(I don't own them, but, damn, I sure wish I did. Dem boys are cute!)
NOTE: This is the first story in a series called The Others. I invite and welcome comments.
The Others: Whispers in the Dark
by the Chronicler
Chapter One
Whispers...
whispering....
somewhere....
something....
someone....
What....
Who....
"HELP ME!"
Jules Verne shot up with such force that he threw himself out of his chair and landed with a rather painful thud on the cold floor. He laid where he landed for a long moment, his mind momentarily frozen with fear. Then, seeing the room around him for the first time, he took a deep, shaky breath, calming himself. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and ran shaking hands through his hair.
"Again." he mumbled to himself. Again, no matter how he resisted, he had fallen asleep. Again the whispers had invaded his dreams. Again the dream had ended with the screamed "HELP ME!" And, again, he ended up on the floor.
He twisted his arm which he had landed on... again. His shoulder was turning a pale blue, a bruise was forming.
Great! Not like he didn't have enough worries. League of Darkness; Count Gregory; flashes of the future; lack of sleep; when he could sleep, dreams filled with maddening whispers; and, now, he had to hide a bruise.
"Damn." the young frenchman swore, a rather uncharacteristic thing for him to say. But lack of sleep tended to do that to a man.
Phileas had already put off taking his guest back home to Paris. The man never missed anything! Particularly when it came to Jules Verne, who he had taken unto himself to make his ward. He had spent the last couple of days close to the writer, watching every little move he made. And when he, himself, couldn't be there, his ever loyal valet, Passpartout, took his place.
Jules found that the only time he wasn't watched was when he was in his room, pretending to be working on this or that. And, even then, he often heard one or the other walk pass the door of his room, pause, and listen for any trouble.
A time or two, one of the men had asked him if he was alright, what was bothering him. And, when he had assured them that he was fine, nothing was wrong, they gave him that look that was their way of telling him that they didn't believe him. They didn't push him for an answer. But they weren't about to let him out from under their protection until they knew what was going on.
Phileas Fogg was a man of limited patients. And, Jules knew, he had been pressing on those limits.
And now he had a bruise.
Normally, a bruise would be such a trivial little thing... but, the way the two men had been hovering over him... Phileas was going to demand an explanation if he found out about it.
If he found out about it.
Jules sighed, climbing to his feet. He hated lying. He hated keeping secrets from his friends, particularly when he knew how much it worried them. But he had to. He didn't really know why. He just didn't want them to know. Visions of the future popping in and out of his head all the time was troublesome enough... and now the whispers.
A soft knock on the door brought him out of his own thoughts.
"Just a moment." he hurriedly answered, snatching up his shirt and pulling it on. He took a moment to make sure the bruise was safely concealed, before answering the door.
To his surprise, it wasn't either Phileas nor Passpartout checking up on him once again. It was Rebecca Fogg who had spent the last two weeks away on some mission or other. She smiled warmly at him, her brilliant green eyes sparkling almost mischievously (not that they had ever sparkled with anything else; even in the darkest of times when even her stout cousin Phileas hesitated, she had that sparkle that told everyone that she was not truly happy unless she was in the thick of it). "Hello, Jules." she greeted.
"Rebecca! You're back!" Jules smiled. For the first time in days he didn't need to fake it. Rebecca was always a sight to smile at. And, even better, always and ally when he had to butt heads with Phileas. Jules wondered if it was due to her fondness for the under dog... which, when it came to going up against the over powering, all consuming Phileas Fogg, the writer was most definitely the under dog.
"So, it would seem." she answered, a little tease in her tone. The beautiful red head stepped passed him and into the room, not waiting for an invitation. She glided around the room, taking in every little detail. Usually when she had been gone for a day or two, she would return to find the room littered with new drawings and stories. Rebecca had been gone for two weeks and there was only a handful of half finished bits laying around. She paused beside the bed, which she noted had not been slept in. her gaze drifted to the chair at the desk which laid on it side on the floor. Then she turned and looked at her young friend. She frowned at what she saw.
