The Ant Returns - Chapters XII & XIII (The End is Near...) (564 hits)
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Rating: 1.69 on 17 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-02-14 13:57:29 EST
(Prologue - http://www.ubersite.com/m/57985)
(Chapter I - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58042)
(Chapter II - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58125)
(Chapter III - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58205)
(Chapter IV - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58437)
(Chapter V - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58529)
(Chapter VI - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58649)
(Chapter VII - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58931)
(Chapter VIII - http://www.ubersite.com/m/59032)
(Chapter IX - http://www.ubersite.com/m/59219)
(Chapter X - http://www.ubersite.com/m/59343)
(Chapter XI - http://www.ubersite.com/m/59414)
==La Quatrième Partie - ...la ville, peinte avec le sang==
Subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human nature.
-Charles Dickens
==Chapter XII - Les Rues de Paris==
Paris announced itself from afar. Outside the city, for some considerable distance, one could see the flickering light of fires. One could hear faint cries and screams and the snap and pop of faraway firearms. And one could smell a most awful smell, carried on the evening breeze, the smell of burning and rot.
Rob entered the city from the east, having to slow to a trot in the busy streets. He had made good time on the empty country roads, running and bounding across the miles as the setting sun warmed his face.
He stopped only once in a small village that was a Parisian suburb. He took a leak behind some bushes and used a coin from Henri's leather purse to purchase a cup of water and some crêpes in a small restaurant. The crêpes were great, light but filling, with a nutty flavor. Hazelnuts, maybe.
Now he was wondering if he would ever feel like eating anything again.
The entire city had gone mad. No books Rob had ever read and no TV shows or movies could prepare him for what he was seeing now, and sight wasn't the only sense under assault. As he moved further into the heart of the city the sights and sounds and smells grew worse.
The streets were littered with trash. Animal shit, burned timbers, shifting piles of ash, heaps of burning refuse, flyers and public notices, huddled heaps that could only be bodies.
Rob heard a million different cries. Mothers weeping. Babies wailing. Men hollering obscenities. Children calling out for their parents. Howling dogs. In the middle of a cobblestone street a lone seagull picked at a fleshly gobbet, and it took wing and screeched when Rob kicked out at it. He was grateful for Henri's fine boots. The sturdy leather soles squelched and slipped in gelid runnels of piss and shit and blood.
At one point when the smell got too bad Rob darted between two houses and vomited. The air reeked as if a thousand bodies had been flayed open and left to putrefy under the sun.
He stepped back onto the street and noticed many people shared his dazed and bewildered expression. Gunfire crackled like firecrackers a few streets away. A lone horse ran down the street, and just before it disappeared from sight its iron-shod hooves threw up a shower of sparks. A group of men cut across the street, waving torches and swords, chanting vulgar songs. Not far away a house that must have been burning inside suddenly wore a crown of flames. The front door blew open and the shutters on two second floor windows flapped open, exposing flickering eyes and a wagging tongue of flame.
A soiled flyer skittered against his feet and he grabbed it when he noticed a map. It seemed to indicate different meeting places for some sort of political organization. Most of the old-fashioned typeface was hard to make out, but he had seen a sign proclaiming the street he was on was rue Saint Martin. The map indicated that if he kept going forward he would reach Pont Notre Dame, and the bridge would carry him onto î'le de la Cité and the cathedral.
Rob made his way down the street, seeing things he hoped he would soon forget.
A horse was drawing a small ornate carriage that contained swirling flames. He caught a glimpse of something dark and man-shaped writhing inside the carriage as it passed by.
A man crossed the street not far ahead of Rob, walking slowly as if out for a stroll. Someone had run the man through with a saber, and a trail of bloody droplets ran steadily off the tip of the blade jutting from the man's back. The man disappeared into a dark, narrow lane.
A group of small boys were kicking a human head back and forth. The head had seen better days. It was leathery and worn.
Beyond them was a bonfire in the middle of the street. Rob's path was blocked by a burly man trying to stuff a cat into a cloth sack. There were half a dozen sacks on the cobblestones, all of them moving.
When Rob gave the man a questioning look he grinned and said, "They are for the fire. A great entertainment!"
Moments later the cats were running free and the burly man was rolling on the ground straining to pull loose the solid wad of cloth that had been forced up his backside.
When Rob reached the small bridge he saw that it was blocked by reeling drunks, cursing soldiers, and two dead horses.
He leaped the Seine and landed in concealing brush. In mid-air he saw the old cathedral in one direction, and in the other a shouting, torch-bearing mob, some mounted and some walking, leaving the island over a much bigger bridge not far from him.
