AHMM, December 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

"I'll go too."

  Remy blocked my way and sternly shook his head.

  "No, boy, you've gotten yourself in enough trouble for today. You stay here, and away from Jules."

  I sat back down and played the role of reluctant, but obedient. Let Remy think what he would. For my part, the reluctance was real.

  With a further warning to stay away, the Chevalier left me.

  Of course I waited until he was out of sight. If he only knew that never would I force myself to be obedient to his demands. He had no claim on me.

  My feet soon found the dirt path leading to the Valley of Grace. In my reasoning, if I went to Val-de-Grace Church now, then I would be well hidden before either Sallambier or Remy arrived. And, since one must feed his stomach as well as his soul, I managed en route to acquire an unguarded crust of bread, two shriveled carrots, and a chunk of fairly fragrant cheese for my supper. By the time their shrill-voiced owner finished arguing with her husband, I doubted he would have much appetite for them anyway.

  At the church, the door stood partly open with no one in sight, either outside or inside. Now the problem was to find a hiding place, one that Remy would not be likely to use for himself. As for Sallambier, he was probably busy making himself a key for the staircase door. He would come when the church was locked up and empty, assuming they locked the huge front doors at night. My knowledge of this and other facts about the actual workings of the church were sadly lacking. I felt a twinge of remorse in not having come here more often for the good of my soul, my very salvation. But, after my bread and cheese were gone, that feeling soon left me alone.

  At the sound of leather scuffing on stone, I glanced hurriedly around. Someone was coming and I still had no good hiding place. I dived to the floor and crawled forward under one of the heavy wooden pews used by the rich folk. Incoming footsteps continued down the aisle. There was a pause, and then I heard the wood creak in a pew somewhere in front of my hiding place. A sinner no doubt, clicking his rosary and come to seek redemption. However, by the way this one kept sniffing loudly, I assumed he also had a bad cold and was praying for better health. For the time he took on his knees, his sins must have been many. Before his list of concerns with the Almighty had been completed, I nodded off into sleep on the stone floor.

  I might have slept through until Morning Mass, but a cool chill on my backside and the grating squeak of opening and then closing door hinges brought me awake. Except for the flickering of candles set in rows along the walls, the light inside had a dim grayness to it. Still, it was good enough for me to watch the worn leather boots of a man as he proceeded down the aisle and across in front of the altar without a single drop to his knee as someone once told me you are supposed to do in a place like this. He then proceeded over to a door in the vestibule behind the altar.

  This had to be Sallambier. I poked my head over the wooden pew and peeked, but the man had already unlocked the door and descended. As a precaution, I waited to see if anyone else followed. There was no other movement in the church. Remy's plans must have gone awry, else he was somehow already in front of me down the staircase.

  The partially open door beckoned.

  With great stealth, I left my hiding place and crept to the top of the stairwell. From down in the tunnel came soft sounds and the yellow glow of a torch disappearing along a stone corridor. It was either hurry, or be left behind in eternal darkness. My feet flew down the stairs.

  Having reached the cellar floor, I hurried forward to the first branching out of the tunnel. It was dark to my front and dark to the right. I pressed against the left wall and peered around that corner. The man with the torch had stopped at another intersection and was using a piece of chalk to mark one of the walls. After he finished, I waited while he continued walking straight ahead. Before I could follow, he returned to the intersection and erased the previous chalk mark he'd made. Then he turned and drew a white arrow on a different wall.

  Ah, I told myself, he must have run into a dead end in the tunnel. This time, when the man started off in a new direction, I let him get farther out of sight before I stepped out to follow.

  I only got three steps.

  A large hand covered my mouth, stifling any attempt to cry out. I tried to bite the fingers of that hand, but then another strong hand grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and lifted me off my feet. At my ear, I heard a whispered voice.

  "Be quiet and I'll put you down."

  I tried to nod my head in compliance, but my entire body was suspended by the neck and I'm not sure anything above that point could move.

  "I told you to stay behind,” continued the voice.

  The ground felt good to be beneath my feet again. I rotated my neck to get the kinks out.

