Wolverine, stuffing the keys to his motorcycle into the pocket of his jeans, began to prowl the rail yard on the north edge of the Bronx. The train he'd been following had already gone on its way up toward Maine, leaving him with no starting point for his tracking. Not that it mattered. The train had only come in last night. The scents wouldn't be fresh, but they'd be there. That was the benefit of having Storm covering for him at home.
After some hunting, he found the trail. Gambit and Rogue. No blood-scent: neither was hurt. He followed them out of the train yard and into the town, where it led into a small little-bit-of-everything grocery store.
"Good morning to you," said the owner, a gray-haired man with smile lines prominently marked around his mouth, who was restocking cans of tomato soup. "How can I help you this morning?"
"I'm looking for a couple of kids. Boy and a girl. The girl's sixteen, short red hair with white streaks around her face, dressed in black with gloves. Boy's maybe nineteen, red ponytail, long coat. Ringin' any bells?"
The man shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. I haven't seen anyone like that. I tend to see anyone who passes on the street, and I've been in the shop since five this morning."
"What about last night?"
"Oh, we close up pretty early. I live outside town, and like to be home in time for dinner. But my assistant lives in the building across the street, so maybe he saw something." The shopkeeper raised his voice. "Ricky!"
A skinny teenager with untidy brown hair emerged from a back room, dusting his hands off on his jeans. "Yes sir?"
"This gentleman is looking for a boy and girl about your age who may have come through here last night."
Ricky gave Logan an appraising glance-over. "Guy in a long coat, and a goth?"
"That's them," Logan affirmed.
"Yeah, I saw them. I thought the guy was the nephew you're always talking about, Mr. Tullin."
"Why did you think that?"
"Well, he had a key to the store. At least, I thought he did. I just happened to glance out of the window and saw him come out with a bag full of stuff, him and the girl. They didn't act suspicious or anything. He locked the door up behind him and they walked off, so I assumed they were visiting you and you'd given him the key to pick some stuff up for dinner."
Mr. Tullin the shopkeeper was suddenly nervous. "Did you check the till when you came in this morning?"
"Yes, sir. It was only four cents off Julie's check-out numbers from last night. Usually we're off by a lot more than that."
"Well, thank goodness for that, at least." He turned to Logan. "Why are you looking for these two? Are you with the police?"
"No. But thanks for your help." Logan reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a five-dollar bill and a pen. He scribbled his cell number across the bill, then handed it to Tullin. "That's for a bottle of water. Call when you figure out what's missing. I'll see you're compensated."
"Dans la prison de Nantes, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon . . . dans la prison de Nantes, y'avait un prisonnier, y'avait un prisonnier . . . "
"Didn't know yeh could sing."
"Cain't if y'talkin. Personne ne veint le voaire, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon . . . personne ne veint le voaire sauf la fille du geolier, sauf la fille du geolier . . . "
He wasn't an amazing singer, but the tune was a soothing one, with a mysterious, gypsy flavor to it, and he sang it with a strong steady rhythm that made it easier to keep putting one tired foot in front of the other. The woods did not appreciate being walked through, and navigating them involved a lot of tripping over uneven ground and unsnagging clothing from bushes. She stuck close behind Remy so his long legs and heavy boots could clear the path a little.
The song repeated itself a lot, especially the digilondilon part, which Rogue suspected was more nonsense than actual words. After three or four verses, she started to pick up on the pattern, and after another two verses she started to join in. As soon as he heard her, Gambit started singing more slowly and clearly, making it easier for her to mimic the incomprehensible sounds.
"Quand il fut sur la grève, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon, quand il fut sur la grève, il se mit a chanter, il se mit a chanter."
"Cain't get 'em tuh come outta mah mouth right."
"Y'doin fine. Que Dieu bennisse les filles, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon, que Dieu bennisse les filles, surtout celle du geolier, surtout celle du geolier."
"Ah know yeh just made that one up tuh stump me."
"Si je reviens à Nantes, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon, si je reviens à Nantes, je lui épouserai, je lui épouserai."
He didn't start up another verse, leading Rogue to believe that whatever the song had been, it was over now. "Pretty tune," she offered. "Sounds sad, though."
Remy shrugged. "Depends on how y'look at it."
"What's it about?"
"It tell a story. Dey's a prisoner, locked up in a prison in Nantes. Dat's a city in France. River city like N'Awlins. Night befoh he gon' die, de jailer's daughter set him loose."
"Why'd she do a stupid thing lahk that?"
"Dunno. All de song say is dat she was jeunette . . . young."
"What was he in prison for?"
"No idea. Anyway, he jump int'de river and swim t'd'other side, and when he safe on d'other shore, he blesses all girls, 'specially dat one, an' swears he'll marry her if he eveh come back."
"Does he?"
"Does he what?"
"Come back and marry her."
Remy shrugged. "Da's de end'a de song."
"What?" Rogue demanded. "How can it just end there? How'm Ah supposed tuh know what happens?"
Remy chucked at her. "Dat's where it's ended fo' hundreds a years, chère. An mebbe it's bothered every girl whose ever sung it, but endin' oh no, dey kept singin' it anyway. So you tell me how it ends. As much yo' song as anybody's now."
Rogue thought about this for a few minutes. "Ah think he came back," she finally decided. "But he'd been gone so long, she'd married somebody else."
"You just mad at him 'cause he didn't kiss her before he went, so you try t'git back at him wid a mean endin' like dat."
"Naw! It just didn' feel right for him tuh come back and have her all ready with a dress and flowers and everything. It doesn't match the tune, somehow. It's so sad. Ah thought mebbe she jumped in the river too, tuh run away with him, but she kept drownin' before she reached th'other side."
