Battlesaurus (20 page)

Monsieur Lejeune turns, a little surprised to find Willem standing right behind them.

“Willem, what is that bull-brained son of mine up to?” he asks.

“I really cannot say, sir,” Willem says.

“Willem,” Father Ambroise says, “have Jean and Fran
ç
ois gone to Brussels to warn the duke?”

Willem turns red, and is silent, unable to lie to his priest.

“Willem?”

“They left this morning,” Willem says.

“Idiots!” Monsieur Claude shouts, staring at Willem as if it is his fault.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Willem says. “It was their idea and their decision.”

“But you could have told us what they were doing, and you chose not to,” Father Ambroise says.

“There will be retributions,” Monsieur Claude says. “No one in the village will be safe!”

Especially not the mayor
, Willem thinks.

“What time did they leave?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.

“Straight after the meeting,” Willem says.

“Idiots!” Monsieur Claude shouts again.

“We will not catch them,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “They have many hours' head start on us, and nobody knows the forest better than Fran
ç
ois.”

“This is treachery,” Monsieur Claude says.

“Calm yourself,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

“It is a crime, and they will be made to pay,” Monsieur Claude says. “They will be arrested and put to trial, as soon as they return.” He is also the town magistrate and Willem thinks that the result of such a trial has already been decided.

“There is no need for a trial,” Father Ambroise says.

“It is our only hope,” Monsieur Claude says. “If we punish the crime ourselves, we may deflect the anger of the French. We must show that we do not condone these actions.”

He looks at Willem. “This one also, for aiding the criminals.”

*   *   *

The first glimpse Jean and Fran
ç
ois get of the abbey is through a gap in the trees where a huge oak has fallen, taking several smaller, younger trees with it. An old bell tower, its top fractured and jagged, juts above the forest canopy.

It is impossible to tell how tall the tower once stood, but even now, crumbling back into the earth, it still soars above the forest around it.

“I remember this place,” Jean says.

“We came here once before,” Fran
ç
ois says. “When we were children.”

“We were on a bear hunt, I think,” Jean says.

“Lucky we didn't find one.” Fran
ç
ois laughs.

“Lucky for the bear,” Jean says.

“I will always treasure those days,” Fran
ç
ois says.

Jean looks at him oddly, then shrugs. “Life was simpler then,” he agrees. His nose wrinkles and his smile fades. “Do you smell that?”

“Cooking fires,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“I think the abbey is not as deserted as it once was,” Jean says.

“You think it is the French soldiers?” Fran
ç
ois asks.

“I doubt that it is the ghost of the abbot,” Jean says. He looks around at the thick, dense bush and closely packed trees. “We could move into the forest, but it would mean hacking a trail,” he says. “However, if we stay on the path, then we may run into one of their patrols.”

“It is my fault,” Fran
ç
ois says. “It was my idea to come this way. I'm sorry, cousin.”

“It is no matter,” Jean says.

“If we return now we can be back before dark,” Fran
ç
ois says. “Tomorrow we can take the longer path, toward Waterloo and around the outskirts of the forest.”

“No. We have come too far to turn back,” Jean says. “We will proceed, but with greatest care. If we encounter a patrol, and cannot hide from them, we will protest our innocence. We took a wrong turn and are lost in the forest.”

“And if they do not accept our deceit?” Fran
ç
ois asks.

“Then we shall convince them,” Jean says, putting a hand to the stock of his crossbow.

“We should turn back,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“What, cousin, you are afraid of a few French dandies?” Jean asks.

“I fear nothing,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“Then lead the way,” Jean says.

They reach a stream that crosses the path, creating a small ford. It flows from a clearing created by a rocky plateau and there they see the decaying glory of the abbey in full for the first time. It sits atop a hill, rising up out of the forest that surrounds it like a saur emerging from an egg. A thin line of water glints down the face of the hill, a natural spring giving birth to the stream that flows across in front of them.

The walls of the abbey still stand, and in one place, where it had collapsed, there are repairs. The gates look new, and stand firmly in a great stone arch, tall enough for even a dinosaur to enter. The stone of the walls is mottled green with moss and creeping vines, and the tops of the walls are rounded, weathered by the centuries.

Behind the ancient walls rise steep roofs, most of them newly thatched. The windows of the outside wall are tall and narrow, giving the appearance of battlements.

On either side of the main gate are statues, now gray and green with lichen, but still intact. To the left is the Virgin Mary, her arms enfolded in her robes, spread out in supplication. To the right is Christ in a crown of thorns, his head bowed in agony.

As they look, there comes a bellow from the direction of the abbey. It sounds distant and echoes hollowly, as though in a dungeon or a cave.

Fran
ç
ois and Jean look at each other. No words are necessary. They know that sound.

Napol
é
on has another dinosaur.

Fran
ç
ois turns his head quickly at another sound. This one from the pathway.

“Someone comes,” he says.

They scan the forest around them. The rocky clearing is of no use for concealment. It is a flat plateau of shale-like rock. The other side of the path is a dense alluvial thicket of alder and dogwood, but it is their only choice. Jean pushes into a tangle of roots, brush, and vines, spreading the branches of a thorny bush and finding a gap at its base. He drops down into it, holding back the branches until Fran
ç
ois slides in beside him. Behind them is the sound of gentle water: the stream that runs from the abbey.

They hear more sounds now, the steady tramp of heavy boots and something else: a scratching, slithering sound interspersed with a strange rattle.

“What is that?” Fran
ç
ois asks, but Jean just puts a finger to his lips. Whatever it is, it is close now. They hear breathing: the rough, raw panting of an animal, with a small, inward whistle as it inhales.