He stepped clear of the bushes. Even though Notre Dame was impossible to miss, he couldn't see much from this angle. He trotted along the rue de la Cité, passing the Palais de Justice on his right and the Hotel Dieu on his left.
Both buildings were little more than prisons now, a room with no privacy from prying eyes in la conciergerie, a wing of the Palais de Justice, having been the last, hopeless residence of Marie Antionette before she was bound and seated in the back of a wagon, the tumbril, for the ride to the Place de la Revolution, and her execution.
As Rob drew closer to the cathedral his pace slowed, and then he just stopped and stared, shoulders slumping. Notre Dame was a disfigured ruin, and Henri was nowhere in sight.
*
What? No!
Pfaltzer stared in disbelief. He could not believe Rob had reached Paris so quickly. It was almost certain that Henri would soon be dead, for Pfaltzer had given him up to a mob outside Hotel Dieu a short time ago, and they had bound the man and propped him up on a horse that would take him to the guillotine. Collison's gold had disappeared into a hundred deep pockets, and all of his papers had been burned. Henri was now on his way to the Place de la Revolution, where his last sight would be the inside of a small wicker basket.
Night may have fallen, Pfaltzer thought, but a metal blade needs no sleep, just a strong arm to raise it. The last of the Collisons will soon be gone forever, but to be safe, I should create a distraction.
He watched without any emotion as a beautiful young woman in a fine dress was accosted by a half-dozen unruly soldiers. She rebuffed them and ran a few feet, before the constraints of her corset left her breathless. The soldiers cursed and gestured in her direction, one of them throwing an empty wine bottle over her head.
L'Ile de la Cité was a breeding ground for unruly mobs. Pfaltzer was now dressed-down in a more bourgeois fashion, his eyepatch plain black cloth. He ignored the soldiers for a moment, striding confidently toward another group of angry men looking for someone upon whom they could vent their rage. Stepping behind them and out of Rob's line of sight, he fell into the angry discussions of these sans-culottes, these men without fancy breeches, and began playing their oppressed brother, stoking their ire.
*
Notre Dame was a lifeless shell. Parisians had raped the Lady, stripping away her finery, entering her in rage and wrath, and desecrating her interior. The Gallery of Kings which had been placed above the cathedral doors had been torn down, carefully crafted stone heads now lying broken at Rob's feet. Stained glass that was both art and sacred object had been shattered and scattered. Even the gargoyles had suffered at the hands of people who saw in Notre Dame a symbol of everything they despised, broken free of their perches and cast down, now they were rubble that crunched underfoot. Every religious symbol had been taken from within and destroyed, the finer things made of gold and silver perhaps sold or hidden away. Small fires had burned throughout the church, died, and sprung up in other vaults and chambers. Western Europe's greatest example of gothic art was a ruin, a shelter for the homeless against the rain, a frequent gathering place for disenchanted crowds, an impromptu marketplace. The cathedral would remain a pathetic ruin for more than fifty years from this day.
*
Rob had no idea what to do next. He searched the faces of those milling around him, seeing neither Henri or Pfaltzer. He did, however, see a pretty young woman being harassed by a dozen men who were dressed in sturdy but simple clothes, clearly middle class.
The woman was wearing a dress that was a frozen cascade of white silk with blue trim, the muted colors shining brightly under the light from several torches. Her hair, which was real and not a wig, and her skin, were cleaner than those of her peers in this era. She stopped short as the men blocked her path and began haranguing her.
"White and blue," one of the men said.
Rob realized with a start that the speaker was Pfaltzer
Pfaltzer gave Rob a wink. "Does the hint of blue show her small devotion to Paris, or does all that white tell us she is a supporter of the King returning, from a visit to a condemned member of the Royal Court pent up in le Palais de Justice?
"No red," another snarled. "If she is loyal to Paris, and France, she should be wearing white, blue and red!"
The woman took exception to their lack of manners in such uninvited speculation. "I am as loyal to France as all of you," she said, "but I do not believe that those who are losing their heads are receiving their due, lest French justice become a jest world-wide. I was bringing bread and water to some forgotten, wretched souls who have been locked away without justification, and now I will proceed to my church and beg The Virgin forgiveness for all our sins."
Most of the men appeared humbled by her words, but they were suddenly emboldened when one letch gripped his genitals through his plain woolen trousers and snarled, "There is a particularly sweet sustenance one so pure as you could give me... and then we could enter Our Lady and atone for our mutual sin together."
The woman stared at the leering men for just a moment, and then slapped the letch with such force he was driven onto one knee. He stood and lashed out at her, and when she fell the silk stockings clinging to her slender legs were exposed for a moment.
Bad move, Rob thought, as the men began encircling her. Rob stepped to her side and took her arm.
