CHAPTER 8
"In which little girls don't need to ask for snowmen to be built."
The captain's laughter got stuck in his throat. The Thompsons dropped their notebooks and gaped like two caught fish. Nestor tiptoed back to the others, a frightened look painted on his horsey face. Calculus frowned, pressing the acoustic horn closer to his ear.
- "Who are you?" Tintin asked instead of answering the question, picking up the pencil of one of the Thompsons to jot down the frequency they had picked up.
- "Oh oh! My young vriend, anonymity may vell be customarry between rrradio amateurrrs, but vhen you sneak up on the frrrequenzy uzed by the grrreat arrrmy of Borrrduria, you have to identify yourzelf at the firrrst varrrning!"
Tintin quickly switched off the device.
- "Now we're in fine sheets," said the captain in a blanch voice. "If these hairy Zapotecs can figure that we are in distress in the middle of Whiskers Motherland... they will want to settle old scores..."
- "The captain's right," chimed in Calculus in his high-pitch voice. "They did not appreciate to see us run off with that tank last time. And I, for one, do not want to go back to this insanitary fortress to be forced to work for the account of powers flouting the sacred rights of mankind!"
- "It has to be a border post," said the young reporter, his eyes dark. He unfolded the map and spread it out on the table. "Lake Flechizaff is cut in half between the two countries, we must have crashed on the wrong bank."
- "The wrong mountain, you mean," Thompson corrected.
- "To be precise, on the ... on the wrong... well, on the wrong side", stammered Thomson.
Nestor raised the lantern, his cheeks trembling like jelly.
- "Oh, Monsieur… what will happen to us?"
- "I don't think this man knew who he was talking to," said Tintin. "He must have thought we were radio amateurs from Syldavia or Hungary."
- "A pretty good indication of the fact we're neither Syldavian nor Hungarian would be that we had this conversation in French", chirped in Calculus.
- "And do you think the Bordurians so daft that they cannot make a link between a plane which disappeared with you on board and a pirate radio station suddenly starting broadcasting in the middle of the Zymylpathian Mountains?" Haddock boomed.
- "We won't be able to ask for help if they start tracking us on the waves," said Thompson with concern.
- "To be precise, we won't be able to wave if they start to track us for help", stammered Thomson.
- "Waves that I would refuse to give them the secret of, whatever they would do to me!" assured Calculus forcefully. "I once destroyed my works to make sure such people would not put their hands on it, and I would do it again if needed. My invention will not serve their dark schemes!"
- "Gentlemen, gentlemen ... my friends, calm down", Tintin intervened. "Nothing is lost yet. We can transmit on other frequencies, try reaching this French-speaking station we got a little earlier, maybe pick up a Syldavian border post another time. We will make it out of here."
The wind was rising, and it howled dramatically on point.
During the hours that followed, Tintin kept trying to send a SOS, hoping to catch on a friendly amateur or the Syldavian police, but in between variety shows or the latest news from Prague, he kept on falling back to the creepy gravelly voice.
The Bordurians were watching them. The Bordurians had clearly guessed who was shipwrecked in their mountains. The Bordurians were delighted to have them at their mercy and were playing with them like a cat watching a mouse.
- "The Bordurians will probably dispatch an expedition to come get us tomorrow morning," said the young reporter grimly, when he gathered everyone around the table again a few hours after midnight.
Outside, the storm was getting stronger, rumbling and shaking the tent like an angry dog would do with a rag (Snowy did not appreciate the comparison – stuffed under a pile of blankets, he was whimpering plaintively). The cold was getting more bitter and even the lantern could no longer drive out the darkness which seemed thicker and all the more threatening.
The captain, furious, was pacing back and forth, smoking pipe after pipe. The Thompsons were shivering in their pajamas, huddled together. Under his nightcap, Nestor alternately whitened or blushed at the howling of the wind and the gusts that were shaking the canvas. Calculus had not gone to bed. His teeth were chattering despite the triple layer of clothing that he had been forced to put on, but his eyes were very sharp behind his round glasses.