Jules Verne looked haggard. Dark circles under the bleary, brown eyes; soft brown curls going this way and that; clothing wrinkled... she couldn't be sure since his shirt hung loose, but Rebecca thought that the already too light youngster had lost weight. None of this pleased Rebecca in the least.
Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Jules began to fidget. "Was there something I could do for you?" he asked when he could take it no more.
"Yes, there is." Rebecca stepped up to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Come join us for breakfast. passpartout has worked all morning to fill the table with every goody you can think of." Again she smile, an expression she was sure could bend the boy's will until he was willing to do anything for her.
Jules hesitated. She wasn't sounding very much on his side. In fact, she was sounding very much like Phileas, trying to get to his secrets with friendliness. Of course she would. Phileas and rebecca were two sides of the same coin: both Foggs. "I'm... I'm not really dressed..."
"Well, get dressed." she encouraged. "I'll wait just outside."
That didn't work. "But, I'm not really hungry..."
"Don't be ridicules, Jules." Rebecca reprimanded. "Of course you are hungry. You didn't eat a thing yesterday."
Ah... she has already talked to Passpartout and Phileas. Jules sighed, dropping his chin to his chest. he could avoid one Fogg, even a Fogg and his valet... but two Foggs... Jules Verne really wanted to go home!
Seeing her win, Rebecca smiled, stepped passed him and out of the room, closing the door behind her.
**********
Phileas Fogg glanced over the top of his paper at the sound of yet another platter being set on the table before him. With an exasperated sigh, he folded the paper and set it on the plate. "Really, Passpartout, we want him to eat... not gorge himself to death." he reprimanded.
Passpartout paused, looking over the food laden table. He had nearly every breakfast treat he could think of from recipes from nearly half the world... anything and everything he thought might tempt the boy into eating. Or, in the very least, feel guilty enough for all the work Passpartout had gone to to open up and tell them what was going on.
The valet frowned, lines of worry creasing his brow.
Phileas sighed again, this time more sympathetic. After all, he too was worried about the boy. Of course, when he was worried, he didn't spend all night in the kitchen, cooking up a feast that would make the queen herself blush.
"Good morning, gentlemen." Rebecca sang as, arm locked securely around Jules' arm, she maneuvered the subject of everyone's concern into the room.
Young Jules Verne did not look happy.
"Ah, Rebecca, Verne. Happy to see that you finally decide to join us... before the table collapsed under the weight of Passpartout's attentions." Phileas stood and pulled a chair out for his cousin, who left Jules side and moved to take her seat. As Phileas pushed the chair in for her, he glanced over his shoulder.
Jules remained where Rebecca had left him, looking reluctant to step any further into the room.
Phileas resisted the urge to snap at him. He didn't know what was wrong with the child, but he knew snapping at him would not help in the least. Thus, as he moved back to his own seat, he waved a hand to the chair to his right, across from Rebecca. "Join us, Verne." he encouraged.
Jules, once again, hesitated.
Oh, to bloody hell with this! "Oh, really now, Verne! Sit down!" Phileas snapped.
Rebecca glared at her cousin, but, had to admit, he had the desire effect.
The boy snapped to and hurried to take the indicated seat.
Passpartout was quick to come up behind him with a platter of ham. "It is a good morning, yes, Mister Jules?" he greeted, dishing him out three huge slices of ham, followed be nearly an entire nest full of scrambled eggs.
Jules nodded slightly. "A good morning, Passpartout. Thank you." He held up a hand, trying to discourage the valet from piling any more food before him, but, apparently, Passpartout took the motion as to mean enough eggs, now for the crepes. Jules sighed.
"Slept well?" Phileas asked, laying a napkin over his lap.
Again Jules nodded.