"There you are, mademoiselle," he said, helping her to her feet and feigning exasperation. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Are you ready to be escorted home?" He pursed his lips and tried to appear a harmless but resolute fop who was in service of the young woman.
"My name is Robert Collison," Rob whispered. "May I be of service?"
"Sophie Trébuchet," the young woman replied breathlessly. "I seem to have gotten myself into a perilous situation."
"Here's a rare sight indeed," the letch holding his package said, raising his voice. "A nobleman with his neck intact." He produced a large, pitted knife and waved it around. "My friends, perhaps we can arrange to have the lady clothed in white, blue and red after all!"
Rob was aware that the soldiers were now looking their way, and that Henri's clothes made him stand out in this crowd. He was also aware that Pfaltzer had slipped away.
"Gentlemen," Rob said, bowing slightly. "I bid you good night."
He turned and saw the soldiers blocking his path.
"She's a pretty one," said one soldier.
"She appears to have all her teeth," said another.
A third soldier rubbed his chin and spoke quietly. "I for one would like to see further up her dress."
Rob examined his surroundings, not wanting to start a brawl in which the woman might be injured. The only possible safe haven was the ruined cathedral, but if they ran they would never make it to any one of the three wide doorways before being overtaken, and there were curious, shadowed figures lurking in the portals that could be friend or foe. There was only one way out. Straight up.
"Brace yourself, mademoiselle," Rob said. He lifted her in his arms, exactly the way Superman always held Lois Lane.
"What are your intentions, Monsieur?"
Sanctuary. I have to get you to a safe place. Are you afraid of heights?"
"Non," she replied, a nervous quaver in her voice.
"Bon," Rob said. And then he leaped.
==Chapter XIII - Sanctuary==
Legend has it that that when Notre Dame's oldest and largest bell was recast almost one hundred and fifty years earlier, women threw their jewelry into the molten metal, creating a bell that sounded with a clear, unique tone. Public opinion toward Our Lady of Paris would change soon enough, however.
*
Rob put everything he had into his jump, and he soared over a hundred feet into the air. He was aiming for a ledge on the south tower, but he overshot and passed through one of the high narrow windows, grateful that the stained glass had been broken away.
He hit the large bell feet first.
The bell began to swing and Rob began to slide down it, throwing the young woman over his shoulder and bracing his feet against an ornamental lip on the rim of the bell. His fingers bored into the metal as the bell reached the height of its swing. Rob was tilted backward at an uncomfortable angle.
Poor Sophie, still over Rob's shoulder, was looking down into the shadowed depths of the tower. She screamed, discovering that she did indeed have a fear of heights after all, but then the top of this tower was higher than she had ever imagined.
The bell began swinging the other way, Rob and Sophie's weight giving it momentum. He scrambled up the bell's curve and grabbed a stout, soot-blackened beam. He settled Sophie on the beam and then seated himself beside her, just as the bell rang, the massive clapper striking the bell three times.
*
The sound was incredible. The tones were so clear and pleasant that for a moment all of Paris paused to look in the direction of Notre Dame.
At la Place de la Revolution, a man lying on his stomach awaiting the fall of the guillotine blade thought the first peal was a heavenly trumpet calling him up to the eternal kingdom. He would meet his violent death completely at peace.
A cursing, spitting old woman who had crept up onto the killing scaffold was reaching into a basket which was leaking blood. The basket was full of heads. The crone was trying to pull a polished silver comb from the tangled hair of a fourteen year-old girl who had fallen under the blade simply because she had been born into a family with money. When the bell sounded the crone thought it was the earth splitting apart and the time of her damning final judgement had come at last. She had a heart attack and dropped dead. Dirty children's hands reached through a gap in the wooden platform and quickly emptied the pockets in her apron, snatching away all of her purloined goods. It was superstitious horror, not any stirring of human decency, which kept the children from sneaking onto the scaffold and stealing items like the silver comb. They would take what fell, necklaces, brooches, earrings, but they would not touch the heads. The executioner placed one foot against the old woman's wide arse and rolled her off the platform.
Two dogs fighting in an empty street paused to listen to the bell, and then ran off in different directions.
A tired butcher about to slaughter a lamb at the demand of a dozen hungry soldiers with gold in their pockets turned toward the old cathedral, knife in hand. He stared in wonder, entranced by the sound, and the lamb trotted away. The lamb would live an unusually long and blessed life for such a simple animal.
In homes throughout Paris and in farmhouses outside the city crying babies ceased for a moment to listen to the music in the night air.
Rob and Sophie screamed, sure their heads were going to be pulverized by the sound of the bell. Rob put out a foot and steadied the bell. Sophie found this yet another a remarkable feat, because she knew the bell must weigh more than a hundred men.
