Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Beginnings |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Marielle d'Ablis |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | G, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Jules Verne, Jean Passepartout |
| DESCRIPTION: | Write story summary here. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
Jules Verne hauled the remaining dusty chest out from the corner of the cupboard. He sneezed violently and blinked as Passepartout vigorously applied a dust cloth to the lid. "I think this is the last one," Jules said, coughing to clear his throat. "No more boxes."
"This is a relief, Jules," Passepartout replied as he slid his knife in a crack to use as a lever. "You have many, many books."
"I count my blessings that I have the Aurora to use to transport them," Jules said with a smile. "If I had to pay poundage, I'd be out of money again."
Passepartout lifted the lid off. The chest had many books in it and he began to transfer them carefully to another container, making small noises of disgust as he dusted. "Master will be unpleased if we make the Aurora filthy with book dirt. How many are in there?"
Jules peered inside. "Looks like twenty or so." He reached in and brought something out. "I don't believe it. Look at this! It's my first notebook."
The cleaning cloth was vigorously applied before Passepartout dared to take hold of the slim volume. "Your very first? From when you were a baby?" He opened the cover and looked at the first pages. "You could draw well for a baby!"
"I was not a baby." Jules had trouble keeping the laughter out of his voice. "I was sent away to school. That's when I started. See?" He pointed to a date carefully inked on the cover. He took the book back and examined the page that Passepartout had been studying. "I think that... yes, this was when I... when...." His voice trailed away as he looked at the sketch on the page. The sketch of a face. A face forgotten until now. In the blink of an eye, he was eleven again as the memory washed over him.
Finally, he had escaped! Clutching his sack, a young Jules scooted down the narrow street, stopping several times to duck into a convenient doorway, checking to see if he was being followed.
One could never be too careful when you were escaping, he thought. After all, the danger was not so much in being caught as in being returned. And he had no desire to be returned. Jules waited, trying to look nonchalant, gazing into the storefront window and counting the beats of his heart as it shivered his ribs with the force of their beats. Only when he was absolutely convinced that no adult was pursuing him, did he allow himself a small smile as he patted his bag for assurance and boldly strolled down the street in the direction of the docks.
This was St. Malo: the great walled city. Famed for its harbor and its corsairs. This destination was only his beginning, for the greatest adventure still lay ahead.
There were so many boats to choose from, much more than what Nantes had to offer. Nantes would not do for escape; the risk was too great of his father finding him. But when he was offered the chance to visit here, the boy knew that this would be his best opportunity to flee.
He had it all planned. He would stow away on a ship bound for India. Once there he would see great things, do greater things, and write of the greatest things! He would write of elephants and temples and the exotic mysteries of world! Things that others could not even imagine! He would never, never speak of “the law” and he would never be forced to study it. Let his father train his brother in that world. He preferred his own.
Continuing down the street until he reached the harbor, Jules faced his next decision. Which way to go? He could venture to the left or the right. There were so many boats to choose from, from small fishing boats to large sailing vessels. He wondered which way would be best, so he scanned the length of the harbor for some sort of sign.
The sign came in the sound of laughter. There, to his right, stood a gathering of children laughing and squealing with delight at something, or someone. It would be a good place to go, Jules decided. He would only be another child in a crowd of children instead of a boy alone trying to locate a ship on which to stow away. It would get him closer to his destiny and perhaps then, he could decide.
“More! More!” A little girl cried to the young man in the center of the youthful congregation. “Please, Jean! Once more…for me?” she pleaded.
The Frenchman laughed heartily, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. “Once more Nicolette – for you!” Immediately, the young man stood up and began to juggle three oranges. He ordered, “More!” and a nearby lad threw him another which followed the circular path of its fellows. “Again!” he shouted again and two more oranges flew towards him only to be caught and juggled with the others. “Is that the best you have to offer for me?” the young man egged the children on.
“No!” They all shouted, before dissolving into shouts of “More, Jean! More!”
“Now!” Four more fruits descended upon Jean, who incorporated them into his juggling without so much as batting his eye. The young man now was juggling ten oranges! Ten! His hands were a blur as the fruit moved as though they had grown wings. Jules did not try to hide his fascination. He, like all the other children, was entranced.
