“The well-used trails are the easiest to travel,” François says, “but we can save time if we avoid them.”
“And there is less chance of encountering soldiers dressed as peasants,” Jean agrees.
They are on the bank of the river by the old stone bridge. François squats and draws a rough map in the dirt with his knife. “The shortest distance is a straight line through the forest,” he says. “We keep to the river until the fork at Lightning Rock, then branch left. It will take us to the old trails through the deepest heart of the forest and past the abbey.”
“You can find your way through this part of the forest?” Jean asks. “It has been a long time since we ventured this way.”
François shrugs as if it is a stupid question. “From there we can follow the ridgeline down to the north river, which will lead us to the Waterloo–Brussels road. We can be there in a few hours if we walk swiftly.”
“Then let us be on our way,” Jean says, rising.
François stops him with a hand on his arm. “Cousin, regardless of the outcome of the battle, you know that many in the village will hate us for what we are going to do.”
“I know. And it does not deter me at all,” Jean says. “A man must be true to what is in his heart. I cannot sit by and see Wellington’s troops slaughtered because they were not forewarned. Whatever the cost.”
“And no one could persuade you otherwise,” François says.
“No one,” Jean agrees.
“Not even me,” François says.
“Especially not you.” Jean laughs.
* * *
The dinosaur looks smaller in death than it had in life, now just a flaccid sack of flesh, sagging on the ground in the church graveyard. Willem circles it, inspecting the remains of the saddlecloth, scarcely able to believe that men could actually ride these great beasts.
The small statue of an angel stares implacably out over the corpse, as if it, not Willem and Jean, had killed the beast. Perhaps it had, Willem thinks. Perhaps it was, as many think, a miracle from God, and Willem had merely been His emissary on earth.
A group of men is approaching, including the mayor and Monsieur Lejeune. Through the gap in the saur-fence Willem sees Jean and François cross the bridge to the far side of the river. He wills them to hurry up before they are spotted. For the moment, at least, the men are more preoccupied with the dinosaur.
“We must get rid of it,” Monsieur Lejeune says as they reach the corpse.
“What do you mean?” Monsieur Beauclerc asks. He walks up to the animal and kicks it. It does not even ripple the hide.
“On this, the mayor and I agree,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “Napoléon will not be pleased when he learns that his dinosaur is dead. I suspect it came to them at great difficulty and expense. If he discovers that we were the ones who killed it, there will be a heavy price to pay.”
Willem grasps hold of the wide leather strap that encircles the neck of the beast. He uses it to climb onto the neck, and straddles it, looking at the remains of the saddle, imagining what it would be like to ride this creature when it was alive. Living, breathing, moving under him. He imagines also what it would be like to ride it into battle.
“He is right.” Monsieur Claude nods. “We must dispose of the carcass. Repair our church and the fence. And we must never speak of this to anyone outside the village.”
“How?” Monsieur Beauclerc asks. “It would take a month to dig a grave for something this size.”
“We will have to dig many graves,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “Out on one of the farms. Then we dismember the beast with axes and saws. We take it out piece by piece.” He starts to glance around at the gap in the saur-fence, through which Jean and François are still clearly visible on the river path.
“There are no reins,” Willem calls out.
“What do you say?” Monsieur Lejeune asks, turning back to the carcass.
“Reins,” Willem says. “If there is a rider, then he must be able to steer the animal. But there are no reins.”
“Perhaps they were torn off with the rest of the saddle,” Monsieur Beauclerc says.
“Probably,” Willem says.
“Assemble as many men as have strong arms and backs,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “It is a monster, and a monster job to render it down. But it must be done.”
On the neck of the beast Willem sees two metal wires protruding from the skin at the rear of the animal’s head. He shuffles forward on the neck, reaches out and grasps one of the wires. It does not move. It is clearly deeply embedded within the flesh. He points out the wires to the others.
“Could these be the reins you seek?” Monsieur Claude asks.
“They seem too fragile to control such a massive creature,” Willem says. “But perhaps.”
In the distance the cousins disappear into the trees.
* * *
The forest closes in more and more as Jean and François venture deeper into the forest. The banks narrow and the trees join up overhead, turning the lively river into a grim tunnel.
“I would not want to meet a dinosaur here,” Jean says.
“Nor anywhere else,” François says. “Do you really think there are more of them?”
“I hope not,” Jean says. “But even so we must take great care.”
“It is a vast forest,” François says.
“Then let us hope our paths do not cross with those of the soldiers,” Jean says.
They reach a set of rapids, bubbling vigorously over rounded rocks. After some thought, François declares that this is where they must leave the river, that there is an old path here.
It takes him a long time to find the path. Eventually he pushes aside a thick bush and declares that this is it.