  "Jules owes me for this afternoon's purse stealing,” I retorted, “and this may be my only chance to collect my coins, one way or another."

  "You didn't actually get the purse,” countered Remy in a whisper.

  "That was Sallambier's fault. You yourself saw him push me, and since an agreement is an agreement, Jules owes me. I won't let him cheat me."

  Remy gave a grunt of exasperation, then we stood there in silence.

  "Sallambier is leaving us behind,” I said at last.

  The Chevalier turned the setting on a bull's-eye lantern at his feet, and a single narrow ray of white pierced the tunnel's dark.

  "Don't worry, boy, Sallambier will probably run into several filled tunnel shafts and other dead ends before he locates the monk's cache of Benedictine. We don't want to be too close in case he doubles back and finds us instead."

  "He's marking the walls with chalk so he knows which corridors he's already searched,” I volunteered.

  "That's good to remember,” Remy replied. “Now stay behind me.” He picked up the lantern and set off down the tunnel.

  To my right, I distinctly heard the skittering of little rat claws on the stone floor and thus made sure I did not linger far behind the Chevalier.

  "Stay farther back,” muttered Remy, “you're stepping on my heels."

  Occasionally, we passed by iron torch brackets mounted on the walls. All brackets stood empty, but on the ceiling above them were soot and black scorch marks from previous torches over the years. At other twists and turns, we passed chiseled inscriptions in a foreign language.

  "Those are Roman writings,” remarked the Chevalier.

  Twice we came upon stone engravings, and these seemed to interest the Chevalier the most. At these, he whispered to me tales of ancient gods, emperors, the history of a long ago civilization.

  Bah, what did I care? I was here to collect what was owed to me. The next time Remy started one of his lectures on history and old literature, I went off on my own. After all, I could see the glow of Sallambier's torch reflected far down the corridor and it hadn't seemed to move for some time now. Maybe he had found the Benedictine cellar. I would go see.

  Advancing noiselessly down the tunnel, I at last came to the doorway where Sallambier's torch, now set into an iron bracket, lit the roughly chiseled room beyond. I peered carefully around the edge of the stone entrance. Only a bare side wall was in view. I'd have to move over farther in order to see what was in this room.

  Two steps sideways and my vision caught the rounded top of a wooden cask. Another step and I could see several barrels and casks stacked against the back wall. We'd found it. And then my view was suddenly blocked.

  Sallambier.

  Even in his surprise at seeing me, his reactions were faster than mine. For the second time this night, I was grabbed by the neck and lifted off the ground, only this time it was by the throat instead of the nape.

  "I had wondered where you disappeared to after your escape from the Abbess,” Sallambier grated in that raspy voice of his.

  He carried me deeper into the Benedictine cellar. Then his eyes noticed the small leather pouch swinging from my belt, a place where most citizens kept money or other valuables. He turned to cast more light from the torch onto m
y person.

  "What did you bring me?"

  When he drew his knife I thought I was dead, but he merely sliced through the leather thongs on my pouch. It dropped to the floor. His fingers tightened on my throat as he bent over to retrieve the bag. I began drifting into unconsciousness, but I first remembered Sallambier stuffing my leather pouch into a pocket of his jerkin. It was later that the sudden slamming of my hindquarters onto the stone floor jolted me partially awake.

  "I told you to stay behind me,” growled Remy. His voice came to me through a fog.

  At the moment, my brain had feathers in it and my throat too sore to reply. All I could do was stare at Sallambier's body stretched out at my feet as if he were sleeping. However, upon seeing the growing lump on the side of Sallambier's head, I was fairly sure that if the gargoyle were sleeping, then he'd had some assistance in the matter from Remy.

  A strong hand grasped my shoulder.

  "We'll have to move him to another part of the tunnels. You grab his feet."