Rebecca sipped at the tea that had been waiting for her. "Really?" Her sharp eyes gleamed over the rim of her cup, watching Jules as a hawk might watch a mouse. "I did not realize that was possible sitting up right in a chair."
Phileas frowned.
But Jules tried to joke away their concerns with "Well, it was more leaned over on the desk."
Phileas was not amused. His eyes narrowed. "I must remember that that is what you prefer with your next visit. The servants won't have to bother with making ready your room."
Again his cousin glared at him.
Phileas ignored her. Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the real topic of the morning. "So, Verne, are you going to let us in on what is bothering you? Or are you going to continue to make us guess?"
"And worry." Passpartout added, laying toast on the pile of food on Jules plate, before, finally, moving on to serve his master.
Jules glanced up at his fellow frenchman. "You don't need to worry about me, Passpartout." Once more the I-don't-believe-you look. Jules turned to his host. "Really, Fogg, there is nothing wrong." he assured, though, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't meet those see-everything eyes of Phileas Fogg.
For the first time, Phileas didn't allow it to be left at that. "Jules Verne, for a man with such an unlimited imagination, you are a terrible lier." he observed, then calmly took a bite of his eggs. "By the way: eat!" It was an order, not a suggestion. Phileas Fogg was done with being patient.
Jules sent a pleading look in Rebecca's direction. But she simply smiled, saying "It is really quite delicious. Passpartout has out done himself this morning."
Passpartout beamed.
The young writer frowned, falling back against the back of his chair. Whether it was lack of sleep or the whispering or something else, the sight of food was, in the least, unappetizing. At the most, sick to his stomach. He did not want to eat!
After a silent moment, Phileas leaned forward. "I truly dislike having to repeat myself." he warned, his tone low and dangerous.
Jules glanced at him again, wondering if he realized he was threatening him in order to protect him. With a sigh, he picked up a dry piece of toast and proceeded to nibble at it.
Satisfied, at least for now, Phileas turned his attention to his cousin. "What I would like to know is why it is such a secret." he wondered. "Have we done something to fail his trust in us?"
Jules eyes widened. He really didn't mean to cause his friends any stress. It hurt him dearly that he caused them even the slightest bother what-so-ever. But he just couldn't to tell them either. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't. He hid himself behind another nibble of toast.
Phileas continued, watching the boy from the corner of his eye. "You must hear the racket he causes all night long... pacing the floor of his room until I fear he will dig himself right through to the den below."
Rebecca smiled at the act her cousin was putting on. He was much better at shaking the truth out of someone than trying to guilt it out of them.
Jules leaned forward. "I can go back to Paris." he suggested hurriedly. "I won't be a bother then."
"Of course you would be." Phileas waved away the suggestion.
"Who would watch to be sure Mister Jules had good food?" Passpartout offered as a way of an extension on his master's answer.
"I will not deliver you to that tiny little garret you insist on calling home in worse condition than I picked you up in." Phileas announced, determined to put an end to that suggestion.
But, even mild mannered Jules Verne had a limit to his patients.
To everyone's surprise, including his own, he jumped to his feet. "Fine! I will take a ship back!"
"Don't be ridicules, Verne." Phileas snapped, looking up at the boy. "Sit down and talk to us!"
"There is nothing to talk about." The frustrated frenchman waved a hand in the air. "How many times do I have to say it? What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?" he cried.
"Jules, dear..." Rebecca started, hoping to calm the situation before things got out of hand. "We are only trying to help..."
"I don't need nor want your help!" Jules snapped.
Startled, Rebecca did something she rarely, if ever, did. She clamped her mouth closed, a hurt expression momentarily crossing her face.
That was enough for Phileas Fogg. Slapping his napkin down on the table, he rose to his feet in rage. "I said SIT DOWN!" he roared.
Any sensible man would of done anything to avoid Fogg's wraith Even Passpartout, who trusted his master impeccably, stepped back.
