Post by Lorpius Prime on Feb 18, 2007 0:31:09 GMT -5
Jay froze when the door to his cabin opened. Despite what he’d just seen outside, he didn’t believe such people actually existed. The real world just wasn’t that eccentric.
The man who came through the door looked like he was a Canadian Indian-fighter or a Virginia cowboy. He had a wide-brimmed hat which, like fully half of his clothing, was made of sun-faded leather. Across his shoulder was a leather bandolier filled with brass cartridges that could only be intended for the ivory-handled revolver hanging by his thigh in a holster, also made of leather. His leather boots rose halfway up his shins and his leathery face said that he was at least 50 years of age, and Jay thought he’d probably been scowling for at least half of those years.
But when he saw Jay, his green eyes twinkled and he swiped off his hat to reveal a mess of bright orange hair that seemed to have escaped grayness out of sheer defiance. The man’s English was harsher and higher-pitched than what Jay was used to.
"'ullo Mate!"
Jay, whose clothes consisted mostly of gray wool twill, struggled to affect a polite smile. This was more difficult than usual, since his true inclination was towards a slack-jawed gape.
"Er, hi," Jay managed. "Is this your cabin, then?" Maybe the man had made a mistake. Maybe he just enjoyed visiting every cabin to greet other passengers. Maybe he would go away. Maybe God wasn’t going to hold Jay’s cosmic comedian routine against him.
Maybe Jay was fooling himself.
"Right you are!" the leathery man announced. Jay felt ill. "Nice rooms on these big ones, aren’t they? I’ll take them over a bunk on Tasmanian salmon hauler any day. Name’s Jack Duggan," he offered a calloused hand, "pleasure to meet you."
Jay took the hand reluctantly, and then fought to keep his wrist intact as Jack Duggan jerked it like a whip, "Jay. Uh, Jay Thomson Blake. How do you do, Mr. Duggan?"
"Corky. Blake, eh? You're a newspaper man, right? I saw something the other day, about them Danes?"
Jay nodded carefully, "That’s me." He hoped Duggan wasn't offended by his article. The man seemed liable to slug him. Or worse.
He needn’t have worried, "Didn’t read it. Denmark’s not for me. Too cold. And boring. Nothing interesting’s happened in Denmark since Fortinbras invaded."
Jay nearly choked. "Oh yeah?" he sputtered, and then started coughing.
"Yeah," Duggan raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask anything. Instead, he unbuckled his leather bandolier and gun-belt, and set them on the table before plopping down into a chair.
"That’s a—um—that’s a fancy gun you’ve got." Jay gestured the polished revolver with the ivory handle.
"Yeah. There’s a story to that." Just a short time ago Jay had called this man mad. Now the madman was swinging his boots up onto the table, making himself at home in Jay's cabin.
"I was in Africa, went on a safari for some big game. This was about 30 years ago, now; I was still just a lad, didn’t know what I was getting into. Anyway, in the party with me was this one old bloke; and I mean really old. Chap looked like he should’ve been getting around in a wheelchair, but he was roughing it like the rest of us, and whined less than most. And the whole time, this bloke’s carrying a couple revolvers, ivory handles, one at each side. I don’t think he ever took those things off, wore them in his sleep, probably bathed with them right next to him." Duggan chuckled at the memory.
"Now, this was a big game hunt," he went on. "Lions, rhinoceros, elephants even, if we found ‘em. We were all carrying elephant guns, and those are just this side of being cannons if you’ve never seen one. Anyway, this old bloke takes a lot of ribbing for his revolvers, even the guides are laughing at him because they’re useless. Not me, though. I agreed with them, of course—what’re you going to do with a revolver when you’ve got a lion bearing down on you? But I didn’t say anything, because this chap was something else. He was some kind of poet, if you can believe that, and his stories were worth having to look at those goddamn shining pistols. He swore like you wouldn’t believe, too, gave out twice as much as he ever got from the rest of the party. So I just hung about and listened, held my tongue.