Suddenly, the young man shouted, “Ready? Hands up!” And one by one the oranges were plucked out of their orbits and dispersed – one to each of the children gathered there. Jules almost dropped his prize as it sailed towards him - the last to be delivered. With a flourish the young man bowed among the claps and shrieks of delight of his youthful audience. He then dismissed them with a wave and simple, “Enough!” but not before the little girl called “Nicolette” ran up and hugged him impulsively.
The young man’s face broke into a huge, illuminating grin that seemed almost too big for his face. Jules could not help but smile at his countenance or notice the warmth reflected in his eyes. As the other children took their prizes and flew off like little birds, Jules stayed behind, studying this unusual fellow.
He was bronzed from the sun with dark, wavy hair, and though he was on the brink of manhood, he exuded a boyish spirit that was magnetic. Jules began to relax. After all, children were a good measure of character; dogs, too, as a huge, black Bull Mastiff padded up to the young man.
“Ho! Cheval! Did you miss me, my friend?” The young man leaned over the massive beast and scratched the dog behind the ears as the dog looked up adoringly. Thick drool slobbered onto the young man’s shoes before becoming hidden as the Cheval plopped down upon his master’s feet. The man, bent over, continuing to massage the beast, which then rolled onto his back, lolling in contentment.
Jules stepped forward quietly. To draw the young man’s attention from rubbing the giant black beast, he cleared his throat loudly, causing Jean to look up. When he did, Jules held out the orange.
“This is yours…I think. Thank you for entertainment. You are a wonderful juggler,” he said sincerely.
“Thank you for the complimentive. You may keep the orange, if you would like. All of the others did.”
“Thank you, but it wouldn’t be right. I haven’t earned this and I need to make my own way.”
The young man raised an eyebrow in surprise at the lad’s words. “I see. You are a man of yourself. In that case, you should definitely keep the orange, my friend. You do not know when you shall eat another, yes?” He straightened to his full height and then bowed during introduction. “I am Jean.”
There was no suspicion in Jean’s voice – only acceptance. And Jules found himself smiling broadly at this stranger as he offered his own name in return.
“My name is Jules. Jules Ver…just Jules.” The boy extended his hand to his new friend.
“Well, then, hello, ‘just Jules.’ This is Cheval, my dog. He eats like a horse, thus his name.”
Jules eyed the massive canine tentatively, as Jean laughed. “He will not harm you. Unless he farts, then you may fall down dead. It is not his teeth you need to have worry of.” Jean said the words with total earnestness, but his dark eyes danced merrily as Jules retreated a step.
On cue, Jules heard a loud sound like the passing of wind, and Jean flopped over on top of the dog with a strangled cry. Jules rushed forward to see if his new friend was hurt. Kneeling down beside the animal, Jules shook Jean shouting, “Are you all right? Should I run and find help? Speak to me, please!”
Jean opened one eye, smiling at the boy. He immediately popped back up into a sitting position, the dog following his master’s example.
“See? I told you he does not harm.”
Jules’ concern shattered into laughter as Cheval woofed. “I can see.”
“He is quite amiacable, unless he senses danger. Then, he is different. It is always good to have a friend watching your back; Cheval is a good friend.”
The dog painted his master’s cheek with a large, drooly tongue and Jules found himself grinning at Jean’s repulsed expression. Jean wiped off the slobber with the back of his hand before standing and asking, “Would you care to join me for lunch, ‘just Jules?’ Or perhaps, you have made other plans?”
Jules’ stomach growled loudly in response and he blushed crimson at its poor timing.
“I will take that as a ‘yes’, no?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Jean indicated a handsome Xerbec, whose forward deck was being scrupulously scrubbed by a few younger boys. Jean whistled and the boys looked up.
“Go home and eat. Tell your mother, I am dining with a friend.”
After they bolted off, Jean scurried up the planks and disappeared below deck. Jules started to follow, but Cheval gave a single, deep-throated “woof” of disapproval. Jules froze until Jean emerged a moment later carrying a sack of his own.