But Jules wasn't feeling very sensible. In fact, the damn whispers in his head had him feeling damn close to out of his mind! And Phileas was not helping the matter! Growling, he announced "I will not!" He started for the nearest exit.
Fogg was not to be walked away from.
He stepped away from the table after his young, obstinate guest.
"Phileas... " Rebecca hurried to her feet, suddenly fearful of what her cousin might do.
Phileas grabbed the boy's arm and yanked him around to face him.
"Ow!" Jules gasped.
Phileas stopped. He looked at the spot where his hand held Jules' arm just below the shoulder. He knew his grip wasn't tight enough to cause pain. So, what had?
He looked up at Jules' doe soft brown eyes. They were wide with fear... fear of him? fear of staying? fear of discovery? What the hell was going on here?
He released the arm and stepped back. "What happened to your arm?" he wanted to know. Though his tone was no longer enraged, it was still demanding.
Jules locked glares. "I fell." Truth.
"How?"
"I fell out of my chair." Truth.
"Pray tell, Verne: how does someone fall out of a chair?" Phileas arms crossed over his chest, waiting for an answer.
Jules eyes dropped. He wanted to tell hem. He really wanted to tell them... but he couldn't. He wouldn't. The whispers...
He frowned. He was awake. Why was he hearing the whispers now? His eyes searched the floor before him as if it might offer some form of an answer. If only he could understand them... if only he could tell Fogg and the others... if only...
"Verne?"
As if suddenly realizing that there were other people in the room, Jules head snapped up to look at Fogg, his eyes filled with confusion. He tilted his head to one side and blinked up at the man.
Phileas Fogg stared back. "What happened?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned. He reached out a gently took the boy's arm to steady him as he began to sway.
"Fogg?" Jules mumbled. "I want to tell you..." he confessed.
"So, tell me." Phileas encouraged.
Jules shook his head, his eyes drifting away. The whispering was getting louder... just like in the dreams. "I want to... I can't." he breathed.
Rebecca appeared out of nowhere. "Why, Jules?" she wondered
The writer's eyes closed. The whispers were getting louder and louder, but still too far away to be understood. They were getting in the way of thinking. Again he shook his head, reaching up to tap his forehead. "The whispers... " he finally breathed. "I can't. The whispers.... I can't." Suddenly the scream came, vibrating through his head like the bells of Notre-Dame: "HELP ME!"
Cupping his hands over his ears, Jules dropped to his knees, bowing over until his head rested on the floor. He stayed still for a what seemed a long time, his mind momentarily frozen with fear. Then, recognizing the room around him once again, he took a shaky breath, calming himself. Hesitantly, he looked up to try and re-farmilarize himself with his surroundings. It was then that he realized that his head was resting not on the floor but on Rebecca's knees.
She knelt before him, gently rubbing one hand over his back, while the other rested on the back of his head.
Phileas was down on one knee beside her, frowning in a most displeased way.
Sitting up, he looked from one to the other, then looked away. He ran his fingers through his hair. Well, so much for keeping it a secret.
Passpartout handing Rebecca a glass of water, who took it and held it out to Jules. When he took it and began to sip at the cool, refreshing liquid, Rebecca brushed his curls away from his eyes. "You're shaking. Are you alright, Jules?" she finally asked.
With eye still averted, he nodded.
"What happened?" Phileas asked the question that everyone was waiting for. "What whispers?"
Jules Verne looked up at him. "I... they come in my dreams, with the visions." he breathed. He let his breath out as if sudden relieved with being able to tell. He set the glass down on his knees. "I don't know what they're saying. I can't hear them clearly. Except..." He paused.
"Except what?" Rebecca encouraged him to continue.
"The last... someone screams for help." Again he looked from one to another. "I... I don't understand. It's almost as if someone is using the visions to contact me... but... who?"
Passpartout spoke up. "Others?" he asked.
Jules, Phileas, and rebecca all looked up at him.
Passpartout shrugged. "If there be one Mister Jules who sees what can be, why can't there be others?"