A smell comes to them, like the sulfurous stench of an unemptied bedpan or the bitter-rotten perfume of gangrenous flesh.

Fran
ç
ois crosses himself, daring to make only the smallest movement with his index finger on his chest. Jean swallows repeatedly, trying to rid himself of a sudden metallic taste in his mouth. He reaches for the stock of his crossbow and lets his hand rest there. Something crawls across the back of his legs, a sensation that would normally have him jumping and twisting around, but he ignores it. Snake, spider, or rat, it concerns him less than what approaches down the forest path.

“It is not of this world,” Fran
ç
ois says in a voice that barely disturbs the air.

He is wrong. It is of this world, just not of the known world. A creature surely from the New World, the Amerigo Islands.

The hands of the creature are the first thing they see, through small gaps in the mesh of plants and twigs that shelter them.

Each hand has three long, bony fingers, jointed like a human hand, but ending in a vicious hooked claw. The arms come into view. They are long and skeletal with sharp elbows. The hide of the creature is ridged and muscular, as a human being would look without its skin, but not red; rather it is the charcoal black of old burnt wood.

The creature is the size of a large goat. Its snout is short and its mouth is open, revealing two rows of sharp, yellow teeth. The one eye they can see is red, and seems to glow against the dark of its body.

Sweeping back from its head are spines, and similar spines, but much longer, protrude from its back. Its hind legs have hocks like those of a horse. Its tail is long and ends in another cluster of spines. Such a creature surely cannot exist outside of a nightmare, and yet it walks in front of them, shackled by a leash fastened to a leather collar around its neck.

It passes in front of them and twitches its head to one side, examining the bushes where Jean and Fran
ç
ois lie. It seems to sense them concealed in the bush and starts to move in their direction, but a whip cracks behind it and the creature recoils from a sting on its left flank. It moves on, followed closely by a soldier.

“Surely this is the face of the devil himself,” Fran
ç
ois whispers.

“It is just a saur,” Jean says, but he doesn't sound convinced.

A second of the creatures follows, with its own handler. It also stops, sensing something in the bush.

Jean and Fran
ç
ois wait, hoping this one too will move on. But this time there is no crack of a whip. Instead, with a sudden movement, the head of the creature bursts through the vines and creepers that hide them. Its yellow teeth snap together, just centimeters from Jean's face.

Jean and Fran
ç
ois recoil from the snout and the evil yellow teeth. It hisses, spraying them with saliva.

It is only one short lunge away, but the leash has snagged in the thorny thicket. Jean and Fran
ç
ois scramble backward on their hands and knees, desperate to get away from this abhorrent thing. It thrashes and shakes as it tries to reach them but only succeeds in tangling itself further.

Muskets fire on the other side of the thicket and lead balls rip holes in the thin branches. Leaves jump and wood chips fly.

Jean and Fran
ç
ois emerge into dense forest, jumping up and running without thought or direction. The sound of the water beckons and Jean leads the way to it as shouts come from behind them and they hear knives slashing at the thicket.

They stumble and splash into the stream but have gone only a few steps when Jean catches Fran
ç
ois by the arm and points back upstream.

“This way!” he says.

“But that takes us back toward the abbey,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“Which is why they will search downstream,” Jean says.

“No … but…” Fran
ç
ois freezes, panicked, unable to move.

The sound of the creatures is closer now.

“God is telling me to go this way,” Jean says.

Confused and stumbling, Fran
ç
ois follows him, copying his movements, both sliding their feet through the water to avoid making sounds.

They are just around a bend when they hear splashing from where they entered the stream, along with snarls and rattles from the creatures and more shouts from the men.

Jean and Fran
ç
ois continue upstream but stop as the stream reaches the path they were on a few moments before.

Ahead at the monastery, they see men in peasant smocks, with muskets, pouring out through the gates in the great archway.

They stop, unable to go forward or backward.

“What do we do?” Fran
ç
ois asks. “What can we do?”

Then, from the west, comes the roar of cannonfire.

 

BRUSSELS

“What is wrong?” Willem's mother asks. She knows him well and although he has done his best to hide his distress, she can sense it.

The dismantling of the dinosaur carcass is finished and Willem has come home to try to wash the stink of blood and meat from his clothes and body.

His mother is baking. No baking was done the previous day, and the village needs its bread. Her hands are covered in flour and her apron is streaked with dough.

Willem stares at the floor.

“Jean and Fran
ç
ois have gone to tell the British about the dinosaur,” he says.

“At least someone in this village has a backbone,” his mother says.

“The mayor has found out. He will put the cousins on trial to convince Napol
é
on that the village had no part in it.”

“It will be a sham,” his mother says. “But do not concern yourself. The mayor is a fool. I will make him see reason.”

“He blames me for helping them,” Willem says. “I too will face trial.”

“Not when I have finished with him,” his mother says. “You are the hero of the village after last night. The people will not let you be put on trial.” She pauses, then smiles. “But if I ever see you approach a dinosaur like that again, I will kill you myself.”

“Yes, Mother,” Willem says. At that moment he hates himself. That his mother would use her relationship with the mayor to save him is bad enough. That he wants her to do it is much worse.

“Do not let this sham trial concern you,” she says. “There is something else I want to talk to you about.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You know that Monsieur Delvaux is at Madame Gertruda's while he recovers,” she says.

Willem nods.

“That leaves Cosette alone in her house,” she says. “It is not good for her to be on her own. She has suffered greatly in the last few weeks.”

“More than anyone should have to bear,” Willem says.

“Perhaps she would like to live with us for a while,” his mother says. “We have plenty of space, and ample food.”