- "If the wind wasn't blowing so hard, they'd already be on their way, wouldn't they?" he asked quietly.
Tintin nodded.
- "Indeed, professor. Out of bad comes good. But the storm will not always protect us and it will end up turning against us. We have to take a decision."
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist in a childlike movement, stifling a moan as he changed position, an arm cradling protectively his chest… and they all had an aborted gesture, a word swallowed up, an expression both guilty and filled with pity: none of them had had the courage to send him to bed during the long hours he had spent bending over the radio, calling tirelessly, frowning and scribbling on the papers scattered around him.
They knew they needed him. The young reporter was going to find a way out of this mess. He always found a way out.
- "What are you thinking of, lad? What other options do we have except for staying here and waiting for them to pluck us up like snow-covered daisies?"
Tintin looked up and his gaze enveloped compassionately each of his companions.
- "We must leave the plateau and try to get to Syldavia before they catch up with us", he then said decisively.
He spread the map again on the table, borrowed a half-empty tin cup, a screwdriver, the jar of sugar and the box of matches, arranged them as he talked.
- "This is the place where I think we crashed. The Bordurian border post that received our distress calls is probably here. We were flying over the lake when the pilot jumped off the plane. The last readings recorded by the on-board devices made me think that we were ... there. But the storm must have distorted them. We would not be able to catch on the Prague broadcasts if that were the case, this summit would block them. Here is the steep path the Thompsons explored, the one we followed at the start. If we try to go down on this side instead ..."
He tapped the chewed end of his pencil on the map.
- "We won't risk running into the "rescue party" sent by the Bordurians and we will be at the border in less than two days."
The Thompsons, relieved, hugged effusively and slapped each other on the shoulder in congratulation. Nestor, reassured, lay down on his makeshift bed with dignity, mentally drawing up a list of the things he would need to feed everyone during the rest of the journey. Calculus was still leaning over the map, wiping his glasses thoughtfully, his nearsighted eyes narrowing as he pondered over what he had heard.
The captain startled them all when he slammed his hands on the table and Snowy, who had been snoozing against his master's knee, jumped and began to bark, worried.
- "This is all very nice, but you forgot several things!" Haddock roared. "First, there's a dratted blizzard raging outside. The Bordurians can't move, yes, but neither can we!"
- "Stay, Snowy," said Tintin, taking the dog Thomson had picked up and was holding out to him. "That's it, you're a good doggie. Go to bed, we're talking."
- "Second", bellowed Haddock, "we did not initially take the path you now want to send us on because you said there were – and I'm quoting you here – "chances it was impractical"! Third..."
The captain stopped and breathed loudly through his nose. His weathered features softened under his thick black beard.
- "Third, you're in no condition to do such a forced march, Tintin. You can barely stand and if you were to fall, one of your broken ribs could very well puncture your lungs. As for picturing a crew like this one covering the good forty kilometers separating us from the border in two days… you must be insane. Two days? Blistering barnacles, let me laugh! Make it four or five!"
But he wasn't laughing at all. Rather, his eyes were blazing fiercely.
- "And I don't know what kind of stupid ideas are boiling under this thick skull of yours, lad, but put yourself in the noggin, there's no way we'd leave you behind. We'll all be saved, or we will perish together."
A concert of stunned exclamations immediately followed by indignant protests erupted, again frightening the dog. Tintin calmed the effervescence with a smile and a pat on Snowy's curly neck.
- "I think you're underestimating our friends, Captain," he said gently. "We made it as far as a dozen kilometers on our first day. Even if this path turned out to be cluttered with fallen trees and tangled bushes – which I doubt, as these are mountain pastures according to the map – I'm sure we can cover roughly the same distance at the same rate going down to the valley. Besides, I'm hopeful that some shepherd or radio enthusiast on a holiday by the lake will eventually hear our cry for help."
He put his hand on the arm of the captain who was still fuming and looked up.
- "Everything will be fine, I promise."