NOTE: This is the first story in a series called The Others. I invite and welcome comments.
The Others: Whispers in the Dark
by the Chronicler
Chapter One
Whispers...
whispering....
somewhere....
something....
someone....
What....
Who....
"HELP ME!"
Jules Verne shot up with such force that he threw himself out of his chair and landed with a rather painful thud on the cold floor. He laid where he landed for a long moment, his mind momentarily frozen with fear. Then, seeing the room around him for the first time, he took a deep, shaky breath, calming himself. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and ran shaking hands through his hair.
"Again." he mumbled to himself. Again, no matter how he resisted, he had fallen asleep. Again the whispers had invaded his dreams. Again the dream had ended with the screamed "HELP ME!" And, again, he ended up on the floor.
He twisted his arm which he had landed on... again. His shoulder was turning a pale blue, a bruise was forming.
Great! Not like he didn't have enough worries. League of Darkness; Count Gregory; flashes of the future; lack of sleep; when he could sleep, dreams filled with maddening whispers; and, now, he had to hide a bruise.
"Damn." the young frenchman swore, a rather uncharacteristic thing for him to say. But lack of sleep tended to do that to a man.
Phileas had already put off taking his guest back home to Paris. The man never missed anything! Particularly when it came to Jules Verne, who he had taken unto himself to make his ward. He had spent the last couple of days close to the writer, watching every little move he made. And when he, himself, couldn't be there, his ever loyal valet, Passpartout, took his place.
Jules found that the only time he wasn't watched was when he was in his room, pretending to be working on this or that. And, even then, he often heard one or the other walk pass the door of his room, pause, and listen for any trouble.
A time or two, one of the men had asked him if he was alright, what was bothering him. And, when he had assured them that he was fine, nothing was wrong, they gave him that look that was their way of telling him that they didn't believe him. They didn't push him for an answer. But they weren't about to let him out from under their protection until they knew what was going on.
Phileas Fogg was a man of limited patients. And, Jules knew, he had been pressing on those limits.
And now he had a bruise.
Normally, a bruise would be such a trivial little thing... but, the way the two men had been hovering over him... Phileas was going to demand an explanation if he found out about it.
If he found out about it.
Jules sighed, climbing to his feet. He hated lying. He hated keeping secrets from his friends, particularly when he knew how much it worried them. But he had to. He didn't really know why. He just didn't want them to know. Visions of the future popping in and out of his head all the time was troublesome enough... and now the whispers.
A soft knock on the door brought him out of his own thoughts.
"Just a moment." he hurriedly answered, snatching up his shirt and pulling it on. He took a moment to make sure the bruise was safely concealed, before answering the door.
To his surprise, it wasn't either Phileas nor Passpartout checking up on him once again. It was Rebecca Fogg who had spent the last two weeks away on some mission or other. She smiled warmly at him, her brilliant green eyes sparkling almost mischievously (not that they had ever sparkled with anything else; even in the darkest of times when even her stout cousin Phileas hesitated, she had that sparkle that told everyone that she was not truly happy unless she was in the thick of it). "Hello, Jules." she greeted.
"Rebecca! You're back!" Jules smiled. For the first time in days he didn't need to fake it. Rebecca was always a sight to smile at. And, even better, always and ally when he had to butt heads with Phileas. Jules wondered if it was due to her fondness for the under dog... which, when it came to going up against the over powering, all consuming Phileas Fogg, the writer was most definitely the under dog.
"So, it would seem." she answered, a little tease in her tone. The beautiful red head stepped passed him and into the room, not waiting for an invitation. She glided around the room, taking in every little detail. Usually when she had been gone for a day or two, she would return to find the room littered with new drawings and stories. Rebecca had been gone for two weeks and there was only a handful of half finished bits laying around. She paused beside the bed, which she noted had not been slept in. her gaze drifted to the chair at the desk which laid on it side on the floor. Then she turned and looked at her young friend. She frowned at what she saw.
