Disclaimers can be found at beginning of first chapter. And if you're still reading, you can let me know by a quick little review…*grin*
Part Four: Learning Experiences
Phileas was back sooner from his meeting with Chatsworth than Jules would have expected, but Passepartout didn't seem surprised to see his master. He merely asked expectantly, "Where we going, Master?"
"Castle Gradowice," Fogg replied. "I'll show you it on the maps." He and his valet immediately headed to the front of the airship and were soon deep in an argument over the most direct route to this place. Jules stared at them for an instant before deciding he didn't want to be left out. At least Fogg seemed to be in better control of his temper at the moment. And he really wanted to know what information Phileas had gotten about Rebecca—and how he'd obtained that information.
"What happened?" he asked, joining them.
"What?" Fogg spared him the merest glance. "Oh, nothing in particular, Verne. Chatsworth merely told me where it seemed most likely to find Rebecca. Come on, we've no time to lose. Passepartout!" Passepartout nodded, scurrying around them both to get to the controls and set their destination.
Jules couldn't get any more out of the Englishman, and he didn't want to try too hard and snap Fogg's already delicate control. Phileas merely repeatedly told him to get some sleep while he could. Finally out of irritation Jules agreed--Fogg, this cool and mocking and impervious, was insufferable. But Jules had been finding out the past few days it was easier to deal with Phileas when he was angry with him than when he was afraid of him.
Jules managed a few hours of sleep, but he was soon back on the main floor of the Aurora, leaning against the side of the airship controls and trying to contain his nervousness. The sun was setting gloriously somewhere far above them, casting the clouds through which the airship flew in beautiful colors of reds and oranges and yellows, but Jules wasn't in the proper frame of mind to enjoy it. "Look at these forests, Fogg," he said, looking out the window and downward worriedly. "They're the breeding ground for myth and legend. We're entering the dark center of Europe." He was ashamed to find himself feeling so--superstitious. He should have been past all that foolish nonsense. But even though the sun was still cheerfully visible up here in the clouds, the forests floating by beneath them were gloomy and dark and brooding. He felt as if they were angry at the airship and its occupants' intrusion.
"It's not myth and legend I'm worried about; it's flesh and blood," Fogg replied, disdainful as always. Jules repressed an irritated urge to roll his eyes.
"Sometimes myth swallows up flesh and blood, Master," Passepartout interrupted with his own views on the matter. He was shaking something very odd looking--and smelling, for that matter--enthusiastically around the entirety of the airship, causing Jules to wrinkle his forehead in puzzlement--and at the smell. Fogg was favoring his manservant with a look of aristocratic incredulity. "Oh, I have heard terrible stories about these mountains!" Passepartout went on, turning to Jules with wide-eyes and displaying all the fear that Jules was attempting to ignore in himself.
"They're just stories, Passepartout," Jules told him with hidden relief, taking control of himself in order to reassure his friend. It was always easier to dismiss someone else's fears than your own. "Products of ignorance and isolation. Once these people are educated, their superstitions will vanish away." Verne said it with conviction, even though some annoying little voice at the back of his mind was reminding him of his own recent unreasonable uneasiness.
"My grandmother," Passepartout argued, kissing his finger with a loud smacking noise (causing Fogg to delicately wince) and looking up to the heavens, "was wise woman, Jules. She came from Rumania. She knew of the vampyra." Fogg looked down to give his manservant a jaundiced look; Passepartout returned the look earnestly. Jules repressed the lop-sided smile that wanted to overtake his mouth. "Creatures who do not die. They live by night; they suck blood to feed their evil souls!"
"Yes, yes, thank you Passepartout," Fogg attempted to cut him off, recognizing the signs of a Passepartout about to get highly excitable.
"They sleep in coffins," the little manservant would not be put off, too caught up in the images parading across his vision, "talk to the bats. Hold the mirror up before them, and they're not there! And if you see one sleeping in his coffin, his fangs sticking out like this..." The valet gave them a graphic--and loud—demonstration of a vampire snoring in his sleep, startling Jules into twisting around to stare at the other Frenchman when he would have turned away. Fogg's eyes were widened, as if he couldn't quite believe the spectacle his valet was making of himself, even though he should have been used to the valet's antics by now in their strange acquaintance. Passepartout was still getting more and more excited. "You must thrust a stake through his heart! For only thus can he be killed!"