"Well, so this one day, we tracked down a lion. Big one, male. So one of the guides takes the shot because he’s a marksman and you don’t want to mess up when you’re dealing with lion. You can get your nice safari photos, but you want to be mighty damned sure you kill the beast first, and do it right. So the guide takes the shot. Only he misses, and just wings the animal. Now that wasn’t enough to hurt it any, but it sure as hell made it angry. Well, all bets are off then, and we all start unloading on this lion because it’s charging us, and lions move fast."
Duggan shook his head, "Well, I don’t know if we all missed or if the beast was too pumped up to even notice he'd been shot, but none of us can seem to bring him down. So we do the only thing a man can do when he’s faced with death like that: we scatter and run for dear life."
Jay had sunk into one of the chairs, mesmerized more by the man’s accent than his story, although the story was rather fascinating too.
Duggan smiled, "Except for this one chap." He held up one finger on his right hand, and chuckled. "We’re all running and hollering, but this one crazy old bloke just plants his feet and glares at that lion like that’s going to stop it. It didn’t, of course, but when it got close enough, he took out one of his revolvers," Jack pantomimed the action. "And starts shooting, by God! Those guns didn’t even look like they worked, looked like little toys, but the mad geezer just starts hammering away at an honest-to-God lion with ‘em. Now, he spent the first one without seeming to do a bloody thing, and I knew he was dead for sure because that lion just kept charging. But the damn fool just draws his other gun and starts shooting it off too.
"Well—God help me if I’m lying—but the bloke must have hit something important, because by the fourth round that lion was slowing down, and by the time this fellow was done shooting, it was dead."
Duggan was silent for a moment, staring up into space, lost in his memory.
"Can you picture that? There were all of us—fools that we were—running from this lion that’s about to kill us, and here’s this chap with one foot in the grave that we’ve all been teasing for a week, who stands his ground and shoots it dead. None of us can say a word; we're just looking at the bastard. And he simply reloads his guns, then asks us for some help with the carcass."
His red hair bounced around as he shook his head, "When we got back to the town, none of us could buy him enough drinks, I tell you. But I knew he was laughing at us all the whole time. And wasn’t he right? I did ask him, though. I asked him how he could just look at that charging lion, no fear at all, like he was going to stare it down."
He paused. Jay—because he figured he was meant to—asked, "And what did he say?"
The storyteller grinned, "He said to me, I swear to God he said, 'Because I knew I was the meaner, tougher son of a bitch in that fight, and he had to know it too.'" For this last part, Duggan’s voice shifted to a different, gravelly sound that Jay knew must be an imitation of the old lunatic.
"Well anyway," Duggan shrugged, "I didn’t think much was going to come of that whole adventure, except maybe an interesting story to tell chaps like yourself. But around six or seven years after that, I get a package from some lawyer way out in California. Says the old bloke finally died, but that he’d written me into his will. The lawyer had quite a time tracking me down, it seemed, but the old man wanted me to have something. So think how I must have felt when I open up this box and it’s got one of those damned polished ivory pistols in it. I didn't know that the old bastard knew my name, much less thought anything much of me. But I guess he must’ve seen something in me because," he patted the butt of the revolver on the table, "now I’ve got a pistol that belonged to the meanest, toughest son of a bitch that ever walked the Earth." He shook his head again, smiling. "Now isn’t that something?"
Jay blinked, suddenly aware that the story was over. "Er… yeah. I’m surprised they let you bring it onboard."
Duggan bellowed laughter, "Well they didn’t jolly well want to, that’s for sure! You shoulda’ heard the Frogs whining. Whole band of them going into fits over me."
"I saw some kind of commotion outside," Jay nodded to the window.
"Yeah? Could you see the look on that one Frenchy’s face? About to burst a bloody valve, he was." He waved a dismissive hand, "Ah, wasn’t any trouble, I get it all the time."
Jay thought there had been an awful lot of rifles for not any trouble, but he recalled the man’s gun-waving and the conclusion that Duggan must be out of his mind. Jay frowned.
"Ah… so what is it you do, Mr. Duggan?"
"Oh, all sorts. You might call me an old-fashioned adventurer, if you were of the mind." He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial voice, "Right now I’m hunting dragons."
Jay felt his face go blank. "Ah huh…" he nodded slowly, "dragons."