Jules Verne looked haggard. Dark circles under the bleary, brown eyes; soft brown curls going this way and that; clothing wrinkled... she couldn't be sure since his shirt hung loose, but Rebecca thought that the already too light youngster had lost weight. None of this pleased Rebecca in the least.
Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Jules began to fidget. "Was there something I could do for you?" he asked when he could take it no more.
"Yes, there is." Rebecca stepped up to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Come join us for breakfast. passpartout has worked all morning to fill the table with every goody you can think of." Again she smile, an expression she was sure could bend the boy's will until he was willing to do anything for her.
Jules hesitated. She wasn't sounding very much on his side. In fact, she was sounding very much like Phileas, trying to get to his secrets with friendliness. Of course she would. Phileas and rebecca were two sides of the same coin: both Foggs. "I'm... I'm not really dressed..."
"Well, get dressed." she encouraged. "I'll wait just outside."
That didn't work. "But, I'm not really hungry..."
"Don't be ridicules, Jules." Rebecca reprimanded. "Of course you are hungry. You didn't eat a thing yesterday."
Ah... she has already talked to Passpartout and Phileas. Jules sighed, dropping his chin to his chest. he could avoid one Fogg, even a Fogg and his valet... but two Foggs... Jules Verne really wanted to go home!
Seeing her win, Rebecca smiled, stepped passed him and out of the room, closing the door behind her.
**********
Phileas Fogg glanced over the top of his paper at the sound of yet another platter being set on the table before him. With an exasperated sigh, he folded the paper and set it on the plate. "Really, Passpartout, we want him to eat... not gorge himself to death." he reprimanded.
Passpartout paused, looking over the food laden table. He had nearly every breakfast treat he could think of from recipes from nearly half the world... anything and everything he thought might tempt the boy into eating. Or, in the very least, feel guilty enough for all the work Passpartout had gone to to open up and tell them what was going on.
The valet frowned, lines of worry creasing his brow.
Phileas sighed again, this time more sympathetic. After all, he too was worried about the boy. Of course, when he was worried, he didn't spend all night in the kitchen, cooking up a feast that would make the queen herself blush.
"Good morning, gentlemen." Rebecca sang as, arm locked securely around Jules' arm, she maneuvered the subject of everyone's concern into the room.
Young Jules Verne did not look happy.
"Ah, Rebecca, Verne. Happy to see that you finally decide to join us... before the table collapsed under the weight of Passpartout's attentions." Phileas stood and pulled a chair out for his cousin, who left Jules side and moved to take her seat. As Phileas pushed the chair in for her, he glanced over his shoulder.
Jules remained where Rebecca had left him, looking reluctant to step any further into the room.
Phileas resisted the urge to snap at him. He didn't know what was wrong with the child, but he knew snapping at him would not help in the least. Thus, as he moved back to his own seat, he waved a hand to the chair to his right, across from Rebecca. "Join us, Verne." he encouraged.
Jules, once again, hesitated.
Oh, to bloody hell with this! "Oh, really now, Verne! Sit down!" Phileas snapped.
Rebecca glared at her cousin, but, had to admit, he had the desire effect.
The boy snapped to and hurried to take the indicated seat.
Passpartout was quick to come up behind him with a platter of ham. "It is a good morning, yes, Mister Jules?" he greeted, dishing him out three huge slices of ham, followed be nearly an entire nest full of scrambled eggs.
Jules nodded slightly. "A good morning, Passpartout. Thank you." He held up a hand, trying to discourage the valet from piling any more food before him, but, apparently, Passpartout took the motion as to mean enough eggs, now for the crepes. Jules sighed.
"Slept well?" Phileas asked, laying a napkin over his lap.
Again Jules nodded.
Rebecca sipped at the tea that had been waiting for her. "Really?" Her sharp eyes gleamed over the rim of her cup, watching Jules as a hawk might watch a mouse. "I did not realize that was possible sitting up right in a chair."
