CHAPTER 5

The captain was walking briskly, enjoying the fact that his muscles flexibly responded to the effort required of them. His shoulder was still a bit numb, but it was not bothersome.

He was a hale and hearty fellow and he was happy to be alive, happy to be with his friends.

The sky was bright blue and the view gorgeous - not that he was going to admit it out loud, he had to maintain his legendary aversion to the mountains - and belting out old tunes from his youth had been very amusing.

While walking, he was keeping an eye on his lanky butler who, really, was as out of place in this setting as a Chinese vase mounted on stilts would have been. He was also watching the Thom(p)sons, worried they would fall off a cliff, carried away by their song - they were so capable of it, the poor saps. Calculus was trotting ahead of him with his umbrella and his suitcase, his green hat bobbing up and down the slope. Nestor had been right to button him up to the chin in a warm coat: Cuthbert was prone to catch colds, skinny and shriveled as he was.

Snowy was frolicking around, sometimes ahead of them, sometimes behind them - sniffing, pausing to lift a leg and shower a plant or a rock, barking after a grasshopper or a bird.

The captain stopped and turned again, a little concerned about the silence of the last member of the family. Tintin was slower than usual and there was not on his face the usual wonder for nature that one could read there even in circumstances completely unsuited to such admiration: on the top of the world when one was about to be drown by an avalanche or at the bottom of a jungle which only sought to devour you in one way or another, for example…

How they would get rescued still worried him, no doubt.

Haddock rekindled his pipe, then he started off quietly, telling himself that the young reporter would soon be catching up with him.

At least, Tintin must not have been cold. He was wearing the bomber jacket lined in sheepskin and those brown corduroy pants that he had taken a liking in after their trip to Australia.

It was nice to see him finally dress like someone his age and no longer like some sort of… Rouletabille!

Haddock still fondly remembered the seventeen-year-old scrawny boy who had tumbled into his cabin with his beige raincoat and his little white dog. At the time, although already recognized for his articles, Tintin often tried to pretend he was older... with little success, it had to be said. His ill-fitting second-hand suit jackets, his cheap ties, his golf pants and especially his newsboy cap… all this certainly gave off the charm of a reporter from a novel, but could not convince his interlocutors of what he would have liked, namely to think of him as a respectable journalist. Over the years, he had stopped worrying about standards and, somehow, it had helped to make him look a bit more mature – even though he was still wearing baby blue sweaters. Besides, it had certainly helped when, at the age of twenty, he had been through this sudden growth spurt (Haddock sometimes wondered if it had anything to do with the trip to the Moon and all the tests they had been subjected to at the time). He still wasn't a tall man, of course, but his shoulders had broaden, his muscles nicely shaped up, and you couldn't say now that he was just a wonder sprout, a boy too clever for his age and endowed with a star decidedly well hung.

What had not changed with him, on the other hand - besides the ginger quiff and the youthful smile - were his kindness, his fearless curiosity, his resolute courage, his resourcefulness, his integrity, his intelligence and his constant good humor: all qualities which made him a man the captain was proud to call a friend.

In any case, Nestor was right: "our young Monsieur Tintin will soon make hearts swoon".

But the captain would have rather liked "soon" to come as late as possible, though.

Haddock did not wish to see Marlinspike invaded yet again by another female, as nice as this one might turn out to be, especially compared to the Castafiore, or by – and just the thought of it made him shiver – wailing toddlers and runny-nosed brats like the ones Joylon Wagg's sometimes brought with him.

And then ... well, couldn't things remain as they were now? Maybe it was very selfish on his part, but the captain loved his life as it had been going on lately. Was it because he was getting old? He preferred what others would have called boring routine to the excitement of their adventures.

It had started with hearing the train whistling in the distance and feeling his heart swell with joy ... jumping to an energetic ding-dong at the door ... shaking his head, amused, looking out the window at the master running after the dog running after the cat in the garden ... then it had become the familiar clicking of the typewriter in the Study ... the reckless stampede of someone young running down the stairs ... a bright and sunny burst of laughter somewhere in the big house...

