10. IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK (1)
One of them (perhaps?):
2017 - Paris
Pascal Vernier pulled back the hoarding; just a little – just enough to peer inside.
This had been a prominent building in its time.
In the seventeen century, it had been part of the garrison of the King's Musketeers. It had been burnt down, they said, sometime back then but had been rebuilt several times since. Now, it was up for redevelopment again; having fallen into disrepair.
It was an abomination that over recent years it had been neglected so, Pascal thought, for the Musketeers were men who had protected the King and had lived, eaten, slept and probably been fixed up in this building.
If these walls could talk ...
oOo
Pascal knew this was illegal; he was trespassing, but he could not let an opportunity like this pass by.
They were a team and so he brought his brothers with him. Not his real brothers, of course, but brothers in all but blood; forged through school and university. They were all working now in successful jobs, but in their spare time they were psychic investigators. Paris was full of fine historic buildings with many a tale to tell. Their "hobby" had started at university and they had gathered some strange findings over the years.
They had formed a Psychic Society during their university life and had even converted a few of their lecturers with their enthusiasm and talks, which were always "sold out" in terms of bums on seats. Some of the "evidence" they had collected had been interesting, to say the least; once teamed with research. The four of them appeared to have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Some would say that was dubious; others, that they knew what they were doing. Over the years, they had procured enough specialist equipment to back up any findings they offered up. As yet, they had seen nothing tangible, but their audio recordings had left others who were perhaps, more qualified, dumbfounded.
One day, Pascal hoped they would have tangible evidence. Something that could not be refuted.
Their investigations were always above board and legal; they sought permission and permits for any buildings they entered.
But not this time.
Not with this opportunity.
For Pascal was a distant descendant of the legendary d'Artagnan, whose statue sat in the Place Malesherbes. That is where they had gathered one morning, this modern day brotherhood and had forged their plan.
Work would soon commence once more on this building. There had been rumblings of strange occurrences when the surveyors had first set foot there. They knew they had just one chance; one attempt to set up their equipment and see what they could find within these walls. For there were still some of the original walls within the footprint of the building.
And walls could talk.
He was a testament to that.
Perhaps his ancestry would be on his side this time.
oOo
So it was that a few days from the construction date, four young men slipped behind the hoarding with backpacks on their shoulders and stood within a long room to await nightfall. The building had been cleared by the previous occupant, a wine merchant, who used the cellar of the building for storage but had done little else to the building itself. It had been used over the decades by various businesses which had kept the basic structure of the rooms on the ground floor. The upper floors had been added in the eighteenth century and had since been used for accommodation.
However, it was this room, the ground floor room, that Pascal was particularly interested in.
He believed it had been the Infirmary. If a room could absorb human emotion, it would be such a room.
The others peeled off, three of them heading upstairs as Pascal stepped further into the room.
Now that he was well inside the room, he flicked on the flashlight he had been carrying and swept it around in a wide arc.
There were smaller rooms leading off this main rectangular room which he would investigate later but in the meantime, he set down his backpack and unzipped it. Pulling out his audio equipment, he set to work setting it up.
There was electricity here, but he set a battery-powered lamp next to his working area. He had learned from past experience that power could be cut off suddenly with no warning, once an investigation commenced.
The end of the room was deep in shadow, which he thought was strange, as the windows had been boarded up and no light shone in any other part of the room to cast such darkness at one end. He flicked on his flashlight once more.
The shadows disappeared, but Pascal sucked in his breath when he saw the brickwork there. Untouched, it seemed by the four centuries that had passed. The rough bricks and untidy mortar still stood as a testament to that time, and he walked slowly across the room and ran his hands over the now dusty surface.
"What tales you must hold, wall," he whispered reverently, before stepping back and quickly taking out his mobile phone and snapping a photo of the precious wall.