He ran back down the gangplank and patted his dog on the head. “I hope you do not mind eating on land, ‘just Jules.’ But my cousin, he is always careful about strangers on his ship. We would not want to find a stowaway, you know.” he remarked, leading them to a nice, sunny corner, where the three could sit and eat in peace.
“No. Of course not,” Jules replied, quietly.
Nodding, Jean unpacked the sack, displaying a pair of crunchy baguettes, half a wheel of creamy yellow cheese, a flask of wine, four plums and an orange. He blessed himself with great solemnity as Jules followed suit. When the prayer concluded, Jean pulled an intricately engraved knife from his belt and began slicing the bread, flipping the end piece to Cheval, who devoured it in one gulp. He handed the next to Jules, who accepted it with a smile.
“So, ‘just Jules’, you are traveling today?” he mentioned casually as he divided the cheese into three parts. “It is a good day for a voyage, yes?”
Jules nodded as he tore into the crusty bread.
Gazing up at the azure skies, he pointed towards the heavens with his knife. “Fair weather. Good winds. I suppose that one could go far on such a day as this. If one had made preparizations…”
Jules mumbled - mouth crammed with cheese, “I have all that I need – in here.” he patted the small, brown sack beside him before swallowing. “Thanks.”
A seagull swooped down from above, landing close enough to the trio to recognize the possibility of food. It ventured closer, strolling confidently towards an unguarded crust when Cheval’s low growl threatened to become something more demonstrative. The bird flew off; the two boys watched it glide back out towards the sea.
“Lucky gull,” Jules said offhandedly.
“Yes…very. What?”
“The gull. Flight is so effortless for him. I mean, he is built to sail the winds, not unlike your Xerbec is built to sail the sea. Sleek and maneuverable.”
Jean laughed. “Yes. For design God is like DaVinci. Only God is better, of course. Personally, I think that He has had much more practice than Leonardo. A few more years for the Italian and…who knows?”
The words seemed so incongruous coming from a man that was juggling oranges a mere five minutes ago, and yet the thoughts did not sound so very out of place. Jules took another bite of cheese and asked, “You…know DaVinci?”
A huge grin broke upon Jean’s face. Leaning in close to Jules, he motioned for the boy to bend closer before whispering, “I am afraid that I have bad news for you ‘just Jules’…but DaVinci? He is dead.” He wrapped his hand around his throat as though he were being choked and contorted his face into a comical impersonation of death. He reverted to his normal countenance before correcting his friend, “I do not know the man, but I know his work.” He winked.
“I do too! Look!” Jules laid aside the last piece of cheese as he rummaged through his sack. Jean looked on in curiosity while Cheval took advantage of the momentary distraction and ate the forgotten morsel.
Jules opened his notebook, flipped through a few pages and stopped, handing it over to the young man. There, he had copied an exact replica of Leonardo’s flying machine – an ornithopter. Intricate pencil marks connected to each other to form a blueprint of bat-like wings, which could be attached to a man’s arm and then “flapped” to simulate flight.
Jean studied the design carefully, nodding his head as he did. “Yes. This looks like Leonardo’s. Is quite beautiful, I think.”
“Yes. It is beautiful in its lines - but it is wrong in its theory.”
“Of course it is wrong, Jules. If it were rights, we would all be flapping to Paris and back!”
Jules eyes twinkled with laughter as Jean leaned over to Cheval and flapped his ears in demonstration.
“And we would have very tired arms.” Jean patted the dog’s head. “Man- he is not made with enough armishness. Muscles would need to be hugantuan!”
“One of DaVinci’s flaws was in believing that birds just beat their wings downward and backward. It isn’t that simple.”
“No. God is not a simple man.”
Jules smiled. “A wing’s purpose is two-fold: thrust and lift. The outer wing feathers provide thrust on the downstroke, while the inner wing gives lift. See?” Jules leaned over and flipped the page of the notebook to a complicated drawing of a bird’s wing and pointed. “DaVinci’s wings are more like a bat. No feathers.”