"Would you kindly shut up?" practically burst out of Phileas.
"Oh." Passepartout came back to himself, and looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry, Master. I was only trying to keep you amused during this tedious journey," he added hopefully.
"And singularly failing. Go and iron the Times."
Jules gave Passepartout a sympathetic look--Fogg had no right to take his anger and frustration out on his servant, no matter how badly worried he was--but Jules also couldn't bring himself to interfere on the manservant's behalf, not quite ready yet to face that undirectable anger himself. Passepartout, crushed, clicked his heels together and replied obediently, "Yes master," before walking away. Jules turned back to the observation window, trying to banish his disappointment with himself for not sticking up for the valet. He was fortunate in that at least--his attention was immediately caught by something else.
"Look at this, Fogg," Jules urgently called over his shoulder. Fogg set the controls to fly the ship by itself and joined him. Jules glanced up at his companion, to make sure Fogg had seen it--though he couldn't see how anyone could have missed it.
"Ahh." Fogg's tone brightened considerably. "Well, according to the map, that's Gradowice Castle, though it does look as if no-one's lived there for centuries. Passepartout!" his voice stridently crossed the main room; the valet came scurrying back. "Passepartout, take the wheel, would you? And can you set us down by that meadow over there? Well out of sight."
Passepartout obediently started the Aurora toward the ground; Jules glanced again at Fogg and saw the spark in the older man's green eyes, the alert readiness for action. He almost seemed to be enjoying this. In one way, it wasn't surprising—at last no more waiting; they could be doing something quite soon. In another way, that welcoming of danger worried Jules. He still couldn't quite trust the Englishman to remain on his side, not with that glint in his eyes.
***
Fogg opened the door to the lowly tavern, having naturally taken point as soon as they got off the ship. He was thoroughly and nattily dressed, from impeccable suit and gloves to top hat and his best cane, despite the long trek they'd had across the forest--if he was to meet up with this damned duke again, it would be on his own terms, under his own control. "Hmm…" There was no one there. Phileas coughed, tapping his cane imperiously on the bar. "Service! Hello? Is anybody here?" He started searching the bottom floor of the inn for the owner, or at least someone to answer his questions. Jules and Passepartout followed behind, also looking around in curiosity. He kept his eye out for both of them out of habit. "Landlord?" Really, this was terrible service, he decided.
"Yes, gentlemen!" A little fat bald-headed man in a dirty apron stood behind the bar, polishing a tray with a rather disgusting looking cloth and smiling, acting for all the world as if he'd always been there and not just popped out of nowhere. Passepartout started and whirled around. Fogg repressed a sigh. He only hoped his valet would be able to keep his wits about him long enough to follow orders if need be. "How may I serve you?"
"Ah," said Phileas, covering, and sat down at the nearest table to stall a bit longer as he thought of what to say. The other two followed his lead, still looking around the room suspiciously. "Good evening, landlord," he started ripping his gloves off, having already set his cane and hat neatly aside. "May we have a jug of wine, please? Some um, bread and cheese...Passepartout, would you like some fruit?"
"Yes,"
Passepartout nodded after an instant of blankly staring at his master. The nod was a trifle too exuberant for a
simple affirmative reply. His already
exaggerated movements only really started bordering on caricature when he was
truly frightened and/or worried.
Something else Fogg would have to account for in whatever plans he had
to make.
"Could we have some
fruit?" Phileas went on, dealing with one thing at a time.
"Fruit! Yes, we have fruit. This is a very fruitful region," the strange little innkeeper laughed at his own joke. His laugh grated on Fogg's nerves. Everything at the moment grated on Fogg's nerves, it was true, but that annoying little giggle even more so than everything else. "Are you coming from far, sirs?"
"Yes, from--from, ah, from London," Fogg was distracted from the conversation by the various undesirable characters suddenly entering the room from a variety of both expected and unexpected directions. "We're visiting Duke Rimini," he added, dragging his attention back to the innkeeper.
"Ah! Indeed! Well, are you friends of his?" The little man continued eagerly as he stepped out from behind the bar to bring them their food and drink.
