

  The Tower. It’s right there. HIS Tower!

  Henry’s eyes grew wide.

  Without even realizing it, he was down on his hands and knees getting a closer look, resting his palms on the design’s edge—then moving them back as if he’d touched a vase in an expensive store.

  “No, no, it’s all right,” Gustave assured him. “It’s a rough draft, I know.” He paused before adding, “I call her La Dame de Fer, which means . . .”

  “The Iron Lady,” Henry jumped in to make the translation. The design was the Eiffel Tower, and it wasn’t a rough draft at all.

  Eiffel was still puzzled, though. “I hadn’t heard of anything being written about it yet,” Eiffel said to Henry. “Guess it’s my turn to be wrong, oui?” He looked at him with a smile.

  Prob’ly not, E. But I think I’ll save that part of the story for some other time.

  “So, Henry Babbitt . . .” Eiffel looked down at his design again. “What do you think?”

  Henry could only shake his head, awestruck. “I think it’s incredible, sir,” he quietly answered.

  The visionary looked pleased. “I first thought of it just last year,” he said. “But I fear it will be too dramatic for a good many of my countrymen.”

  He pointed to the first level, near the base. “I added an arch here, just below the landing.” His voice held the enthusiasm of an eager schoolboy. “That way it matches the narrowing angle at the very top. Oui? You see?” he asked.

  “I do see,” Henry marveled.

  “I still worry it will not be well received.” Eiffel sighed.

  “No, no, no, it will be,” Henry promised with foresight even the great designer didn’t have. “Where do you want to build it?”

  Yeah, yeah, you know the answer, but playing dumb for once might help.

  “The Champs de Mars,” was Eiffel’s confident reply. “It will be a thousand feet tall, can you believe that, Henry? It will be the tallest structure in the entire world.”

  “The whole world will love it,” Henry said, mesmerized by the piece of history just inches below him. A piece of art—born in a distant corner of a great man’s imagination.

  “So, young man.” Gustave seemingly couldn’t resist. “What was the clue that drew you to me? In Paris?”

  Henry looked up, just as Eiffel quickly held up his hand to reassure him. “No, no. Please understand, Henry, I am not a part in any way of Monsieur Skavenger’s hunt, nor do I wish to interfere with your own search. I am, however, a great admirer of adventure, and I’d be honored to help if I can.”

  There wasn’t a shred of doubt in Henry’s mind as to whether he could trust Gustave Eiffel. He spoke each word of the riddle as precisely as he could.

  “The clue read: a towering vision to the eye. Full and . . .” Henry couldn’t resist stopping. “Eye? Full? Get it?”

  Eiffel nodded.

  The young man continued, “Impressive as
any continent or sea. Find me on a nine-day journey. Paris. New York. The visionary and the vision.”

  He leaned back for a moment, sitting on his heels.

  “That’s what it was.” Henry put his hands on his hips. “That’s why we tried to find you.”

  Eiffel looked stunned, slowly repeating Henry’s own mannerisms, sitting back, hands on hips, before slowly standing.

  “Monsieur Hunter Skavenger.” Gustave shook his head, turning to walk toward something in the room. “He is a brilliant, brilliant man, is he not? These great quests of his, more enticing and creative than even I could ever imagine.”

  He heard something. Just now. In the riddle!

  “It IS the tower, isn’t it?” Henry quickly asked as he pushed himself up. “Skavenger knew something about the tower. Your tower!”

  “No, Henry.” Eiffel slowly stepped toward the very largest of the tarp-covered items, reaching for a handful of the heavy cloth. “Monsieur Skavenger knew about this.”

  He tugged the tarp free and it slowly parachuted to the floor. A half second later, Henry Babbitt found himself staring into the face of . . .

  The Statue of Liberty?

  “Allow me to introduce you to another Iron Lady,” Gustave said with great pride. “My friend Frédéric Bartholdi’s grand vision. She is a gift to your country, Henry. Liberté éclairant le monde.”

  Lady Liberty’s gaze was fixed high over Henry’s head, her serious yet somehow welcoming eyes a dozen feet above his own.

  As overwhelmed as he’d been holding one of the first copies of Huck Finn in his hands, this moment was simply overpowering. Henry knew he was viewing the face of freedom from a vantage point that would be impossible to future visitors.

  Yep, pretty sure nobody gets to look at Lady Liberty one foot right in front of her nose.

  He glanced over at Eiffel, asking for permission without a single word. The designer smiled and nodded.

  Henry reached out and placed his hand, with great respect, on the edge of her frowning lips, then gently touched the tip of her nose. Lady Liberty wasn’t the greenish gray Henry was used to; that, as Dr. Riggins had explained once, would come later with the weather of the New York Harbor. Right now she was brand new—nothing more than a simple slate gray.