“No lift. He needed to speak to Icarus…to conmatch the two ideas. Then again, Icarus died, so it may not have be such a good thing.”
“Even with feathers, we could flap all we want and it still wouldn’t work. ‘Hugantuan’ muscles, remember?”
“Man is a puny motor. Yes.”
Jules rummaged for a pencil, never noticing that Jean’s eyes had narrowed as he studied him, for he was happy speaking to this odd but like-minded soul. He didn’t accuse Jules of ‘wasting time’ or ‘having his head in the clouds.’ His earlier reserve had disappeared with talk of flight and machines. His green eyes were lit with enthusiasm; he had found acceptance in the least likely of places – the docks of St. Malo.
“So since you cannot take to the skies, you take to the seas instead?” The question transformed Jules’s smile to a thin straight line.
“No…not really. I love the sea. I always have.”
“Have you ever been out on the seas, Jules?” Jean shifted his focus to uniformly slicing the last baguette.
“I…well, yes. Yes, I have been on boats. Of course.”
“How long?”
“About 22 meters,” answered seriously.
“No, Jules. How long were you at sea? You are describing a fishing boat. So, how long were you gone for?”
“Nine.”
“Months?”
“Hours.”
“Oh. I see. Perhaps, you should take the bread then as well.”
“I don’t need your advice.” His eyes shuttered with suspicion, suddenly darkened to hazel.
Jean ignored the defensive tone and spoke with blithe disregard. “I am not giving it. I am giving bread, see?” He tossed half a baguette at him. Jules caught it easily, but his expression had soured at the scrutiny.
Jean slid the knife back into his belt for safekeeping. “Please, do not misunderstand me, Jules. I understand ‘going’ very well. I have done so many times. But your mind is already gone, so why not let your body stay?”
Jules shook his head, thinking he misheard the last sentence. “I’m not sure I understand you…”
“Believe me, there is mutuality. I am not quite understanding you, either. You are smart; your mind asks questions. From what I see in that journal, you are even trying to draw the solutions. I am just not sure the solutions you seek lie in a fishing boat - or even a Xerbec. In fact, I doubt they lie out there at all…” He pointed to the sea.
“What would you know about it?”
“Me? Not much I suppose.” Jean answered shrugging his shoulders. “But then, I am not the one looking to stow away.”
Jules released a loud sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body. He looked at his friend with defeat written in his eyes. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, let us just say that you would not be the first. On the other palm, you would not be the last, either.”
Jean’s unusual way with words threatened to crack through Jules’ disappointment, but the impulse was stifled by fear. “Are you going to return me?” he asked quietly.
“To where? You are only ‘just Jules.’ Unless someone tells me his last name, how could I?”
“Thanks.”
“Do not be so quick in your ‘merci.’” Jean paused thoughtfully before posing his question. “You would not care to tell me your circumstances by any chance?”
“No.”
“Then let me guess…” He scratched his head as he contemplated possible scenarios. “Your girlfriend has left you for another man?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“You lost the rent money to horde of roaming gypsies? Or wagering in some den of iniquitude?”
Jules shook his head negatively.
“Then the only thing left is that your dog’s farts have so much rancidity that they have turned your parents into stone…or salt…marble?” The young man offered with hope.
The sheer absurdity of that vision broke the final bastion of Jules’ defensiveness. He dissolved into laughter with Jean joining in the merriment.
“No,” Jules managed to squeak out between chortles, “but if Cheval can do that, may I borrow him?”
Cheval, in answer, discharged a thunderous chorus of gas.
“Cheval!” The pair yelled in unison.
When their laughter subsided, Jules quieted and traced a finger along the edge of his journal. His brow furrowed slightly though his demeanor was calm and subdued – already fearing the answer.
“I…I could work on your cousin’s Xerbec, if you…”
His voice faded as he locked eyes with Jean. It took a moment before Jules lowered them - the tears welling, but not spilling. He looked down, conspicuously absorbed with petting Cheval.