"Uh...uh, yes," Jules roused himself nervously, at last joining the conversation--Fogg had already begun worrying about the younger man, as both he and Passepartout were both looking around in increasing uneasiness, and as the boy hadn't said a word since leaving the airship. Once he'd started becoming comfortable around Fogg, he'd allowed his usual loquacity loose, as he'd already done around the other two. It made Phileas oddly grateful--Verne was truly starting to trust him. It was strange how important Fogg found it to have that trust. But he'd seemed angry with Fogg since the night before--not surprising, considering the way Phileas had been acting, but it was the only way he could cope. And if it meant snapping at the Frenchmen…well, Verne should bloody well understand what he was going through. "Yes, he told us to look him up if we were ever in the...vicinity," Verne finished the sentence weakly, shaking his head a little. He occasionally seemed to have difficulty with finishing his sentences--Fogg wondered if it was the different language, or simply that his thoughts had already moved onto something else and his mouth was yet to catch up.
"But we're not exactly sure of his address," Fogg intervened, taking pity on the younger man. He wanted to keep the innkeeper's attention on himself anyway, distract him away from the other two. He wasn't entirely sure why he was taking so many precautions, but this place and these people made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. And he trusted his instincts.
"Ah, well," the landlord was chuckling again as he set the tray down on the table. Fogg ignored his overly irritated reaction to that and looked around the room again.
"Perhaps you could point it out," Jules held his map out to the innkeeper politely.
"Ah, yes, I'd be happy to." Then the man did something very odd, giving Fogg's manservant a strange look before looking around nervously and pointing a vague finger at Jules's precious map. "He is there," he breathed in a thoroughly strange and thrilling voice before slipped away from the table.
"What extraordinary behaviour," Fogg said, staring after the landlord in consternation.
"Yes, indeed," Jules hissed in reply, stuffing the map back into his inside pocket. "According to him, Duke Rimini built his hunting lodge in the middle of the Black Sea."
Fogg would have answered, but his attention had been distracted by a strange noise. Passepartout was holding the bread knife against his goblet, making the metal rattle. He was also whimpering. "Passepartout, are you alright?"
"Stop that!" Jules snatched the knife away from the other Frenchman with a trifle more celerity than necessary. Fogg decided Verne didn't realize how rattled he was by the atmosphere of this place, despite his attempts to maintain that he was an enlightened, intelligent, educated young man from the mid-nineteenth century. The boy didn't want to trust his instincts. Foolish.
"What's the matter?" Fogg was concerned. He knew that despite Passepartout's sometimes annoying antics he could trust the valet's instincts almost as much as his own. The valet started making strange noises through his teeth, flapping his hands underneath his cheeks. Fogg was thoroughly confused. "Hmm?" he asked, looking around and seeing nothing to cause this particular strange behaviour of his servant's. Jules started cutting the bread, perhaps needing something to distract his mind, then paused, looking deeply at his reflection in the knife. Fogg hadn't pegged the student as one with that much vanity, but he was too distracted at the moment to comment upon it.
"Do you see anything reflected here, Fogg?" Now it was Jules's turn to sound unsteady, with a decidedly peculiar look on his face.
"Ah, no," Fogg replied disinterestedly, barely glancing at the knife. Nothing strange was going on here, bar a few smelly peasants in need of better tailors and the annoying laughing innkeeper. And that wasn't strange at all. He was about ready to give up and dismiss it all as overworked nerves on all their parts.
"Nobody?" Verne persisted, a trifle--insolently? Mockingly? In any case, Fogg didn't like his tone, as if the younger man found Fogg's intellect lacking, as if he found the older man...somehow inferior. It'd happened a few times in the past couple weeks since coming to an understanding with Jules, not very often and perhaps most people wouldn't have detected the overtone, but Fogg was trained for subtleties. It only added to his already heightened irritation. He'd been simmering ever since the thrice-damned play had finished the night before. He felt ready to explode. But he knew better than to let anyone else see how he felt—Verne especially wouldn't hesitate to run away from him, and that could have disastrous consequences.
So he took the knife away from Verne, coughing slightly to show he thought this was all complete foolishness and a waste of precious time. Jules let him have it with a wave of his hands, as if absolving himself of any responsibility. Fogg gave his reflection a throwaway glance, noting that his sideburns weren't yet in need of a trim--and then he looked again, and then turned to look behind him at the extremely bearded and pale-looking man he'd already known was sitting behind him, giving him the evil eye. He looked at the knife again. He set the knife down, exchanged an apologetic glance with Verne, who was looking just a tiny bit ready to be scared out of his wits, then cleared his throat again and leant forward to whisper in Passepartout's ear. "Passepartout."