Turning his back to go back to his equipment, he suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling creep over the back of his neck; the hairs prickled as he involuntarily shivered; and he realised that the inky black shadows had fallen once more behind him. Stepping quickly away, he shook himself. He had been in such situations before, but he could not for the life of him remember ever feeling such a mixture of emotions passing through him.
Fear, yes, but something else.
Hearing a sudden noise, he looked up at the ceiling. Something upstairs had fallen over.
"Only me!" he heard Martin shout from above and he smiled to himself and shook his head. Of all of them, Martin was the clumsiest, always falling over his own feet. He was letting his nerves get the better of him.
He went back to his tasks, setting up laser trip beams and switching on his audio equipment.
Still he could not shake off the feeling at his back of ... what was it?
Tension ...readiness?
Twice, he turned quickly around, fearing something close; only to be confronted by the black shadows once more.
The third time, he straightened, and turned purposefully around to face that foreboding wall.
"Who's there?" he murmured, to be met with nothing but silence.
"d'Artagnan, I swear if that is you, I fear your opponents for you emit a fearsome aura!" he said quietly to himself as he checked his batteries and realigned his beams. He could hear the footfalls of his brothers on the floor above, which grounded him somewhat.
Suddenly, he caught a sharpening of the atmosphere. An ominous shift.
A feeling now that had crystallised into the notion of being watched.
And then, a smell ...
Chamomile?
The hairs on the back of his arms now rose, as he peered at the back wall; shrouded now in even deeper shadow.
He went to take a step forward but was suddenly frozen in place by the sound of something dropping sharply to the floor.
Then, rolling ...
Out of the shadows a small object rolled toward him, bouncing on the stone floor.
It continued to roll until it ran out of momentum, close to his foot.
Bending, he picked it up, frowning.
A small, round, metal object. He suddenly realised what it was.
A musket ball!
Rolling it around in his palm, he stared at it.
Battered, but serviceable.
Lifting his head and looking back to the shadows, he smiled.
"What are you telling me? You are a Musketeer?
The smell became much stronger. Definitely chamomile. And a hint of lavender, perhaps.
"Or a medic?" he whispered, the aroma of herbs stronger now.
"Perhaps both?"
He flinched as a second object rolled toward him, and he picked up a second musket ball.
This was amazing. And a little scary.
Despite the lingering coil of fear in his stomach, a broad grin began to spread across his face.
"Oh. You were both, my friend," he murmured, turning the ball over in his hand.
Looking around, he saw he still had the place to himself; his friends were still on the upper floor and so he sat down.
"Which one are you? d'Artagnan? I am a descendant of his!" he cried. "On my mother's side," he qualified; as if he would be challenged by the shadows.
"Charles de Batz de Castelmore d'Artagnan," Pascal continued, to the dark corner.
"He was a fine soldier, brought down at the Siege of Maastricht in 1673."
The silence stretched, and Pascal found himself scouring his mind for more questions.
"Or are you Athos, perhaps? Or Porthos? They could be myths of course; though Dumas is said to have modelled them on others who did live – so you never know," he gabbled on.
"What about Aramis?" he said suddenly. "The romantic hero?"
At that, something fell once more behind him and rolled across the floor. A third musket ball... Where were they coming from?!
"Ah! Aramis. You sly old dog. What are you doing here? Do you have an assignation? Are you waiting to reunite with your brothers-in-arms? Come to see the building renovated? Apparently this was the infirmary. Lord, what must it have been like then!"
The shadows softened, but he could see nothing. He took out his notebook and began to scribble.
As he did so, the aroma of herbs became stronger; together with an overpowering feeling of helplessness. His stomach lurched as a sudden wave of emotions hit him.
"You were the medic?" Pascal whispered, as the emotions made sense. "A soldier and a medic? Then, you have my respect."
"And what is that smell? Lavender? Is that what you used?"
"What did you have to work with, my friend? No drugs, no anaesthetics. What men you must have been to endure that ..." he trailed off.
The aroma drifted away.
"Are you here to see what I am doing?" Pascal murmured, after a few moments.