Remy nodded. "I always thought he went back fo'her an' dey both got shot."
"So what're you gripin' about mah ending for? That's horrible!"
"'S de way Romeo an' Juliet went, an' I don' heah dem complainin'."
"You read Romeo and Juliet?"
"Non, but I got a fairly good idea'a what happens."
Rogue thought for a while longer, struggling to keep up with Remy's long strides. "Maybe," she said at length, "he went an' joined the army, won himself glory in battle and got his sentence forgiven. Then soon as the war was over he came back and married her after all."
"Mebbe," Remy offered, "if dere was a war, t'ings got so bad in Nantes she turn' to a life of crime, an' dey met up on de same job an' ran away t'gether t'be pirates or somet'ing."
"As long as we've decided there was a war," said Rogue, "what if they both had tuh leave the country? Then they meet up someplace else, where he don't have to be on the run and she ain't a jailer's daughter, and they got to start over."
Remy thought this over and nodded. "Best we can hope for, I guess."
Rogue did not feel particularly satisfied with this resolution, but decided that there was nothing further to be said. Instead, she asked, "Would you sing it again? I was just gettin' the hang of it by the end. An' it's not like we have anythin' else tuh do."
Remy obligingly started the song over again. "Dans la prison de Nantes, lon digidigidon . . ."
Logan pulled his motorcycle over to the side of the road and pulled off his helmet to get a better view of the sky. There was an airplane above him. It was too high for him to identify, but as he watched, it passed him, approached the horizon, then banked and circled back. Pilots didn't fly that way if they had somewhere to be.
Logan pulled out his cell phone and dialed the mansion.
"Xavier Institute, Bobby Drake speaking."
"Bobby, it's Wolverine. Don't say another word. Just go get Storm and put her on the phone."
"Okay . . ."
"That's a word, Bobby! Get goin'!"
There was a thud at the other end of the line as Iceman dropped the phone. A minute later, Storm's voice arrived, sounding out of breath. "I am here, Logan."
"I'm about fifty miles due south of you, and I got a buzzard. Hey, Mystique. How's the weather up there?"
After a moment of silence, another voice broke into the phone line. "It's lovely, Professor Logan."
"That's great. Storm, give me some cover, would ya? I hate workin' when somebody's watchin' over my shoulder." He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
Back at the mansion, Storm returned the phone to its cradle on the wall of the kitchen, then turned and ran for the den. "I need the television," she announced to Jean, Scott, Kurt and Kitty, who were watching a mid-afternoon sitcom.
"Sure," said Scott, sounding worried but knowing his teacher too well to think that now was a good time for asking questions. He handed over the remote as the others scrambled off the couch to give Storm somewhere to sit down.
Storm switched the cable station to the weather channel.
"Man, she always wants to watch this," Kurt griped.
Storm stared intently at the screen, her eyes whiting out as she drew on her power. Her lips moved in silent whispers, and the satellite image began to change.
"It looks like we have some fog just coming in to hit the northern New York coast . . ." the weatherman announced, sounding confused.
". . . eternal mists, roll forth, descend upon the land and shield my friends, protect them with your cloak of darkness from those who would do them harm, protecting fog, hear my command, come at my beckoning . . ."
"Is she, like, talking to her powers?" asked Kitty, unnerved enough to fall back into her Valley accent.
"If she's keeping Logan and Rogue safe, she can read them Henry the Fifth for all I care," Scott decided.
"Do you think he found her?" asked Kurt. He ported up into the light fixture above Storm's head so he could see the screen better.
"If he had, we'd be going out there in the jet," said Scott.
"Logan has not found Rogue," Storm announced, interrupting her own muttered monologue. "But Mystique has found Logan. The fog should break her visual contact so that Logan can continue his search without coming to combat against her." She narrowed her milk-white eyes at the screen, and another dark blue swirl of low pressure spread across the satellite image of New York. The light coming through the windows dimmed.
Kurt's tail lashed fiercely, striking his shoulders and making the chandelier swing. "Vhy aren't ve out there? Mystique is too dangerous for Logan to handle by himself. And if Rogue's hurt, or—"
"Kurt, either calm down or come down," Scott ordered, pointing to the ceiling where the plaster was starting to flake away from the chandelier's mount.
Kurt obediently reappeared on the ground. "Ve should be doing something!"
Kitty sighed and phased out so that Kurt's lashing tail could pass through her calves instead of smacking incessantly against them.
"We are doing something," Storm insisted. Her eyes were rapidly regaining their usual color as she stood up to face them. "We are trusting Logan, and giving him the support he asks for. You must be patient, Kurt. When Logan and the Professor decide that our presence will cause more good than harm, we will go."
Kurt moaned and took a frustrated swipe at a convenient lamp. His hand went through it as though it weren't even there; Kitty had planted a hand on his back and phased him out before he could break anything.
Kurt snarled something in full-on German and vanished from the room.
For a long moment, those remaining exchanged worried glances in silence. Then Kitty asked, "What did he say?"
"I don't quite understand it," said Jean, "but what I heard in his mind was, 'I wish I'd pushed her myself'."
Notes on the French:
La Prison de Nantes and its many variations are sung in the Bretagne region of northern France as well as in Quebec, from which the ancestors of the Louisiana Cajuns first migrated. If you'd like to hear the tune, you can find an audio file here:
http://www(dot)skullpat(dot)com/index(dot)php/2006/10/24/28-musique-bretonne-musique-quebecoise
Just replace the (dot)s with actual dots. Load the little blue player just above the lyrics to Les Prisons de Nantes (Bretagne) for an idea of the melody. Just keep in mind that Remy sings this song as I learned it: slow and sad, with a steady rhythm that keeps you moving forward even when you have nothing left to give.