  I wanted to protest my condition, but soon found myself struggling with a pair of familiar looking worn boots. As much as my end of the hulk weighed, Sallambier must have stuffed himself with food during all his waking hours. In the end, I have no idea which part of the labyrinth we stashed his sleeping form in, nor where Remy left me while he cleaned up any evidence of our passing. I do remember Remy coming back with a canvas bag over his shoulder. His way was lighted by the bull's-eye lantern, and the extinguished torch was under his arm. He also paused at each turning of the tunnels to erase any white chalk marks.

  At the top of the stairs, the Chevalier locked the staircase door behind us. We slunk out of the church like thieves in the night and headed home.

  Remy quickly roused Josette from her slumbers. For a celebration is how he termed it. For my part, I didn't know what we had to celebrate. I had no coins for my efforts, and I vaguely remembered Remy tossing Sallambier's key to the staircase door into one of the garbage pits on our way back to the villa. No cache of holy liquor for us to sell to tavern keepers on the back streets. When I'd inquired about the key, Remy replied, “No gentleman steals from the church."

  I could have believed him better, except for the clinking of glass bottles in the canvas bag he carried on his shoulder. Sure enough, to help us celebrate, Remy dragged a couple of bottles of Benedictine out of the bag and opened the tops. I reminded him about his statement concerning not stealing from the church.

  "Stealing, my boy?” He laughed loud. “No, no, these few bottles are merely payment which I'm sure the monks, had they known, would have gladly given me for rescuing their entire Benedictine cellar from the greed of King Jules."

  As I grew older, I was beginning to realize how full-grown people rationalized their behavior based upon their desires of the moment. The only distinction among them being that different persons used varying degrees of ethics in their decision making, whether it was King Jules or the King of France. Still in my youth, I didn't have this problem yet, but it meant I'd have to keep a closer eye on the Chevalier in future dealings. As for Jules, I'd left his chief assassin lost in the long twisting tunnels of the Roman quarries. That would serve as partial payment for Jules's debt to me. Remy was another matter.

  And then I remembered. My leather pouch. I reached desperately for my belt.

  "What are you doing so in such a frantic manner?” inquired Remy. “You act as if you had lost something."

  "My pouch,” I exclaimed. “It contained all my valuables."

  "What could a poor pickpocket like you possibly have of value?"

  "I had a length of blood sausage,” I retorted before I recalled what I was going to use it for.

  Remy laughed.

  "Boudin noir? In these hot autumn days? You're lucky you didn't eat it. Even the ancient Greeks knew this dark pudding became poisonous if it set in the heat too long. It's pig's blood, cereal, and seasonings stuffed into the intestines of an animal. Better you forgo this delicacy until cooler weather."

  Well, that did explain the lingering odor it had. But since Sallambier now had the blood sausage in his possession, that meant I'd not be able to slip it into Remy's evening soup and get some measure of revenge on him.

  Then I pictured Sallambier and his constant appetite. When he awoke in the dark and spent hours trying to feel his way out of the stone labyrinth, he would no doubt be hungry. And when he rooted through my leather pouch stuffed into his jerkin, he would recognize the feel of a length of sausage.

  At least I wouldn't have to worry about making amends to Sallambier and his pitted blade one dark night. No, years from now some Benedictine monk off course in the tunnels below Val-de-Grace Church would probably find no more than rat-gnawed bones, a rusted knife, and some tattered clothes.

  I was sure that the Chevalier wondered why the sudden smile on my face, but as I saw the situation, it was one down and two devils to go. I had all the time in the world to get even.

  Copyright © 2009 R. T. Lawton

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE CARETAKER by Terence Faherty

  "Jackson Hole is the name of the valley. Jackson is the town. Never call the town Jackson Hole, or people will think you're a flatlander."

  To Anne Abbott's ear, the person offering this advice sounded like a flatlander himself—from Iowa, perhaps, or Kansas—but she didn't call him on it. She needed the job he'd offered her too badly. And she liked this real estate manager, Wayne Sedam. True, he spent more time on his hair and clothes than the men she'd grown up around, though in keeping with the local convention his current outfit—sheepskin coat, jeans, and cowboy boots—was elaborately casual. But he hadn't balked at the idea of hiring a female caretaker for one of the properties under his charge, Osprey House. The previous caretaker had left without notice to join a cowboy band, so Sedam was well motivated if not desperate. Still, Anne was grateful.

