Chapter 4

For the first time in days, the man stirred from his sleep, only to see light. He had forgotten to turn off the lantern, but he appreciated the luxury of illumination upon waking.

To his surprise, there was a bowl of oatmeal sitting nearby. Steam still wafted from the dish; it must have been placed there not long before. Perhaps that was what had roused him.

Despite that, the man was grateful for the sustenance, and took only a few moments to consume the food. He scribbled the words ‘Merci beaucoup’ in the dirt of the floor with his finger, placing the empty bowl next to his message.

As he turned back to pick up the lantern and the map, the man caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror. He turned, gaping at the image presented there.

He had hair.

The previous night, he had had only small, rough patches of hair, but now, a full mane of auburn waves grew nearly to his shoulders, covering his head and framing his face in tangled disarray.

What had happened to him?

Amazed, he put his hand to his head, tugging on the strands, feeling the pain as he did so.

It was his hair. But how had it grown so fast?

He realized that he had no beard either. His facial hair had not grown, yet the hair on his head had somehow accelerated, achieving a year’s growth in one night’s time.

The man began to wonder if he was entirely human; to have such a thing happen. Still, it was to his advantage, so he forced his natural revulsion at this turn of events aside, and exited the room.

There was no one in sight, but the man was not distressed. He had a map, and fresh light, and his stomach was full.

He was going to survive.

For the first time since he had awoken in the rubble of the prison building, the man felt a sense of optimism, that everything would work out, and that a long future lay before him.

There were many more offshoots now from the main passageway, most of which were not dead ends, but clearly routes to other areas of the Paris Underground. The man avoided these paths, continuing along the course that had been laid out for him on his map.

At long last, he came across a tall archway. Written across its lintel were the words:

Vous quittez maintenant les Halls des Morts

Prenez garder les Snakeheads

Donc vous ne reviendrez pas trop bientôt.

Which translated as:

You are now leaving the Halls of the Dead

Beware the Snakeheads

Lest you return too soon.

The man took the warning as it had been intended: a caution, not a threat. Seeing a small alcove in the wall, he turned off the lantern, placing it inside. Rather than being plunged into darkness, he discovered that there was a small amount of daylight filtering in from above him, and he waited for a few moments to let his eyes get used to the new level of illumination. Once he had, the man clearly saw a set of stairs beyond the door, and he carefully made his way up, ascending in a tight spiral, turn after turn, making his way toward the surface.

The daylight suddenly became much brighter, and the man waited again so that his eyes could become used to it. Cautiously, he inched forward, eventually coming across the final exit.

A small hole in the crumbling wall was letting in fresh air and sunshine. With infinite care, the man eased his way through, noting the large pile of broken furniture that effectively camouflaged the entrance to the underground. He was in a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder, and the man inched his way down to the street, carefully peering from side to side before emerging and walking amongst the local citizens.

The man could not recall if he had ever been to Paris before, but something about the city struck him as odd. No one looked at the sights as they walked along, much less at anyone else. Everyone kept their heads down, staring at the sidewalk as much as possible. The man was walking amongst a crowd of people, yet he had never felt so anonymous, or so alone.

Of course, this was to his benefit at the moment, but the haunted, nervous demeanor the Parisians displayed unnerved the man, and he found himself copying their manner of keeping his eyes on the ground, glancing up only when necessary,

Almost immediately, he discovered why the people were acting this way. Groups of men in green uniforms patrolled the streets, eyeing civilians with suspicion, and proudly displaying their weapons. Cruel expressions marred their coarse features, and the man could easily understand why no one wanted to attract their attention. The soldiers’ green masks truly did resemble snakes, and the man felt an instinctive revulsion at being in their presence.

Fortunately, it was a relatively short period of time before he found his way to a Metro station. Moving inside, he studied the map on the wall for a moment, determining where he needed to go before approaching the agent sitting in the ticket booth.

“A ticket to Saint-Sulpice, please.”

“Three dollars.”

The man pulled the appropriate bills from his pocket, careful not to let the agent see how much money he had in his possession, then passed his payment through the grille at the front of the booth.

“No good.” grunted the agent, pushing the bills back at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“The Metro is run by the ‘government’.”

The agent spat out the last word distastefully, as if it made him ill to speak it. “We can only accept the new currency.” he explained. “You need to make an electronic monetary transfer.”

“New currency?” The man was flustered for a moment, until he recalled the farmer’s wife telling him that many places would no longer accept Federation money.

“I don’t have any new currency.” the man admitted. “No electronic transfer access.”

“Then you’ll have to walk.” the agent replied, turning his back on the man.

“Thank you.” the man said politely, as if the agent had actually been helpful, before leaving the station.