How silly it was - and how sweet, at the same time…

Nursing a double-whiskey by the fire and, from time to time, raising his head to watch Tintin immersed in his book, snuggled with his dog on the bow-window seat… listening to Cuthbert pep up enthusiastically about his latest invention and forgetting the soup served in the blue porcelain plates… Arguing with Nestor when he found him risking breaking his neck perched at the top of a stepladder to polish the chandeliers … fishing the Thom(p)sons out of the fountain or towing once again their poor bumped 2cv … Strolling with Tintin in the countryside, chatting about everything and nothing while good old Snowy dug up bones and ran after butterflies ...

He never got tired of chatting with Tintin. There was always something to think about together, to comment, to debate, or just to remember. The young reporter's ability to learn from his experiences, his perseverance in searching for a new story, his inexhaustible faith in humanity never ceased to amaze the old sea dog. Their age difference was never a problem. Sometimes the boy was actually the one who showed more maturity.

The captain had long since stopped asking himself what he had done to earn Tintin's friendship. He simply enjoyed the moments spent in his company, refusing to even imagine that one day they might only be memories...

Snowy started to bark, pulling him from his reverie just in time so as not to tripped over the dog running back up the slope.

He turned around and a steel hand crushed his heart. For a moment, his breathing cut off, he felt like if the whole mountain had frozen, stilled, tarnished.

Tintin was lying on the ground, a few meters higher on the path.

Why? How? What happened? Who did…? Oh, mon garçon !

Tearing off his pipe from his mouth and stuffing it precipitously into the breast pocket of his jacket, Haddock ran after the white terrier, not caring for the calls and exclamations of the others. When he reached the young reporter, he knelt down, removed the rucksack, carefully rolled the boy to look at him.

Tintin was so very pale. His eyes were closed, his discolored lips bitten to a drop of blood, his neck soaked with sweat ...

Nobody had shot or clubbed him. He probably just had fainted from exhaustion.

The captain forced himself to take a deep breath to dissipate the familiar panic that was growing in him, causing his blood to rush in his ears, making him dizzy.

No, it wouldn't be today.

He patted the young man's cheeks, calling him in a stifled, urgent voice, which became more imperious when he saw that it was working, when Tintin blinked weakly.

Snowy was whimpering pitifully and wanted to lick his master's face. Haddock pushed him aside.

- "Tintin! Tintin!"

The young reporter took a glassy look around him.

- "Brown tobacco..." he slurred.

- "Everything all right, lad?" stammered the captain.

Then as Tintin's eyes rolled back again, he got carried away, panicked, and almost shook him, despite the protests of the others who had gathered around them.

- "Blistering barnacles, landlubber, come back to your senses! What's with you keeling over out of nowhere?"

Perhaps the slap had been disproportionate, but at least it had had the merit of being effective.

Tintin jerked awake, shaking his head to get rid of his torpor. He made a move to straighten up and fell back, gasping.

- "Can't… breathe..." he wheezed.

His hand grabbed the sleeve of the old sailor in a feverish, begging grip. His nails dug into Haddock's wrist. In the dilated eyes of the young man, the captain saw the shadow of Ishia's terror.

- "Calm down. You can breathe all right", he said quickly. "Listen to me, boy, you're no longer in that blasted tank. Can you hear me, Tintin? You're free. There's air – plenty of nice, fresh air, here. Look, we're in the mountains, your dear mountains."

He propped him up against his knees, wincing at the stifled cry the reporter couldn't hold back. Calculus and Snowy crowded on either side of him, worried. The Thom(p)sons, uncharacteristically quiet, were not taking their eyes off them either.

The calloused hand of Haddock kept on gently squeezing Tintin's slender shoulder, repeating that everything was fine, that he could breathe, that he was not trapped in the melted polyester in which he had almost been morbidly immortalized ... until the young man's hitched breathing gradually subsided, his chest ceased to rise erratically, his clenched hand released the sleeve of the black jacket.

- "It's over... you're safe, son... it's over..."

A thunderstorm was brewing in the captain's throat - a storm of curses, anguish, guilt, reproaches - but he contained himself.

- "How do you feel?"