Phileas frowned.
But Jules tried to joke away their concerns with "Well, it was more leaned over on the desk."
Phileas was not amused. His eyes narrowed. "I must remember that that is what you prefer with your next visit. The servants won't have to bother with making ready your room."
Again his cousin glared at him.
Phileas ignored her. Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the real topic of the morning. "So, Verne, are you going to let us in on what is bothering you? Or are you going to continue to make us guess?"
"And worry." Passpartout added, laying toast on the pile of food on Jules plate, before, finally, moving on to serve his master.
Jules glanced up at his fellow frenchman. "You don't need to worry about me, Passpartout." Once more the I-don't-believe-you look. Jules turned to his host. "Really, Fogg, there is nothing wrong." he assured, though, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't meet those see-everything eyes of Phileas Fogg.
For the first time, Phileas didn't allow it to be left at that. "Jules Verne, for a man with such an unlimited imagination, you are a terrible lier." he observed, then calmly took a bite of his eggs. "By the way: eat!" It was an order, not a suggestion. Phileas Fogg was done with being patient.
Jules sent a pleading look in Rebecca's direction. But she simply smiled, saying "It is really quite delicious. Passpartout has out done himself this morning."
Passpartout beamed.
The young writer frowned, falling back against the back of his chair. Whether it was lack of sleep or the whispering or something else, the sight of food was, in the least, unappetizing. At the most, sick to his stomach. He did not want to eat!
After a silent moment, Phileas leaned forward. "I truly dislike having to repeat myself." he warned, his tone low and dangerous.
Jules glanced at him again, wondering if he realized he was threatening him in order to protect him. With a sigh, he picked up a dry piece of toast and proceeded to nibble at it.
Satisfied, at least for now, Phileas turned his attention to his cousin. "What I would like to know is why it is such a secret." he wondered. "Have we done something to fail his trust in us?"
Jules eyes widened. He really didn't mean to cause his friends any stress. It hurt him dearly that he caused them even the slightest bother what-so-ever. But he just couldn't to tell them either. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't. He hid himself behind another nibble of toast.
Phileas continued, watching the boy from the corner of his eye. "You must hear the racket he causes all night long... pacing the floor of his room until I fear he will dig himself right through to the den below."
Rebecca smiled at the act her cousin was putting on. He was much better at shaking the truth out of someone than trying to guilt it out of them.
Jules leaned forward. "I can go back to Paris." he suggested hurriedly. "I won't be a bother then."
"Of course you would be." Phileas waved away the suggestion.
"Who would watch to be sure Mister Jules had good food?" Passpartout offered as a way of an extension on his master's answer.
"I will not deliver you to that tiny little garret you insist on calling home in worse condition than I picked you up in." Phileas announced, determined to put an end to that suggestion.
But, even mild mannered Jules Verne had a limit to his patients.
To everyone's surprise, including his own, he jumped to his feet. "Fine! I will take a ship back!"
"Don't be ridicules, Verne." Phileas snapped, looking up at the boy. "Sit down and talk to us!"
"There is nothing to talk about." The frustrated frenchman waved a hand in the air. "How many times do I have to say it? What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?" he cried.
"Jules, dear..." Rebecca started, hoping to calm the situation before things got out of hand. "We are only trying to help..."
"I don't need nor want your help!" Jules snapped.
Startled, Rebecca did something she rarely, if ever, did. She clamped her mouth closed, a hurt expression momentarily crossing her face.
That was enough for Phileas Fogg. Slapping his napkin down on the table, he rose to his feet in rage. "I said SIT DOWN!" he roared.
Any sensible man would of done anything to avoid Fogg's wraith Even Passpartout, who trusted his master impeccably, stepped back.
But Jules wasn't feeling very sensible. In fact, the damn whispers in his head had him feeling damn close to out of his mind! And Phileas was not helping the matter! Growling, he announced "I will not!" He started for the nearest exit.