The other man nodded back, and grinned, "That’s right. I’ve been following up a lead about some sightings near Gévaudan."
"Sightings of dragons?"
"Yeah. Old stories, mind you, but well worth looking into. I’m heading east now."
Jay nodded incredulously, "And how many, um, dragons have you caught so far, then?"
"None o’ course. Or I’d be bloody well rich, wouldn’t I? But I’ve only been looking for a few years, now. Got tired of chasing down pirates and bandidos, thought I ought to have some fun before my knees give out on me, or my eyes."
"Bandidos?" Jay furrowed his brow. "What are you, some kind of bounty hunter?"
Duggan laughed, "I told you, I’m an adventurer. I spent 20 years doing contract work for Her Majesty in Australia—which, by the way, is the reason they let me on with my gun. Took a couple jobs in Mexico after the pirates got scarce Down Under. I’ll never do that again, either. That's the worst kind of scum, best just to stay clear of the whole country."
"And now you’re hunting dragons?"
"Aye."
Jay took a deep breath, "Forgive me for asking, Mr. Duggan, but why is it you think dragons exist?"
Duggan chuckled, "Doubter, are you?"
"Yes, I suppose I am." Jay resisted the urge to add but at least I’m not a loony.
"I don’t blame you. Most people won’t believe in something fantastic, like dragons, that they’ve never seen before save in fairy tales. I’m not sure I believe in them myself."
"So why…" Jay trailed off.
"Why not?" Duggan shrugged, "Man needs to stay active, needs excitement. Can you think of anything more fun than being a dragon hunter?"
Yes was the answer Jay wanted to give, but he said, "Er…"
"I should think not! Might as well live a little while I’m retiring," he clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned further back in his chair.
"Okay," Jay said slowly, "but why dragons? As long as you’re hunting nonexistent mythical creatures why not, say, griffins? Or chimeras?"
"Because there haven’t been loads o’ griffin sightings in the past century, now, have there?"
"But there have been of dragons?"
"Blimey, but haven’t there been? Thought you worked for a newspaper."
Jay was indignant, "A newspaper, yes. Not some five-penny tabloid gutter press establishment."
The self-styled adventurer had been smiling up until this point, but Jay found that Duggan could look rather frightening if he wanted to. "You’ll have a lot of cheek to say you merit more respect with that tongue."
Jay Thomson Blake did not anger easily. He had always had a relatively calm disposition compared to most boys his age, and his work for the Times had only taught him even greater control over his temper. A reporter who couldn’t keep his cool with his subjects had a hard time getting information, and would quickly find himself out of a job. But Mr. Jack Duggan was getting under his skin all the same. Jay wanted to reach over the table and slug him. If he’d encountered Duggan two days ago when Jay was still drunk off his father’s scotch, he probably would have. Now, he just clenched his fists and fumed uselessly.
The emerald green eyes stared back coldly from beneath Duggan’s creased leathery brow. The longer the silence went on, the more powerless Jay felt. He knew the other man was very much his better in most respects, age notwithstanding. And what was more frustrating, Jay knew that Duggan was right about his attitude. Still, the fact that the man was seriously suggesting the existence of dragons made Jay loath to admit it. That he was also insulting Jay’s professional integrity made Jay vindictive.
But there was nothing he could do about it. Eventually, he forced himself to relax his fists and mutter something apologetic; though he could no longer look directly at the older man.
Duggan didn’t say anything for another few moments. When he did speak, it was with none of the cheer he’d had earlier, but nor was it the accusing tone which had sent Jay into his sulking rage.
"You should come down to the bar and have a drink with me. You seem like a good kid, just got a lot to unlearn about the world. And you’d best believe me that knowing too much is worse than not knowing enough. You look like you’ve been overworked, to boot." He nodded at the table next to his gun belt.
Jay looked at the documents and records which were still scattered everywhere from his research. He did feel overworked, and didn’t think he’d be able to get anything else useful done for a while, anyway.
"All right," Jay sighed. He started to gather up the mess of papers and put them back in their envelope. "All right, fine. At this rate, we won’t make Munich until morning anyway." They still had one more stopover in Frankfurt, and the Rover hadn’t even been cleared to leave Paris yet.