"There were tales of you," he continued. "There are tales still, of Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. There are books and movies; you would not believe it!"
"But, of course, you do not know what movies are, do you?"
He peered into the shadows, but they were quite dense and revealed nothing.
Still, he felt compelled to continue ...
"Who I am? You must be wondering?"
He was aware of how excited he was now feeling, as his words tumbled out; charged by the musket balls held tight in his hand. The fear was gone. Replaced by an air of calm; almost, an amusement in the air as he imagined his "visitor" watching him babble.
"I can tell you that. I can tell you, who I am; who we are!" he added, thinking of his friends upstairs.
"And," he cried, "I can tell you what has happened since you graced this place with your charismatic presence."
And so, he told him; the shadow in the corner that was there, but was not.
He told him about movies; before he realised how banal that must sound to a man of action.
So he sat back and told him about warfare; of the destruction and power and terrible consequences; he would understand that. And of tanks and missiles and bombs; which he would not. For who could understand that?
Then, sobered; he told him of medicine and of the leaps that had been made.
He told him of anaesthetics and prosthetics, of lasers and drugs.
He told him of the advance in communications. He held up his phone to the wall as an example; aware of how ridiculous it seemed; but all his past experiences in searching through buildings was insignificant to this and he was lost in euphoria.
He was explaining a phone to a shadow!
He had to stop to catch his breath.
Settling, he told the shadow that brotherhood still existed, despite the wars, and was evident in the men who had accompanied him tonight; who were careful and respectful and in awe of the past as they crept through a building, listening; reading the signs; collecting evidence of lives passed.
He told of the plans for the building and that some of the base level would be still preserved. France does respect its heritage," he said, "despite what it did to the Monarchy."
Oh.
And he told him about that too, pulling out his phone once more and looking up the French Monarchy, so that he could get his facts right.
Before he spoke of the Revolution though, he told him about Louis XIV; who he thought was on the throne at the time of the Musketeers; later finding out he came later of course, and the blue-cloaked elite soldiers had been formed to protect his father, Louis XIII and thereafter the Dauphin; his young son.
He spoke of the Regency of Anne of Austria, who had ruled until the Dauphin was of age.
All the time he was talking about the young Dauphin, the atmosphere had been electric and it had spurred him on.
He spoke of the great legacy Louis XIV left; making France a leading European power. Of the wars he fought, which defined his foreign policy. How warfare had fed his vanity. How Louis had loved flattery and adulation; how he had compelled many members of the nobility to inhabit the lavish Palace of Versailles; thereby pacifying them and consolidating his rule.
And for a moment, just one brief heady moment, he thought he caught sight of a booted foot shifting position across the room and the glint of a smile.
He sat back, exhausted.
He then raised his hand to his forehead and saluted; a gesture he had never used before, but felt compelled to do so then.
"What are you doing ...?" Martin said behind him, suddenly coming noisily into the room.
"Just having a chat," Pascal smiled at him. "I have a lot to tell you."
He stood and raised his hand once more to salute into the shadowy corner. But the shadows were gone; the dusty brick could now be seen as the dawn approached.
He felt bereft.
Later, when he studied his print-outs, they showed a reading which almost leapt off the page at the time of his discussion; and he had smiled and called his friends over. It had been one of the best results they had had in a while. His friends had found nothing upstairs but this more than made up for it.
The three musket balls lay on his desk.
He stared at them throughout the day; reaching out to touch them; to ensure they were real.
He could not sleep.
Tonight, Pascal would go back; alone this time.
To talk to Aramis.
Perhaps there was still time.
"Whatever they do to that place; it will always be yours," he said, looking with awe at the musket balls.
"Yours and your brother's," he added, picking them up and rolling them around in his palm. They had become his most precious possession.
"All for One; and One for All," he smiled.
oOo
Thanks for reading!
"If These Walls Could Talk (2)" coming next – (Back in the 17th century, lol).