Fogg was not to be walked away from.
He stepped away from the table after his young, obstinate guest.
"Phileas... " Rebecca hurried to her feet, suddenly fearful of what her cousin might do.
Phileas grabbed the boy's arm and yanked him around to face him.
"Ow!" Jules gasped.
Phileas stopped. He looked at the spot where his hand held Jules' arm just below the shoulder. He knew his grip wasn't tight enough to cause pain. So, what had?
He looked up at Jules' doe soft brown eyes. They were wide with fear... fear of him? fear of staying? fear of discovery? What the hell was going on here?
He released the arm and stepped back. "What happened to your arm?" he wanted to know. Though his tone was no longer enraged, it was still demanding.
Jules locked glares. "I fell." Truth.
"How?"
"I fell out of my chair." Truth.
"Pray tell, Verne: how does someone fall out of a chair?" Phileas arms crossed over his chest, waiting for an answer.
Jules eyes dropped. He wanted to tell hem. He really wanted to tell them... but he couldn't. He wouldn't. The whispers...
He frowned. He was awake. Why was he hearing the whispers now? His eyes searched the floor before him as if it might offer some form of an answer. If only he could understand them... if only he could tell Fogg and the others... if only...
"Verne?"
As if suddenly realizing that there were other people in the room, Jules head snapped up to look at Fogg, his eyes filled with confusion. He tilted his head to one side and blinked up at the man.
Phileas Fogg stared back. "What happened?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned. He reached out a gently took the boy's arm to steady him as he began to sway.
"Fogg?" Jules mumbled. "I want to tell you..." he confessed.
"So, tell me." Phileas encouraged.
Jules shook his head, his eyes drifting away. The whispering was getting louder... just like in the dreams. "I want to... I can't." he breathed.
Rebecca appeared out of nowhere. "Why, Jules?" she wondered
The writer's eyes closed. The whispers were getting louder and louder, but still too far away to be understood. They were getting in the way of thinking. Again he shook his head, reaching up to tap his forehead. "The whispers... " he finally breathed. "I can't. The whispers.... I can't." Suddenly the scream came, vibrating through his head like the bells of Notre-Dame: "HELP ME!"
Cupping his hands over his ears, Jules dropped to his knees, bowing over until his head rested on the floor. He stayed still for a what seemed a long time, his mind momentarily frozen with fear. Then, recognizing the room around him once again, he took a shaky breath, calming himself. Hesitantly, he looked up to try and re-farmilarize himself with his surroundings. It was then that he realized that his head was resting not on the floor but on Rebecca's knees.
She knelt before him, gently rubbing one hand over his back, while the other rested on the back of his head.
Phileas was down on one knee beside her, frowning in a most displeased way.
Sitting up, he looked from one to the other, then looked away. He ran his fingers through his hair. Well, so much for keeping it a secret.
Passpartout handing Rebecca a glass of water, who took it and held it out to Jules. When he took it and began to sip at the cool, refreshing liquid, Rebecca brushed his curls away from his eyes. "You're shaking. Are you alright, Jules?" she finally asked.
With eye still averted, he nodded.
"What happened?" Phileas asked the question that everyone was waiting for. "What whispers?"
Jules Verne looked up at him. "I... they come in my dreams, with the visions." he breathed. He let his breath out as if sudden relieved with being able to tell. He set the glass down on his knees. "I don't know what they're saying. I can't hear them clearly. Except..." He paused.
"Except what?" Rebecca encouraged him to continue.
"The last... someone screams for help." Again he looked from one to another. "I... I don't understand. It's almost as if someone is using the visions to contact me... but... who?"
Passpartout spoke up. "Others?" he asked.
Jules, Phileas, and rebecca all looked up at him.
Passpartout shrugged. "If there be one Mister Jules who sees what can be, why can't there be others?"