"But just a couple drinks."
<<8<<_>>10>>
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-
The man who came through the door looked like he was a Canadian Indian-fighter or a Virginia cowboy. He had a wide-brimmed hat which, like fully half of his clothing, was made of sun-faded leather. Across his shoulder was a leather bandolier filled with brass cartridges that could only be intended for the ivory-handled revolver hanging by his thigh in a holster, also made of leather. His leather boots rose halfway up his shins and his leathery face said that he was at least 50 years of age, and Jay thought he’d probably been scowling for at least half of those years.
But when he saw Jay, his green eyes twinkled and he swiped off his hat to reveal a mess of bright orange hair that seemed to have escaped grayness out of sheer defiance. The man’s English was harsher and higher-pitched than what Jay was used to.
"'ullo Mate!"
Jay, whose clothes consisted mostly of gray wool twill, struggled to affect a polite smile. This was more difficult than usual, since his true inclination was towards a slack-jawed gape.
"Er, hi," Jay managed. "Is this your cabin, then?" Maybe the man had made a mistake. Maybe he just enjoyed visiting every cabin to greet other passengers. Maybe he would go away. Maybe God wasn’t going to hold Jay’s cosmic comedian routine against him.
Maybe Jay was fooling himself.
"Right you are!" the leathery man announced. Jay felt ill. "Nice rooms on these big ones, aren’t they? I’ll take them over a bunk on Tasmanian salmon hauler any day. Name’s Jack Duggan," he offered a calloused hand, "pleasure to meet you."
Jay took the hand reluctantly, and then fought to keep his wrist intact as Jack Duggan jerked it like a whip, "Jay. Uh, Jay Thomson Blake. How do you do, Mr. Duggan?"
"Corky. Blake, eh? You're a newspaper man, right? I saw something the other day, about them Danes?"
Jay nodded carefully, "That’s me." He hoped Duggan wasn't offended by his article. The man seemed liable to slug him. Or worse.
He needn’t have worried, "Didn’t read it. Denmark’s not for me. Too cold. And boring. Nothing interesting’s happened in Denmark since Fortinbras invaded."
Jay nearly choked. "Oh yeah?" he sputtered, and then started coughing.
"Yeah," Duggan raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask anything. Instead, he unbuckled his leather bandolier and gun-belt, and set them on the table before plopping down into a chair.
"That’s a—um—that’s a fancy gun you’ve got." Jay gestured the polished revolver with the ivory handle.
"Yeah. There’s a story to that." Just a short time ago Jay had called this man mad. Now the madman was swinging his boots up onto the table, making himself at home in Jay's cabin.
"I was in Africa, went on a safari for some big game. This was about 30 years ago, now; I was still just a lad, didn’t know what I was getting into. Anyway, in the party with me was this one old bloke; and I mean really old. Chap looked like he should’ve been getting around in a wheelchair, but he was roughing it like the rest of us, and whined less than most. And the whole time, this bloke’s carrying a couple revolvers, ivory handles, one at each side. I don’t think he ever took those things off, wore them in his sleep, probably bathed with them right next to him." Duggan chuckled at the memory.
"Now, this was a big game hunt," he went on. "Lions, rhinoceros, elephants even, if we found ‘em. We were all carrying elephant guns, and those are just this side of being cannons if you’ve never seen one. Anyway, this old bloke takes a lot of ribbing for his revolvers, even the guides are laughing at him because they’re useless. Not me, though. I agreed with them, of course—what’re you going to do with a revolver when you’ve got a lion bearing down on you? But I didn’t say anything, because this chap was something else. He was some kind of poet, if you can believe that, and his stories were worth having to look at those goddamn shining pistols. He swore like you wouldn’t believe, too, gave out twice as much as he ever got from the rest of the party. So I just hung about and listened, held my tongue.
"Well, so this one day, we tracked down a lion. Big one, male. So one of the guides takes the shot because he’s a marksman and you don’t want to mess up when you’re dealing with lion. You can get your nice safari photos, but you want to be mighty damned sure you kill the beast first, and do it right. So the guide takes the shot. Only he misses, and just wings the animal. Now that wasn’t enough to hurt it any, but it sure as hell made it angry. Well, all bets are off then, and we all start unloading on this lion because it’s charging us, and lions move fast."