"Yes, master?" the valet replied nervously.
"It appears I owe your grandmother an apology."
Passepartout gulped wordlessly, making a little whimpering noise in the back of his throat, nodding convulsively in understanding and agreement. "Well," Jules quavered, preparing to bolt out of his chair, "I, uh um, think we-we should be going."
"Yes!" Passepartout agreed brightly, as if that were the best idea he'd heard all night. He jumped out of his chair. Verne followed suit.
"Ahh!" the innkeeper stepped forward. "There is no other accommodation, sirs. Best stay here. Let me show you a room upstairs, huh?"
"Well," Fogg smiled and stood up grandly, thinking quickly, "That's, uh--that's awfully kind of you, but--um," he coughed again, looking at his fellow travelers as he with almost indecent haste picked up his gloves and hat, communicating with the other two. He didn't like the look on Verne's face; he looked ready to relapse into the state he'd attained the first time he'd been on the Aurora and in Phileas's precious care. "We, we were thinking of taking a moonlight stroll."
Passepartout and Jules nervously grinned, nodding in expansive agreement and rushing for the front door. But suddenly the other patrons of the inn were surrounding them all, and the innkeeper was saying, "Ah, I would not advise that, sirs. There's very unwholesome creatures prowling the valleys at night, sir." He stepped ever closer to Fogg, with a confiding air about him that the Englishman found overwhelmingly repulsive. "Wolves and such, you understand. Let me show you some nice, comfortable rooms."
"Yes, perhaps sleep would be best," Fogg gave his valet a warning glance, making sure out of the corner of his eye that Verne was still behind him and unharmed by any of these strange natives. The writer was warily looking at the menacing natives surrounding them. He seemed to be doing a fairly good job keeping a grip on himself, though. Phileas was impressed, mildly grateful he wouldn't have to deal with anyone's hysteria.
"Yes, wonderful...upstairs, to the right. Your room is already prepared for you. Take the candle at the table there, and I will be up directly to take good care of you, uh?" They were being hustled toward the stairs by everyone, Fogg included, wanting to get the other two out of that sitatuation as soon as possible. Jules was gesturing urgently up the stairs at Passepartout, wanting to get out of there just as much as Fogg. Passepartout led the way with the candle, stuttering out a remarkably polite, "Thank you very much."
"Good night," Jules called out, practically tripping over Passepartout's feet in his haste to get away.
"Good night, and…" Fogg couldn't resist adding, just in case it might help, "God bless."
"Good night!" the joyful little innkeeper called, adding something in a mutter to his fellow villagers that Fogg couldn't quite hear. But the Englishman's mind was concerned with matters slightly more important than what he might have missed the landlord saying.
***
"They are vampires, master," Passepartout rushed into the room, dropping his hat on the bed and pulling garlic out of it as if it were a magic trick. Jules ignored him, instead looking around for something to slow the others down, because he knew they wouldn't simply let the travelers have a quiet night's sleep. The dresser. Focus on the dresser. It would be useful. "Give me a hand!" he shouted at the other Frenchman, his fear momentarily subsumed in the practicality of getting something done. He was secretly and guiltily glad Fogg had been downstairs with them, in some way acting as a control over Jules's panic. He could let the Englishman take over, figure out the big plan. He could concentrate on the little details, one detail at a time. It was easier that way. He wouldn't have time to panic.
He wasn't going to panic. He kept telling himself that.
Focus on the dresser.
Fogg's attention was arrested by something outside, Jules noted amidst his urgent shifting of furniture. The English aristo was so fixated he could suavely ignore the menial labor going on behind him. "Look at the ruin," he called over to them; Jules and Passepartout jogged over to join him at the window.
"It's coming alive!" Jules breathed, watching in horrified fascination as lights started coming up and other signs of habitation became visible. The castle looked so innocent, as if nothing unusual were happening. It only made the place seem more menacing.