Tintin, exhausted, was trembling nervously. Hot tears had seeped down his temples, mingled with the sweat that stuck to his hair.

- "Hurts..." he stammered, defeated.

Nestor leaned over to hand his master a tin cup filled with water.

- "He was injured during the crash, monsieur. A broken rib, I believe."

Haddock cursed in a low voice.

- "More likely two or three, I reckon! And you were not going to tell us, obviously! To think you carried that bag for eight miles without... I... how can you... Thundering typhoons, Tintin, what kind of friends do you take us for?"

He hadn't really asked the question for an answer, but suddenly a cold draft swished by in the silence at the top of the mountain. A cloud passed in front of the sun, the light became dull and greyish.

- "I... no, I don't… I..."

Tintin had gratefully accepted the cup before his lips, drank half a sip. Then the water had taken a bitter taste. Suddenly he was no longer thirsty, and even the pain in his ribs seemed insignificant compared to the pained expression he thought he saw in the eyes of the others.

The Thom(p)sons, Calculus ... the captain ... they were not talking, because they were disappointed, hurt ... because of him ... Was that really the message he was sending? Did he really reflect that he did not think they could take care of themselves? Was he so arrogant?

He struggled to sit up, to say it was wrong, that he didn't ...

A white-hot stab in his side made white sparks flare before his eyes and the mountain faded away again, while a wave roared in his ears and took him back to the darkness.

"Earth calling Moon Rocket, please respond" ... "Earth calling Moon Rocket, please respond"... "Allo, Allo... Well done, Tintin! Well done! Now go back to your bunk. Will you have the strength to? Tintin, Tintin!"… "Earth calling Moon Rocket, please respond"…

There was not enough air left, but he had done his duty.

He had saved them all.

When he regained consciousness this time, his head was resting on a jacket folded over Calculus' knees. The scientist was seated on the ground, protected from the cold by the captain's raincoat stretched out on the snow.

They had wrapped him in several blankets and Snowy was curled up against him, like a small living hot water bottle. The dog squealed and waved his tail gently when he saw his master wake up and this time nobody stopped him from happily licking Tintin's face.

The truth came back to the young reporter suddenly, stinging. No, he hadn't saved them. On the contrary.

He wanted to cry, but the knot in his throat added to the feeling of drowning, so he swallowed it up as best he could.

- "He's coming round!" Calculus chirped above his head, looking very much relieved. "Saperlipopette, my boy, you gave us quite a fright, here... No, please don't move. We have everything in hand, so don't you worry."

The sun had moved. It was lower and the snow-capped summits were taking on purple shades under the red gold sky. The plane, in the twilight, was sparkling like a star ripped from the firmament, a dozen kilometers higher on the mountain.

- "Nightfall, already?" Tintin stuttered, dismayed.

- "You did sleep for a while," said the professor gently. "And during this time, we have come a long way. But now we are setting up camp."

He gestured to something, but Tintin could not see anything in the dimming light, with the rocks behind which they were settled - and which undoubtedly protected them from the wind.

- "The Thom(p)sons finished putting up the tent earlier," continued Calculus cheerfully. "They're resting now. Nestor is cooking a wonderful dinner."

- "The captain?"

- "I'm here, lad", said the old sailor, crouching next to the young man. "How do you feel?"

Tintin groaned. He felt pretty well, wrapped in this warm cocoon and the pain was bearable as long as he didn't try to change position. Being propped up also helped him breathe better. But he wasn't sure he would not keel over right away again if he tried to get up and, frankly, he didn't even want to try.

- "Still a bit peaky", he said.

- "Understatement of the year", grunted Haddock. "All right, you keep quiet and you let us handle the situation. Cuthbert is responsible for monitoring you and if you try to budge, he will club you."

His shaggy black beard couldn't hide his smile, though. Calculus giggled behind his ear-trumpet.

The captain got up and brushed his knees.

- "I'm not being funny, landlubber", he warned again, waving his index finger with warning.

- "He was awfully worried about you," said Calculus fondly, when Haddock was gone. He wiped his round glasses and put them back on his nose. "He's always grousing and bellowing, but deep down, he has a heart of gold, you know that, don't you?"