Duggan shook his head, "Well, I don’t know if we all missed or if the beast was too pumped up to even notice he'd been shot, but none of us can seem to bring him down. So we do the only thing a man can do when he’s faced with death like that: we scatter and run for dear life."
Jay had sunk into one of the chairs, mesmerized more by the man’s accent than his story, although the story was rather fascinating too.
Duggan smiled, "Except for this one chap." He held up one finger on his right hand, and chuckled. "We’re all running and hollering, but this one crazy old bloke just plants his feet and glares at that lion like that’s going to stop it. It didn’t, of course, but when it got close enough, he took out one of his revolvers," Jack pantomimed the action. "And starts shooting, by God! Those guns didn’t even look like they worked, looked like little toys, but the mad geezer just starts hammering away at an honest-to-God lion with ‘em. Now, he spent the first one without seeming to do a bloody thing, and I knew he was dead for sure because that lion just kept charging. But the damn fool just draws his other gun and starts shooting it off too.
"Well—God help me if I’m lying—but the bloke must have hit something important, because by the fourth round that lion was slowing down, and by the time this fellow was done shooting, it was dead."
Duggan was silent for a moment, staring up into space, lost in his memory.
"Can you picture that? There were all of us—fools that we were—running from this lion that’s about to kill us, and here’s this chap with one foot in the grave that we’ve all been teasing for a week, who stands his ground and shoots it dead. None of us can say a word; we're just looking at the bastard. And he simply reloads his guns, then asks us for some help with the carcass."
His red hair bounced around as he shook his head, "When we got back to the town, none of us could buy him enough drinks, I tell you. But I knew he was laughing at us all the whole time. And wasn’t he right? I did ask him, though. I asked him how he could just look at that charging lion, no fear at all, like he was going to stare it down."
He paused. Jay—because he figured he was meant to—asked, "And what did he say?"
The storyteller grinned, "He said to me, I swear to God he said, 'Because I knew I was the meaner, tougher son of a bitch in that fight, and he had to know it too.'" For this last part, Duggan’s voice shifted to a different, gravelly sound that Jay knew must be an imitation of the old lunatic.
"Well anyway," Duggan shrugged, "I didn’t think much was going to come of that whole adventure, except maybe an interesting story to tell chaps like yourself. But around six or seven years after that, I get a package from some lawyer way out in California. Says the old bloke finally died, but that he’d written me into his will. The lawyer had quite a time tracking me down, it seemed, but the old man wanted me to have something. So think how I must have felt when I open up this box and it’s got one of those damned polished ivory pistols in it. I didn't know that the old bastard knew my name, much less thought anything much of me. But I guess he must’ve seen something in me because," he patted the butt of the revolver on the table, "now I’ve got a pistol that belonged to the meanest, toughest son of a bitch that ever walked the Earth." He shook his head again, smiling. "Now isn’t that something?"
Jay blinked, suddenly aware that the story was over. "Er… yeah. I’m surprised they let you bring it onboard."
Duggan bellowed laughter, "Well they didn’t jolly well want to, that’s for sure! You shoulda’ heard the Frogs whining. Whole band of them going into fits over me."
"I saw some kind of commotion outside," Jay nodded to the window.
"Yeah? Could you see the look on that one Frenchy’s face? About to burst a bloody valve, he was." He waved a dismissive hand, "Ah, wasn’t any trouble, I get it all the time."
Jay thought there had been an awful lot of rifles for not any trouble, but he recalled the man’s gun-waving and the conclusion that Duggan must be out of his mind. Jay frowned.
"Ah… so what is it you do, Mr. Duggan?"
"Oh, all sorts. You might call me an old-fashioned adventurer, if you were of the mind." He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial voice, "Right now I’m hunting dragons."
Jay felt his face go blank. "Ah huh…" he nodded slowly, "dragons."
The other man nodded back, and grinned, "That’s right. I’ve been following up a lead about some sightings near Gévaudan."
"Sightings of dragons?"