It was just as well. He could walk in the sunlight, and he would not have to go back down into the dark underground, even on a train. Checking the street signs, the man began to walk.

Despite the circumstances, the man found that he was enjoying the day. The sun shone brightly, and the sights of the city were somehow comforting, even if he had to keep his gaze down to avoid the frequent Snakehead patrols. His journey took him just over an hour, and the man found himself regretting that it was over, as the spires of Saint Sulpice came into view.

The man entered the cathedral, the cool air coming off of its stone walls in a wave. He allowed himself the luxury of a few moments to wander through, entering a small chapel on the right. The chapel’s walls were covered in exquisite murals, and one in particular caught his attention. A bare-chested man was attempting to attack an angel… but rather than fight back, the angel held him gently, accepting his anger, the Godly creature’s demeanor almost… comforting.

The man gasped in awe, amazed by the beauty encompassed within the mural.

“There are some things they cannot take from us.” came a quiet voice behind him.

Slowly, the man turned, only to see a priest standing behind him, looking up at the same painting.

“I’m sorry?” the man asked.

“Faith.” the priest answered, smiling kindly. “As long as we have faith, deliverance is always at hand.”

“Suppose we choose to deliver ourselves, rather than wait for deliverance?” the man responded, mildly amused.

“That too, requires faith.” the priest replied, his eyes sparkling with vigor. “Faith that the evil can be overcome, when confronted with the justice and might of those who follow what is right.”

“But faith is not enough.” the man countered. “It is a necessary component for victory, yet we must always be watchful for evil.”

“You speak the truth.” the priest agreed. “In the Garden of Eden, it was the Serpent who offered up the temptation of the Forbidden Fruit. As punishment, he was forced to crawl on his belly and eat the dust for the rest of his days. Yet still, the Snake raises his head to tempt us to evil, if we do not have faith that justice will come.”

“I will be wary of such temptations.” the man promised.

“Good.” the priest smiled warmly. “Now, my son, may I be of assistance?”

“No, thank you.” the man replied. “I am simply enjoying the peace of this place.”

“Remember that peace is relative.” the priest advised him. “But I hope that you enjoy your respite here. If I may ever be of help, please do not hesitate to come. Ask for Father Richlieu.” He stepped back as he spoke, his final words so faint that the man barely caught them.

“Beware the Snakes…”

Before the man could respond, the priest was gone.

The man continued his tour of the cathedral, making his way through small chapels, and marveling at the stained glass windows lining the walls. He approached the altar, then turned back to look across the nave.

Above the doors through which he had entered was a magnificent organ.

Pass underneath the organ, and you will find L’Oiseau Blanc.

Clearly the man was supposed to leave, passing back through the door and out into the Place Saint Sulpice. He moved across the floor, taking one last look at the church before heading outside to the square. A number of cafes surrounded the Place, and on an otherwise unremarkable corner sat L’Oiseau Blanc.

Forcing himself to maintain a measured pace, the man walked slowly, meandering about the square, stopping to admire the Fountain of the Four Bishops in its center, and acting as if all he were interested in was taking in the sights. Seemingly almost by accident, he looked up, finding himself in front of the café.

The man entered, noting the sprinkling of customers who were having a light lunch in the main room. The man walked up to the bar, setling himself down on a stool.

“Do you accept Federation currency?” he asked the bartender.

“It depends.” the barkeep replied in a non-committal tone as he focused on cleaning a pile of glasses behind the counter. “What do you wish to order?”

“Croque Monsieur et frites.” the man said. “And I was hoping that I might be able to speak with Jerome.”

“There is no Jerome here.” the barkeep responded, not looking up from his task.

“Chantal sent me.” the man said quietly, desperately hoping that he had not made a mistake in his approach.

“I will ask the cook if he will take your Federation currency.” said the bartender, and he turned and left, passing through a small door at the back of the bar.

The man sat nervously for a moment, then calmed himself down as he realized that if he were going to be arrested by Snakeheads, it likely would already have happened.

The barkeep returned, bringing the man’s sandwich and fries.

“Ten dollars.” he said. “We will accept your Federation currency.” The bartender passed the man a napkin, then walked away.

The man unfolded the napkin to place it on his lap, and was surprised to see a message written upon it.

Jerome Mardi

Mardi meant Tuesday. The man glanced over at a newspaper on the bar, noting that today was Friday. He would have to wait four days. He sighed, wondering what he would do until then. Still, it was better than wandering through those dark, lonely tunnels.

He finished his meal, leaving a ten dollar bill on the counter underneath his plate, then stood to leave.

“A bientot.” he said to the barkeep, as he passed by. The bartender nodded.

A bientot… Until later… his message had been received.

He would return on Tuesday.