It is not a path, although clearly it once was. It is long disused and the undergrowth has filled in the void. The brush is so dense and the going is so slow that they keep off the path, instead moving through the forest adjacent to it.
“I think that I will never see such a thing in my life,” Jean says, pushing through a patch of prickly blackberry vines, “as little Willem standing up to the giant saur.”
“Don’t say that to him,” François says. “He does not see himself as a hero. He says he is a coward.”
“Willem? A coward?”
“That is what he says.”
“Cousin, you have known me all my life.” Jean laughs. “Have you ever seen me afraid of anything?”
“Apart from the tongue of your mother?”
“Apart from that,” Jean agrees.
“Seldom if ever,” François admits.
“Yet when that monster came to our village, I was terrified. I could never have approached it as Willem did, without even a weapon in his arms. Had he not walked toward it, I would have run in the other direction.”
“As would I, cousin,” François says.
“Yet he thinks himself a coward? I will have to set him straight when we return from Brussels,” Jean says.
“He is a good man,” François says, and adds, “for a Fleming.”
“He is not strong, or tall,” Jean says, “but he is clever and quick and brave. And he has a heart that is true. I like him immensely.” He laughs again, this time a big booming sound that echoes off the trees. “But tell him I said that and I will kill you.”
François laughs too but at the same time puts a finger to his lips and Jean immediately hushes. There are predators of many kinds in this forest.
They step from the forest out onto another path, at a right angle to the first. The paths couldn’t be more different. The first is overgrown and knotted. But this new path is clearly well used. The dirt is flat and free from growth.
“We must find another way,” Jean says. “I am uneasy here. A well-trodden path in the heart of the forest? This is very odd.”
“There is no other path,” François says. “We can only continue to fight our way through the trees. But the bush is dense here. At the rate we are going, we will not make Brussels by nightfall. The forest is a dangerous place at night, even without giant saurs.”
“Then we stick to the path,” Jean says. “But move silently and keep your ears open.”
* * *
The stench of the blood and the saur flesh is almost overpowering, even from the single barrow-load that Willem wheels out through the gap in the fence, across a heavy plank that has been laid across the tar pit, and along the riverbank to Monsieur Canari’s barley farm, to the east of the village.
Oxen have been working all morning to plough deep furrows, and men with shovels have followed behind, deepening them into trenches.
Other men, naked from the waist up, swarm over the carcass. Their trousers and torsos are stained completely red with the blood of the beast. They work with saws, ripping through the tough flesh. When they get to a bone, the men with axes move in.
Before they started, Father Ambroise came to bless the beast. To sanctify it, because it had tasted human blood and dined on human flesh. After that, he stripped off his cassock and picked up a saw with the others.
Willem has little taste for the sawing of flesh, and not the strength for the chopping of bones, so he volunteered to help barrow the macabre cargo out to the farm.
Even that is hard work, and after the first few loads his muscles are aching, but he looks at the far greater exertions of the other men, and does not complain.
After many trips out to the farm, he arrives back to find the cutters waiting, while the ax-men hack into the huge bones of the creature’s hind legs.
He waits behind Monsieur Lejeune and his brother the priest. A girl brings water and scoops some out for each of them with a ladle, so they do not have to use their hands, now black and sticky with dried and drying blood.
At the head of the animal, Monsieur Claude stands, still unbloodied, directing the operation, but not participating in it. Such is the right of a mayor.
“Our mayor buries his head in his own arse and does not see what is happening in the world,” Monsieur Lejeune says.
“Our mayor is more interested in his own affairs than the affairs of the village,” Father Ambroise says bitterly.
“You leave an empty nest and cannot be surprised when the cuckoo moves in,” Monsieur Lejeune says.
“I did not say I was surprised, brother. I am never surprised at the depravity of man.”
“Yet you say nothing to him,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “You ask nothing of him.”
“What could I ask?” Father Ambroise says. “As a man I want to kill him. As a man of God, I must forgive him. I am his neighbor, but I am also his priest.”
“You are a fool.”
“And you are an unbeliever.”
“I choose to be an unbeliever.”
“And I choose to be a fool.”
The conversation ceases as the mayor approaches.
“The bones of the legs and the spine are thick,” he says. “We could use the strong back of your boy, and his ax.”
“I do not know where he is,” Father Ambroise says.
“What about Jean?” Monsieur Claude asks. “I have not seen him since we started. It is not like either of them to shirk their duties.”
He looks closely at Monsieur Lejeune, who shakes his head. “I do not know where they are. I was looking for Jean myself earlier.”
“If you have sent them to warn Wellington, you go against the whole village,” Monsieur Claude says. “We made a decision.”