Tintin nodded. He struggled for a better position, hoping to see what was going on around him and soon gave up on it. He really had presumed too much of his strength. Snowy snuggled against him. Stroking the fluffy white head of his faithful companion, the young man contented himself with questioning Calculus about what had happened while he was unconscious.

- "The captain showed us how the coolies carry packages in Tibet and we loaded the two policemen", explained the scientist, giggling a bit maliciously (he had always kept a small resentment towards the Thom(p)sons after their involuntary hitchhiking aboard the moon rocket). "You should have seen them! They were sweating and groaning like proper camels! Then Nestor and Archibald carried you - I was taking care of the tent, you see, our most important asset."

Oh, the show it must have been, indeed. If Tintin had not been the cause of these worries, he would have regretted missing it.

- "We walked for several kilometers, until the path became too steep to keep going in such a fashion. Then we looked for a place to spend the night. The Thom(p)sons had already fallen several times, anyway, and Nestor was out of breath. He doesn't exercise enough, you see. He should take example on me. I practiced jiu-jitsu and savate in my youth, so I'm in much better shape... "

Tintin smiled as he remembered the demonstration Calculus had given to Lazlo Carreidas just before they had taken this famous flight of which they had no memories (another crash which, for some bizarre reason, had been erased by their memory), but Cuthbert thought it was approval. He was about to embark on another talk about the need to maintain one's health when Nestor interrupted.

- "Monsieur est servi", he announced like if he was showing up at the laboratory pavilion to pick up the professor for supper after ringing in vain for a dozen times.

Tintin braced himself for the ordeal it would be to get up. Finally, with the help of the butler and Haddock, he found himself standing, panting, exhausted, leaning with all his weight on the captain, to whom this situation reminded of another much too recent for his taste.

- "Good thing that we don't have a cliff to climb down this time", gasped the young reporter who was also thinking of their narrow escape on Ishia's Island, in a failed attempt at making humor.

- "Not today, at least," said Haddock darkly.

He supported Tintin to the tent and made him sit in the foldable chair, wedging a blanket behind him and tucking another over his legs.

- "There. You should already be breathing better in this position. Do you feel fit enough to have a bite?"

The reporter shook his head, lips tightly closed. The mere mention of food made his stomach churn.

- "Hum", said the captain. "Tomorrow maybe?"

- "Tomorrow, surely," Tintin whispered.

Haddock leaned over, scratching Snowy's head. Then he crouched down, put his two hands on the uprights of the folding chair, on either side of the young man's knees and looked at him in the eyes.

- "You've got to rest, landlubber. Build back your strength. Don't bother thinking about how we're going to get home. We will think about it together tomorrow – or later. No more of this nonsense fortitude, all right? It may be a scoop for you, but no one's perfect, lad, not even you. So let us take care of you, for once."

Behind the old sea dog, in the doorway of the tent, a renowned scientist who was just a little hard of hearing and two particularly blundering policemen nodded vigorously.

Tintin felt his throat tighten again.

- "Yes, I know, I'm a marvel", said the captain gruffly.

Snowy barked his approval - unless he was celebrating Nestor's arrival with fricadelles.

An enthusiastic hubbub ensued, made of cries of admiration ("you outdid yourself, my friend! But how did you do that? We're in the middle of nowhere!" - "Oh, Monsieur had told me so much about his difficulties in digesting the local food that I packed some less exotic victuals... "), inevitable accidents (" Oh, Thomson, what a pity! Your plate was still half-full!), lively discussions ("Cuthbert, have you misplaced your ear-trumpet again, thundering typhoons? "), vociferations ("Snowy, you thief! Come back at once with this sausage! ") and for some time, the small tent set up on an icy mountain was the warmest place on Earth.

Tintin fell asleep somewhere along in that bubbly, simple, friendly atmosphere. Slumped against the backrest, he was still awfully pale, and his breath was still worryingly wheezing, but the shadow of a smile had wandered over his lips.

Tomorrow maybe?

Tomorrow, surely.

They would be there when he woke up.

TBC