Oh, that gaze, that gaze! Haddock knew it only too well. How many times had he allowed himself to be convinced and carried away by those eyes which combined the most implacable determination with the sincerest courage? He no longer counted these times and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would bite his fingers, that he would swear for the umpteenth time he would not be smitten into adventure again, that he would grumble, beg , scold… but that he would give in and follow Tintin through whatever would come their way.
And some day, it would inevitably end up badly. But although he was a bit mortified at the idea of always yielding to this kid like a compass inescapably seeking North, the old sailor could not help following his instinct.
It was in these eyes, too, that he had first seen he could be something else than only a wreck – it was this smiling and compassionate gaze that had put him back afloat.
He sighed deeply.
- "Very well. We'll do as you suggest. But go take a nap, will you, lad? It may be the last shred of rest we'll be able to get before these pirates start chasing after us."
Tintin nodded wearily. He accepted the captain's help without protest and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, Snowy huddled against him.
Haddock pulled the blanket up on the young man's shoulder, reached out as if to feel Tintin's forehead for fever or to gently muss up the ginger hair, but changed his mind afterwards, looking somber. He simply patted the dog's head, glanced at Nestor who was muttering shopping lists in his slumber, shared a look with Thompson who was watching over Thomson's sleep, then got up tiredly and returned to the table.
The professor, who was still there and had observed him, said nothing. But once the sailor was seated, he propped his bald head on the captain's shoulder with the same familiarity as Marlinspike Hall's Siamese cat and yawned widely.
- "Go to bed, Cuthbert," Haddock muttered. He stuffed his pipe. "I know you're used to staying up late in your lab, but now isn't the time to be zealous."
- "I agree, Nestor did have a heavy hand with the salt in the spinach…" stammered Calculus, curling up more comfortably and wrapping his skinny limbs around the captain's arm.
- "Let go of me, you four-eyes octopus, I'm no ship's keel!" Haddock protested, but it was too late: the professor was already dozing off, the frizzy black hair on each side of his skull tickling the sailor's chin.
The captain heaved another sigh. He lit his pipe, groaning because he was bothered by the weight on his arm, took a puff or two, internally lamenting that he only had a bottle of whiskey left, then went back to studying the map, frowning.
He had no idea who the Bordurian who had first answer them was, but he found it hard to believe he was just a soldier. There was something vicious in the man's snigger, like the evil joy of someone rejoicing at seeing the hour of his vengeance finally coming up.
Krônick or Klûmsi, the secret agents Tintin and him had made drink to oblivion and locked in their rooms at Hotel Sznôrr? It must have been a dreadful wake-up call for them when they had realized their charge had run away. Perhaps they were impatiently waiting for their turn to laugh at the expense of those who had made fun of them ...
Major Kardouk, who had let escape from Bakhine Fortress not only Calculus but also Public Enemy Number One and Two after having them at his mercy for several hours? If he had not been executed since, he must have held some pretty big griefs against them – and he was not known for a patient and gentle man when he was ruling the prison ...
Kavitch, the secretary who had confirmed that the imposters' papers were correct, ridiculing his master? He was no strong character at the time, but people changed in five years and some more cowardly than him had turned out to be the worst collaborators during the war...
… Colonel Sponsz himself? They had not heard from him in two years. Maybe Kûrrrvi-Tasch had had enough of his multiple blunders and had relegated him to a border post…
Haddock shuddered. He did not want to face that old scoundrel again at all. Sponsz had probably not yet digested San Theodoros' failure and he certainly had had to pay a high price for it when he had returned home. Oh, what he would put them through if he found them at his mercy…
- "If they catch up with us before we cross the border… we'll be in for a rough time," said Thompson, coming to sit opposite the captain.
He massaged the bridge of his nose, rubbed his eyelids weighed down by the lack of sleep, sniffed under his mustache.
- "Everything will be alright," groaned the captain with a shrug, but his eyes couldn't help glancing at Tintin's sleeping form in the darkness, in both faith and despaired resolve.
Thompson smiled sadly.