  They were standing on the flagstone patio behind the house as they spoke. Anne was admiring the log home's many windows and gables. In one of the French doors, she caught her own reflection and appraised it: tall, broad shouldered, and plain. The sketch made her sigh, and she glanced quickly at Sedam to see if he'd noticed. He was examining the neighboring mansion.

  "This part of the valley was all little ranches not many years ago,” he said. “Now it's half ranches and half estates. Ten years from now, you'll have to drive down to Hoback Junction if you want to see a cow."

  Anne, who'd lived all her life around cows, doubted she'd put forth the effort, but she nodded as though carefully making a mental note as Sedam went on.

  "Neither Osprey House or that place over there is rented out when the owners are away, which is most of the year. In fact, I doubt the owners of Osprey House will ever be back. It was built by a dot-com millionaire named Zollman as a vacation home for the skiing season. His wife took one look around Jackson and lit out for the Coast. Wyoming was too far from Malibu for her. She'd like her husband to sell the place, but he's run off to sulk somewhere in the South Pacific and no one can get hold of him."

  Thank God for that, Anne thought, or I'd be waiting tables somewhere. She'd come to Wyoming to work as a guide on the Snake River, but the short summer season wouldn't feed her all year. The caretaker's job was ideal, giving her a place to live as well as a steady income. Mrs. Zollman might not have cared for Jackson Hole, but to Anne it was close to heaven, even if it did snow in late May.

  It was flurrying now. Sedam was holding the lapels of his beautiful coat tightly together with one hand, his attention still absorbed by the large house across the meadow. It was cedar sided with chimneys and front porch pillars of stacked stone.

  "What's that place called?” Anne asked.

  "Millikan House, after the owners, a husband and wife team of New York cardiologists. They should have called the place Heart Disease House, after what they paid for it. The Millikans come out for two weeks in the winter and five weeks in the summer. Those years we have a
summer. Let's go inside."

  Sedam showed her from room to room, starting in a large television and game room with fireplace and cathedral ceiling. The gourmet kitchen was open to a farmhouse style dining room, the long table of which could seat twelve. Anne pictured the Zollmans sitting at opposite ends of that table, glowering at each other. The master suite, its bathroom larger than any apartment Anne had ever rented, and a mechanical room completed the ground floor. The latter held duplicate hot water tanks and furnaces.

  Sedam explained the redundancy. “Because of the log construction, there are no ducts in the house. Heating is by hot water. One system supplies the radiators, the other the sinks and showers. All running continuously, per the owner's last orders. You should see the bills. By the way, you will see the cleaning people. They come once a week, also according to orders. I don't know what they find to clean."

  Upstairs there were four more bedrooms, each with its own bath. Throughout the house, the gray daylight was warmed by the honey color of the walls. The logs were so perfectly smooth that Anne ran her fingers along them to convince herself that they were really wood. Nowhere in the house did she see a personal touch, a family photograph or a book.

  Her own quarters were in a small ranch house behind the four-car garage. Compared with Osprey House, it was spartan, but Anne fell in love with it at first sight. She had to fight the temptation to seize its keys from Sedam when, at the end of their tour, he displayed his first reservations.

  "I feel a little guilty about leaving you out here by yourself,” he said, as he twirled the key ring maddeningly on one finger. “You're only a few miles from town, I know, but this is a lonely spot. Feel free to call my cell if you're ever uncomfortable."

  Anne asked herself if this manicured man might be interested in her. But before she'd more than worded the thought, Sedam added, “Or you could call Gitry."

  "Gitry?"

  "He's the Millikans’ caretaker.” Sedam waved the keys in the direction of the cedar house. “It's not one of my properties—it's managed out of Cheyenne, a stupid arrangement—so I don't really know the man, except by his reputation. He's become a little bit of a recluse, from what I hear. And a man of mystery. Still, if some emergency comes up, I'm sure he'll help out. You caretakers have to stand by one another.