"That's where he's taken Rebecca, I know it," Fogg told him as he glanced at Jules with a serious glint to his eyes. He was speaking to Jules as if the younger man were an equal, someone he'd worked with before many times in similar life and death situations. Jules felt a confusing flicker of pride that quickly died at what he heard next.
"My good sirs!" The innkeeper was calling through the door, "I've brought you some water bottles!"
Verne's heart clenched, but Fogg was prepared, at least partially. "Uhm, no thank you, landlord. We're very--we're very--we're very, very comfortable." Passepartout was nodding fervent agreement, as if he expected the innkeeper to be able to see him through the door and dresser.
The landlord was saying something else; Fogg ignored him, leaning forward and urgently hissing in Passepartout's ear instead. "Get the Aurora and meet us at the castle. Quickly!" Passepartout nodded, his demeanor changing from exaggerated fear to purposeful commitment. The change was astonishing but Jules didn't have time to consider it. Fogg started ushering the valet without ceremony out the window even as he was yelling over his shoulder at the landlord. "That's awfully good of you! Um...feet like toast, very sleepy, see you in the morning!" He practically pushed Verne out headfirst in his haste to get the younger man out. Jules jumped out gladly, even as one part of his mind wondered absurdly whether Fogg even knew what words were coming out of his mouth. Feet like toast?
The fall was breathless and oddly hushed, the air crisp and startlingly cold. The ground was soft, the grass not having been cut in ages. Fogg was right behind him, pulling him up and pushing him forward when he would have taken a moment to catch his breath and consider what the hell he'd just done. They started a mad dash through the fields and forest, smoothly and silently separating from Passepartout, and Jules's fear vanished suddenly and transiently in a fit of breathless excitement as he found himself recklessly enjoying this wild run across this wild environment. A mere month, six weeks ago, he never would have considered he could be running through some dark countryside in the middle of Europe with a man whose introduction to him had been a punch in the face--and yet here he was. It was absurd and frightening and strangely fascinating all at the same time.
They reached the castle, and Jules's fears abruptly came crashing back into his mind as he incredulously watched Fogg raise a leg up the side of the castle wall. "Follow me, Verne," the Englishman said, "and don't look down." He sounded so confident, so utterly trusting Verne could do this, that Jules found himself climbing the wall without complaint, even if it was a struggle. Especially to avoid looking down.
They reached the end of the wall, and Jules clambered over the side without any of Fogg's grace, but he was too busy being grateful he had made it to resent that failing. Fogg was staring inside the nearest window in what looked like horror. Jules quickly joined him, catching his breath--but then it deserted him immediately at what he saw.
"My God!" Fogg whispered. "We're too late. She's joined them!" Fogg couldn't seem to believe what he saw, despite what he had said; Verne had to look away in saddened disgust from the image of the lovely Rebecca in the arms of Duke Rimini. It was obscene. But then he looked back anyway, because he couldn't desert his hope, couldn't give up on Rebecca yet. She had to be simply playing some sort of game to make the duke think she was on his side. She had to. Jules stole a glance at his companion and found his heart filled with pity for the cousin, who now had a numbed look on his handsome face.
Jules looked again at the scene through the window and strained to catch every sight he could, trying to find some clue that things weren't what they appeared. When the duke raised a gentle hand to stroke Rebecca's face and lean in to kiss her, Jules looked down, unable to bear it, and was startled by the sound of Fogg's harsh voice.
"Just one shot, and I'll have the swine." Jules twisted his neck to look at the older man and was frightened by the look of cold ruthlessness on his haunted face. He raised a small gun Jules hadn't even known he was carrying and aimed it at the couple through the window.
Jules was horrified. "No, you'll shoot Rebecca!" Unthinkingly, he threw himself at Fogg's arm, struggling to get the gun away from him--if he'd given himself time to consider it, he would have realized he was mad to do it. Fogg ducked his arm away from Jules's grasp easily.
"For God's sake, Verne," Fogg only sounded slightly distracted by Jules's interference, raising the gun again. Verne looked on helplessly--he couldn't believe it. He had been right about the English gentleman the first time after all. He was a cruel, heartless, uncaring demon who was willing to kill his own cousin.
Jules didn't know which was worse--to be in there, with that...thing that was the duke, or to be out on this ledge with a man who had no compunction about doing whatever he thought was necessary--even cold-blooded murder.