- "Everything will be alright", he repeated in a low voice, as if the small banal phrase had a mystical power, as if repeating it tirelessly could actually change things for the better.
Everything will be alright.
Everything will be alright.
Everything will be alright.
oOoOoOo
Everything was going wrong.
You couldn't see further than ten steps away. They might have been heading straight for the lion's den at this rate. The Bordurians, if they had been more sensible than them and had not yet left their base, would only have to collect a bunch of snowmen when the blizzard stopped.
Calculus had turned icy blue. Nestor was claiming that he had broken a tooth with all this chattering and was beginning to speak of a raise of wages, a very bad sign for a man who was usually so delicate when mentioning his salary that you almost needed an interpreter to get the point. Strangely, the Thompsons were holding on pretty well, but the captain was contemplating giving Snowy a swig of his spare cognac: the dog was shivering miserably in Cuthbert's coat: they had thought that sticking these two together would keep them both warm, but obviously it wasn't working.
Haddock himself could feel all his joints creaking painfully and he wondered by what miracle he had survived in Tibet three years ago. His toes and fingers had lost all sensation, his face was red and itchy from being slapped by the wind, his heart was pumping everything it could but never seemed to have enough oxygen and the familiar burn was spreading in his chest. The sweat dripping down his back and soaking his undershirt was as much due to the efforts he had to do to clear the way in the snow while carrying the heaviest of bags as to the diffuse anxiety that was filling him when thinking back on Dr. Leech's warnings.
"You have to put an end to the adventures, Captain, or they will be your end. It is not a few pills and a happy decrease in your alcohol consumption over the past few months that will make your organs twenty years old again. The Moon was a severe wake-up call. You didn't want to take it into account, but I'm telling you that one day your heart will declare: "niet, nada, the end, fini tout ça" and instead of coming back to Marlinspike Hall with fanfares after having saving the world with Tintin, you'll be carried home feet first. "
Dr. Leech had an unfortunate tendency to abuse of dramatic diagnoses and drastic measures and Haddock, most of the time, only listened to him with one ear.
But he had to give to the man that, while on this mountain beaten by gusts of icy wind, as he sank to his thighs in the snow with a one-ton bag heavy on his kidneys and the agonizing responsibility of bringing back home their little family unharmed... suddenly the words of the old doctor took on a whole new meaning.
The captain stopped and brushed off the snow clinging to his beard and his eyebrows. He pushed his cap up slightly on his sweaty forehead and turned around for the umpteenth time to see how the others were doing. One… two, three… four… five. They were still behind him, progressing painfully along the slope, silhouettes barely visible through the blizzard.
He narrowed his eyes, tried to make out what was in front of him, carefully testing the ground with his cane. The black and jagged mountainside that bordered the slope was taking a turn and the greyish fog in which the flakes swirled like a swarm of rabid wasps was probably hiding a cliff. But there ... on the right ... It looked like ... yes, there was a cave.
Haddock turned and waved at his companions.
- "A cave!" he blurted. "There's a cave, we'll be able to take shelter and rest for a while!"
At least, if he was not unlucky as usual and it was not inhabited by a bear...
Well, he was so cold that he was ready to face the yeti if necessary.
His flashlight scanned the wonderfully dry gray walls of a spacious cave and he heaved a grateful sigh. The place was empty and there were no bone debris like Snowy would certainly have been delighted to find.
Behind him, the Thompsons stumbled in, followed by Nestor.
- "Merci mon Dieu !" cried the butler, dropping to his knees.
- "T-t-to b-b-be p-p-precise..." Thomson began, nervously chortling.
- "Phew", concluded Thompson.
Haddock returned to the entrance of the cave and anxiously tried to make sense of the blurry white slope. What were the other two doing? They had been right behind, they ...
He gasped when Tintin, painted in snow, suddenly appeared in front of him, an arm wrapped around the shoulders of Calculus who looked like a stick of ice-cream like the ones sold to children during Marlinspike funfair.