“I do not know where they are,” Monsieur Lejeune repeats, and Father Ambroise also shakes his head.
“Boy,” Monsieur Claude says, “where are those friends of yours?”
“I don’t know,” Willem says truthfully. He knows where they are going, but not where they are at this moment.
Monsieur Lejeune turns, a little surprised to find Willem standing right behind them.
“Willem, what is that bull-brained son of mine up to?” he asks.
“I really cannot say, sir,” Willem says.
“Willem,” Father Ambroise says, “have Jean and François gone to Brussels to warn the duke?”
Willem turns red, and is silent, unable to lie to his priest.
“Willem?”
“They left this morning,” Willem says.
“Idiots!” Monsieur Claude shouts, staring at Willem as if it is his fault.
“I had nothing to do with it,” Willem says. “It was their idea and their decision.”
“But you could have told us what they were doing, and you chose not to,” Father Ambroise says.
“There will be retributions,” Monsieur Claude says. “No one in the village will be safe!”
Especially not the mayor, Willem thinks.
“What time did they leave?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.
“Straight after the meeting,” Willem says.
“Idiots!” Monsieur Claude shouts again.
“We will not catch them,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “They have many hours’ head start on us, and nobody knows the forest better than François.”
“This is treachery,” Monsieur Claude says.
“Calm yourself,” Monsieur Lejeune says.
“It is a crime, and they will be made to pay,” Monsieur Claude says. “They will be arrested and put to trial, as soon as they return.” He is also the town magistrate and Willem thinks that the result of such a trial has already been decided.
“There is no need for a trial,” Father Ambroise says.
“It is our only hope,” Monsieur Claude says. “If we punish the crime ourselves, we may deflect the anger of the French. We must show that we do not condone these actions.”
He looks at Willem. “This one also, for aiding the criminals.”
* * *
The first glimpse Jean and François get of the abbey is through a gap in the trees where a huge oak has fallen, taking several smaller, younger trees with it. An old bell tower, its top fractured and jagged, juts above the forest canopy.
It is impossible to tell how tall the tower once stood, but even now, crumbling back into the earth, it still soars above the forest around it.
“I remember this place,” Jean says.
“We came here once before,” François says. “When we were children.”
“We were on a bear hunt, I think,” Jean says.
“Lucky we didn’t find one.” François laughs.
“Lucky for the bear,” Jean says.
“I will always treasure those days,” François says.
Jean looks at him oddly, then shrugs. “Life was simpler then,” he agrees. His nose wrinkles and his smile fades. “Do you smell that?”
“Cooking fires,” François says.
“I think the abbey is not as deserted as it once was,” Jean says.
“You think it is the French soldiers?” François asks.
“I doubt that it is the ghost of the abbot,” Jean says. He looks around at the thick, dense bush and closely packed trees. “We could move into the forest, but it would mean hacking a trail,” he says. “However, if we stay on the path, then we may run into one of their patrols.”
“It is my fault,” François says. “It was my idea to come this way. I’m sorry, cousin.”
“It is no matter,” Jean says.
“If we return now we can be back before dark,” François says. “Tomorrow we can take the longer path, toward Waterloo and around the outskirts of the forest.”
“No. We have come too far to turn back,” Jean says. “We will proceed, but with greatest care. If we encounter a patrol, and cannot hide from them, we will protest our innocence. We took a wrong turn and are lost in the forest.”
“And if they do not accept our deceit?” François asks.
“Then we shall convince them,” Jean says, putting a hand to the stock of his crossbow.
“We should turn back,” François says.
“What, cousin, you are afraid of a few French dandies?” Jean asks.
“I fear nothing,” François says.
“Then lead the way,” Jean says.
They reach a stream that crosses the path, creating a small ford. It flows from a clearing created by a rocky plateau and there they see the decaying glory of the abbey in full for the first time. It sits atop a hill, rising up out of the forest that surrounds it like a saur emerging from an egg. A thin line of water glints down the face of the hill, a natural spring giving birth to the stream that flows across in front of them.
The walls of the abbey still stand, and in one place, where it had collapsed, there are repairs. The gates look new, and stand firmly in a great stone arch, tall enough for even a dinosaur to enter. The stone of the walls is mottled green with moss and creeping vines, and the tops of the walls are rounded, weathered by the centuries.
Behind the ancient walls rise steep roofs, most of them newly thatched. The windows of the outside wall are tall and narrow, giving the appearance of battlements.
On either side of the main gate are statues, now gray and green with lichen, but still intact. To the left is the Virgin Mary, her arms enfolded in her robes, spread out in supplication. To the right is Christ in a crown of thorns, his head bowed in agony.