Sophie sat with her eyes squeezed shut, trying to catch her breath. She asked Rob, "Are you an angel?"
Rob just laughed and shook his head.
A faint noise from below made them look into the depths beyond their dangling feet. There was a staircase in poor condition leading up into the tower. A few soldiers were making their way upward slowly, the distant light of their torches bringing more and more light up to Rob and Sophie.
She turned and got her first really good look at Rob's face in the half dark of the tower. She gasped and put a hand to her breast. "Mon Dieu!"
Rob was surprised she hadn't freaked before now. He got ready to grab her in case she decided to try and jump away from him.
"I saw you taken away, Monsieur."
Rob's gut turned cold. "What?"
"The one-eyed Allemand stirring the crowd below, he turned you over to a mob outside the Hotel Dieu only a short time ago. I saw it with my own eyes! You were beaten and robbed, bound and blindfolded, and put on a horse. I swear it had to be you!"
"He was my... cousin," Rob said. "We all look alike. Do you know where they were taking this man?"
Sophie nodded. She carefully got to her feet and turned to face a broken window. She pointed across the river. "Place Louis XV." She made a face. "Now it is called Place de la Révolution. The statue of the King has been torn down, a guillotine erected in its place. You can see it from here, no? The distant square filled with torches, and upon that which looks like a scaffold, le rasoir nationale."
"How long would it take him to reach the guillotine?"
Sophie shrugged. "At night the streets are less crowded, but there is always a crowd around the restless blade. If your cousin is not there aleady, he is very close."
Rob stood up. "Excuse my familiarity, madamsoille, but I have to leave, and I can't leave you here."
He tossed Sophie over his shoulder again and leaped from the beam to a window opposite the one he had entered. Far below there were no torches, just the roof of the rear of the church, a shadowland of treacherous peaks and angles. Rob spun about and began climbing down the tower, his strong fingers finding purchase on the old, rough-hewn stone. His feet touched down on something that felt like shingles or slate, and he darted to the far end of the church, leaping and sliding with Sophie in his arms.
Soon they were on the ground behind the church, and with one jump Rob cleared the river and set Sophie on her feet.
"You should be safe here," he said. "Go home, and be more careful in the future." He turned, and with high bounding leaps which helped him keep his bearings, Rob raced towards Place de la Révolution.
Pfaltzer would get there first, on a frothing horse, whipping its flanks until they were slick with blood.
The young woman swooned and fell on her behind. She sat on the bank of the Seine and wondered if this was all some strange dream.
Sophie Trébuchet never forgot that night, and often dreamed of the mysterious man who saved her life by sweeping her up into the bell tower of Notre Dame. Few ever believed her story, even though the days of the Terror were made up of one incredible and macabre sight after another, but she told the tale every chance she got. She would continue to tell the story her whole life, telling her future husband, Joseph-Léopold-Sigisbert Hugo, and all of her children, including her third son, a boy named Victor. Victor would find it inspirational, and would always regard Notre Dame as a place of wonder. Indeed, one of his tales, set in Our Lady, would inspire the rebirth of that landmark half a century after the Revolution.
User Reviews
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-08-03 12:11:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Supreme Overlord damage control...
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2005-07-21 22:26:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
shite
Submitted by HZRD (user info) at 2005-02-15 16:14:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
seriously, if you don't sell this to Marvel or DC, or get someone to create the art for it and sell it independently, i will and i will laugh as i count your money. of course, then you could go back in time and steal it. shit!
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-15 12:40:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Glad everyone is enjoying this.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-02-15 09:55:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
and of course a +2 for you
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-15 03:58:12 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
yawn.
Submitted by EatMeCompletely (user info) at 2005-02-14 16:51:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Have to rate again. Must cause others to read the fucking series. Lazy bastards.
Submitted by tlozoot (user info) at 2005-02-14 16:46:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Hmm... yes.
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-02-14 16:38:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-02-14 16:24:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"Moments later the cats were running free and the burly man was rolling on the ground straining to pull loose the solid wad of cloth that had been forced up his backside."
Ouch!
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-02-14 15:37:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by ess-arr (user info) at 2005-02-14 15:26:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
good 'ol revolution place, good times, good times.
Submitted by Adjomak (user info) at 2005-02-14 15:03:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Huh, I knew there was more to the Hunchback of Notre Dame than that.
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2005-02-14 14:24:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
The best in the series thus far.
Submitted by knucklesnelson (user info) at 2005-02-14 14:20:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-02-14 14:15:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
great as usual the only part I didn't like was the mention of the impending ending.
Submitted by EatMeCompletely (user info) at 2005-02-14 14:12:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
YES!