- "He's not doing good! We need to rub him down," gasped the young reporter. "I have a bottle of cognac in…"
- "I have one too – and full, if you want to know! Save yours for the next time you want to manipulate me into following you in another of your follies", Haddock grumbled, hurriedly undoing the straps from his own bag.
He grabbed the professor and carried him to the back of the cave where Nestor, quaking from head to toes, was trying to light the stove. Tintin followed him, an arm tightly cradling his chest, trying to suppress the cough viciously echoing in his ribs. He let himself slide against one of the walls, breathless, refusing with a gesture the gourd Thompson was holding out to him, his eyes fixed on Calculus.
Snowy, who had pulled himself out of the green coat of the professor, crawled to his master, squeaking weakly, and shoved his head under the blue anorak, pushing the radio device which made a bump in the young reporter's front pocket. Tintin stroked the dog, finding unconscious comfort in slipping his frozen fingers in the warm curly fur and feeling the rapid beat of the little heart of his faithful companion.
- "Oh Monsieur... may Monsieur le Professeur be all right..." was blubbering Nestor, as he counted wrong the number of spoons of coffee and milk powder.
Thomson, the little hair on his round bald head still damp and twisting in all directions, was also muttering prayers.
Haddock, meanwhile, had undressed the small old man and was vigorously rubbing his skinny limbs, his caving chest, his bony back. When the scientist's skin turned red as if he had been scrubbed like a ship deck, he was dressed in a jiffy and they poured in his throat a good swig of cognac which made him gasp, spit and finally opened unfocused eyes.
- "Ca-ca-captain!" he protested weakly. "D-d-don't t-t-take ad-d-dvantage of my weakness t-t-to get revenge f-f-from your cu-cu-cure by t-t-turning me into a-a-a alcoholic..."
There was a weak burst of collective laughter that ended in a general fit of coughing then Nestor, who had regained some of his professional dignity now that he was no longer shaking, offered a round of coffee.
Haddock's legs had turned into jelly from relief and he had to fight against the torpor invading him once the heat of the burning liquid spread throughout his tired body. He forced himself to get up, shook his companions, had them set up a semblance of camp.
The tent was pitched partially, blocking the entrance to the cave and protecting them from the blizzard. The Thompsons prepared the makeshift beds, Calculus stayed obediently in the folding chair with Snowy posing as a hot water bottle on his knees and Nestor set the tiny table while the captain studied the map with Tintin.
Or at least claimed he was. His eyes were drooping every two minutes and the young reporter was no better than him: Tintin was terribly pale, with the exception of two red spots blossoming on his cheekbones whenever he coughed. He was wheezing again, but his eyes were still bright with determination.
- "We must be here," he said hoarsely. "We made quite good progress, considering our conditions. Tomorrow, we should reach the canopy of trees in this forest. Even if the weather clears up and the Bordurians fly a helicopter, we should be able to avoid them."
- "Hmm," Haddock muttered, not realizing that he was drooling a bit in the hand that held up his chin.
- "Go to sleep", said Tintin with a smile. "You deserve it."
Another coughing fit shook him and he moaned involuntarily as he curled protectively over his injured ribs. When he straightened up, out of breath, features tense with pain, a perfectly awakened captain was staring at him in anguish.
- "I'm fine", promised the young reporter, swallowing back his saliva and trying to ignore the copper taste filling his mouth.
Everything will be alright.
Everything will be alright.
Everything will be alright.
Haddock hesitated. He was about to say something when the radio crackled, suddenly turning on by itself.
- "Tintin! Tintin? Are you listening? Tintin? Do you copy?" called a youthful voice through the sizzle.
- "Tintin! Captain Haddock! Snowy! Can you hear us? Are you alright?" added another voice, musical and yet full of worry.
- "Tintin, if you're alive, please answer us! It's Niko and Nouchka!"
TBC
I'm soooo sorry for the delay... I'll quickly update this story, as soon as I finish to translate it (it's complete on the French side ^^ so no worry, you'll get the end proper and nice!.. and you'll probably hate me too.)