"Yeah. Old stories, mind you, but well worth looking into. I’m heading east now."
Jay nodded incredulously, "And how many, um, dragons have you caught so far, then?"
"None o’ course. Or I’d be bloody well rich, wouldn’t I? But I’ve only been looking for a few years, now. Got tired of chasing down pirates and bandidos, thought I ought to have some fun before my knees give out on me, or my eyes."
"Bandidos?" Jay furrowed his brow. "What are you, some kind of bounty hunter?"
Duggan laughed, "I told you, I’m an adventurer. I spent 20 years doing contract work for Her Majesty in Australia—which, by the way, is the reason they let me on with my gun. Took a couple jobs in Mexico after the pirates got scarce Down Under. I’ll never do that again, either. That's the worst kind of scum, best just to stay clear of the whole country."
"And now you’re hunting dragons?"
"Aye."
Jay took a deep breath, "Forgive me for asking, Mr. Duggan, but why is it you think dragons exist?"
Duggan chuckled, "Doubter, are you?"
"Yes, I suppose I am." Jay resisted the urge to add but at least I’m not a loony.
"I don’t blame you. Most people won’t believe in something fantastic, like dragons, that they’ve never seen before save in fairy tales. I’m not sure I believe in them myself."
"So why…" Jay trailed off.
"Why not?" Duggan shrugged, "Man needs to stay active, needs excitement. Can you think of anything more fun than being a dragon hunter?"
Yes was the answer Jay wanted to give, but he said, "Er…"
"I should think not! Might as well live a little while I’m retiring," he clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned further back in his chair.
"Okay," Jay said slowly, "but why dragons? As long as you’re hunting nonexistent mythical creatures why not, say, griffins? Or chimeras?"
"Because there haven’t been loads o’ griffin sightings in the past century, now, have there?"
"But there have been of dragons?"
"Blimey, but haven’t there been? Thought you worked for a newspaper."
Jay was indignant, "A newspaper, yes. Not some five-penny tabloid gutter press establishment."
The self-styled adventurer had been smiling up until this point, but Jay found that Duggan could look rather frightening if he wanted to. "You’ll have a lot of cheek to say you merit more respect with that tongue."
Jay Thomson Blake did not anger easily. He had always had a relatively calm disposition compared to most boys his age, and his work for the Times had only taught him even greater control over his temper. A reporter who couldn’t keep his cool with his subjects had a hard time getting information, and would quickly find himself out of a job. But Mr. Jack Duggan was getting under his skin all the same. Jay wanted to reach over the table and slug him. If he’d encountered Duggan two days ago when Jay was still drunk off his father’s scotch, he probably would have. Now, he just clenched his fists and fumed uselessly.
The emerald green eyes stared back coldly from beneath Duggan’s creased leathery brow. The longer the silence went on, the more powerless Jay felt. He knew the other man was very much his better in most respects, age notwithstanding. And what was more frustrating, Jay knew that Duggan was right about his attitude. Still, the fact that the man was seriously suggesting the existence of dragons made Jay loath to admit it. That he was also insulting Jay’s professional integrity made Jay vindictive.
But there was nothing he could do about it. Eventually, he forced himself to relax his fists and mutter something apologetic; though he could no longer look directly at the older man.
Duggan didn’t say anything for another few moments. When he did speak, it was with none of the cheer he’d had earlier, but nor was it the accusing tone which had sent Jay into his sulking rage.
"You should come down to the bar and have a drink with me. You seem like a good kid, just got a lot to unlearn about the world. And you’d best believe me that knowing too much is worse than not knowing enough. You look like you’ve been overworked, to boot." He nodded at the table next to his gun belt.
Jay looked at the documents and records which were still scattered everywhere from his research. He did feel overworked, and didn’t think he’d be able to get anything else useful done for a while, anyway.
"All right," Jay sighed. He started to gather up the mess of papers and put them back in their envelope. "All right, fine. At this rate, we won’t make Munich until morning anyway." They still had one more stopover in Frankfurt, and the Rover hadn’t even been cleared to leave Paris yet.
"But just a couple drinks."
<<8<<_>>10>>
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-