Jean continued to groom Cheval, speaking as though the conversation was directed to the dog and Jules was merely a bystander. “There are so many beliefs in the world. I believe in God and Destiny. Some people think that you cannot have both – that to accept one, you must deny the other. I do not think so. To me, God is the writer and Destiny is the writing. I am not so bold as to hurt God’s feelings by refusing to read.” Raising his eyes at the boy, Jean asked, “Do you understand?”
“Actually…no.”
Jules shifted uneasily under the young man’s clear gaze. Jean’s words were directed at him. “Very well. Then imagine this: you leave on one of these ships to search for your Destiny. Only your Destiny has come here to find you! So then that which you want most, eludiates you. No matter what you may say, you are not ‘just Jules.’ Your Destiny is in here.” Jean gently tapped his temple with his forefinger.
“But my father is sending me away to school! He wants me to follow in his profession! I don’t even LIKE his profession!” he protested.
Shaking his head, Jean calmly replied. “It will not matter. Truly, it will not. It is not your job to find Destiny. It is your job to wait for it; it will find you.”
“Even if I am stuck in some smelly garret studying a subject that I hate?”
“Especially then.”
“I don’t know…”
“If I am so unright, you have my permission to find me and punch me in the nose!”
“That could be years from now! And if you’re wrong, I wouldn’t recognize you anyway. Unless…” Jules flipped to a clean page and hastily sketched a few lines. “Hold still,” he commanded as he continued to draw, adding the angular chin and the wide, grinning mouth. He glanced up and then back down, filling in the dark brows and eyes. With a few more sweeps of his pencil, he completed the wavy hair.
Jules nodded in approval before submitting his portrait to his subject. Jean threw his head back and laughed.
“That is wonderful!” he exclaimed.
“Do you think I’d recognize you if my Destiny fails to find me?” Jules asked pointedly.
Jean clapped a hand over his nose and answered, “I think so. Yes. I do.”
Jules laughed as he shook his head as though sweeping the cobwebbed memories into the corner of his mind. The man whose portrait he had drawn all those years ago was alive and kneeling beside him. He stared in disbelief, but it was true. Time had passed. The face had matured; it wore a distinctive moustache and goatee, but it was incredibly and unmistakably - Jean Passepartout.
“You! It was you…all those years ago! You knew and you never mentioned a word!”
Jean offered Jules a small shrug and a sheepish grin, but the knowledge of that encounter glowed deep in his ebony eyes.
“There was nothing to mention, Jules. You never did tell me your last name that day. What could I have said?”
Jules studied his friend for a long minute considering what he might have thought of Jean’s revelation, had it been divulged. Certainly he would have hit Passepartout after his initial meeting with Phileas Fogg. But after that? Jean’s nose would be forever safe – from him at least.
“I don’t suppose that it would have been wise on your part…”
“No. Very diswise.”
Jean picked up another book and efficiently dusted it before moving it a new container. Jules was amazed that even now, Passepartout did not expound upon what happened that day in St. Malo. After all, he had convinced a boy name Jules Verne to return to his family and school and wait for his destiny to find him. Then again, they both now knew – so perhaps it did not need to be discussed after all.
But that did not mean that Jules could not thank him.
Jules creased the yellowed journal page in a straight line near its binding, carefully tearing it along his score so as not to chance ripping the old portrait.
“Jules! What are you doing? You are ruining your baby book!”
Jules shook his head as he completed his task, “Calm down, Passepartout. It’s all right. Nothing is being ruined, I’m just repaying an old friend for a lunch from fourteen years ago.” He held paper out to Passepartout, unable to wipe the smile from his face.
Jean took the offered portrait, bobbing his head in thanks as he wiped his eyes. “Thank you, Jules. This is most precious.”
“So is a good friend, Passepartout,” he answered.
The two returned to their task of cleaning and transferring Jules’ old books in silence. Ten more minutes past and Jules stood up stretching from being bent over. His stomach growled.
Jean looked up, “I am thinking lunch is a good idea.”
“Lunch is a great idea. Say…do we have any oranges?”
“I believe so. Yes, I am certain of it.”
“Good. Because I want to see if you can still juggle ten, Passepartout!”
Jules clapped his friend on the back and the turned to leave.
~ fini~