As they look, there comes a bellow from the direction of the abbey. It sounds distant and echoes hollowly, as though in a dungeon or a cave.
François and Jean look at each other. No words are necessary. They know that sound.
Napoléon has another dinosaur.
François turns his head quickly at another sound. This one from the pathway.
“Someone comes,” he says.
They scan the forest around them. The rocky clearing is of no use for concealment. It is a flat plateau of shale-like rock. The other side of the path is a dense alluvial thicket of alder and dogwood, but it is their only choice. Jean pushes into a tangle of roots, brush, and vines, spreading the branches of a thorny bush and finding a gap at its base. He drops down into it, holding back the branches until François slides in beside him. Behind them is the sound of gentle water: the stream that runs from the abbey.
They hear more sounds now, the steady tramp of heavy boots and something else: a scratching, slithering sound interspersed with a strange rattle.
“What is that?” François asks, but Jean just puts a finger to his lips. Whatever it is, it is close now. They hear breathing: the rough, raw panting of an animal, with a small, inward whistle as it inhales.
A smell comes to them, like the sulfurous stench of an unemptied bedpan or the bitter-rotten perfume of gangrenous flesh.
François crosses himself, daring to make only the smallest movement with his index finger on his chest. Jean swallows repeatedly, trying to rid himself of a sudden metallic taste in his mouth. He reaches for the stock of his crossbow and lets his hand rest there. Something crawls across the back of his legs, a sensation that would normally have him jumping and twisting around, but he ignores it. Snake, spider, or rat, it concerns him less than what approaches down the forest path.
“It is not of this world,” François says in a voice that barely disturbs the air.
He is wrong. It is of this world, just not of the known world. A creature surely from the New World, the Amerigo Islands.
The hands of the creature are the first thing they see, through small gaps in the mesh of plants and twigs that shelter them.
Each hand has three long, bony fingers, jointed like a human hand, but ending in a vicious hooked claw. The arms come into view. They are long and skeletal with sharp elbows. The hide of the creature is ridged and muscular, as a human being would look without its skin, but not red; rather it is the charcoal black of old burnt wood.
The creature is the size of a large goat. Its snout is short and its mouth is open, revealing two rows of sharp, yellow teeth. The one eye they can see is red, and seems to glow against the dark of its body.
Sweeping back from its head are spines, and similar spines, but much longer, protrude from its back. Its hind legs have hocks like those of a horse. Its tail is long and ends in another cluster of spines. Such a creature surely cannot exist outside of a nightmare, and yet it walks in front of them, shackled by a leash fastened to a leather collar around its neck.
It passes in front of them and twitches its head to one side, examining the bushes where Jean and François lie. It seems to sense them concealed in the bush and starts to move in their direction, but a whip cracks behind it and the creature recoils from a sting on its left flank. It moves on, followed closely by a soldier.
“Surely this is the face of the devil himself,” François whispers.
“It is just a saur,” Jean says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
A second of the creatures follows, with its own handler. It also stops, sensing something in the bush.
Jean and François wait, hoping this one too will move on. But this time there is no crack of a whip. Instead, with a sudden movement, the head of the creature bursts through the vines and creepers that hide them. Its yellow teeth snap together, just centimeters from Jean’s face.
Jean and François recoil from the snout and the evil yellow teeth. It hisses, spraying them with saliva.
It is only one short lunge away, but the leash has snagged in the thorny thicket. Jean and François scramble backward on their hands and knees, desperate to get away from this abhorrent thing. It thrashes and shakes as it tries to reach them but only succeeds in tangling itself further.
Muskets fire on the other side of the thicket and lead balls rip holes in the thin branches. Leaves jump and wood chips fly.
Jean and François emerge into dense forest, jumping up and running without thought or direction. The sound of the water beckons and Jean leads the way to it as shouts come from behind them and they hear knives slashing at the thicket.
They stumble and splash into the stream but have gone only a few steps when Jean catches François by the arm and points back upstream.
“This way!” he says.
“But that takes us back toward the abbey,” François says.
“Which is why they will search downstream,” Jean says.
“No … but…” François freezes, panicked, unable to move.
The sound of the creatures is closer now.
“God is telling me to go this way,” Jean says.
Confused and stumbling, François follows him, copying his movements, both sliding their feet through the water to avoid making sounds.
They are just around a bend when they hear splashing from where they entered the stream, along with snarls and rattles from the creatures and more shouts from the men.
Jean and François continue upstream but stop as the stream reaches the path they were on a few moments before.
Ahead at the monastery, they see men in peasant smocks, with muskets, pouring out through the gates in the great archway.
They stop, unable to go forward or backward.
“What do we do?” François asks. “What can we do?”
Then, from the west, comes the roar of cannonfire.