"The Oubliette part 7"~ for the PicFic Tuesday Challenge 4/1

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

               

Napoleon was unable to sleep as the storm outside was still violently raging. Though there were no windows, but he could hear the winds howling and the cracks of thunder making their presence known.

Not being one for lazing about, he gave up tossing and turning in his bed and finally rose, wrapping himself in a grey robe Labé had provided to go along with the matching silk pajamas. He stepped into a pair of lamb’s wool slippers set on the floor beside the bed.

There was an entire wardrobe in the closet and dresser. Silk shirts, the finest tailored suits, and Italian leather shoes….another conundrum when it came to second guessing what Labé was up to.  If anything the man at least had good taste in clothing…

Labé seemed to spare nothing seeing to Napoleon’s creature comforts. Illya on the other hand was another story. The Russian was still dressed in the same hospital gown, though there were at least plenty of warm blankets on his bed...

Not having seen any signs of security cameras, the American agent ventured out into the castle on his first real scouting mission. His first stop was to check on his partner, and as he entered the room, he could hear Illya’s congested breathing as he slept.

He looked down at his friends face, satisfied Illya at least looked peaceful; the last thing he did was tuck the blankets around the man before he left.

Napoleon checked the other rooms on the floor where he and Illya were staying, thinking going downwards was the best course of action. There was another narrow staircase leading upstairs, and he suspected that’s where Labé’s no doubt spacious quarters were located.

Finding nothing in the other two rooms, he walked down the staircase until he reached the bottom and the main foyer. The next room to be searched was the great hall, a place their host seemed to favor.

He moved the suit of armor next to the mantle, checking the mantle top, the molding and the stones around it. Nothing...nothing, nothing.

Napoleon was beginning to feel frustrated...and hungry. Having passed on the lovely rat dinner;  he headed to the kitchen hoping to find something to eat there, as well as to continue his search for a way out. To his dismay he found the refrigerator and all the cabinets locked, and no secret door either.

“Damn,” he mumbled under his breath as his stomach growled in protest.

Next he investigated was the library, and tried moving book after book, in the many cases hoping a secret panel slide open.  He checked the mantle there too without success.

Napoleon was checking the  stiffened, realizing he was being watched and turning he saw Seamus standing in the doorway holding a tray with a teapot, cup and saucer as well as a plate of scones with butter.

He raised the tray, indicating it was for the American, lowering it to an oak side table.

“For me?” Napoleon pointed to himself; receiving a nod from the mute butler.

“Safe?”

Seamus smiled for once, nodding vigorously. He poured the tea and took a sip from it as proof, as well as taking a bite from a scone.”

“You been watching me?” Napoleon asked as he inhaled the tea and the biscuit-like cakes.

Again another nod accompanied by a shrug.

“I suppose you’re to report what I’m doing to your master?”

This time Seamus shook his head indicating a ‘no.’

Napoleon shrugged as well, figuring what the heck.

“Do you know what I’m looking for?”

The butler took a pen from his jacket pocket and doodled the picture of a door on one of the napkins. “A way out?” He scribbled.

“Is there a secret tunnel out of here? One that’s not under control of  Labé’s security system?”

He nodded, waving for the American to follow him, leading Solo to the bottom of the grand staircase where he lifted the bottom step; it gave way with a small creak.

A section of the staircase slowly lifted revealing a darkened corridor, the opening lit by a single incandescent bulb.

“Is this is a way out of the castle?”

Seamus nodded.

“You’ve used it yourself?”

“Yes, to go outside to breathe fresh sea air. If the master discovered, he would surely punish us,” Seamus wrote on the napkin again. “Want to get away from him. He locks us in here for weeks if not months at a time, treating us like vermin. Nurse and I wish to leave, but need your help. We'll go with you if you wish to get escape. You will need Nurse as your friend is very ill.”

“Seamus, Labé told me we were in Ireland...is that true?”

A nod yes and he added to his note. “We are on an island off the coast of the Fanad peninsula in Donegal. Very remote and difficult to travel. Do you know how to sail a boat?”

Napoleon sighed as he crumpled up the note and stuffed it into his robe pocket. This was almost too good to be true. Was it genuine or was it Labé setting him and Illya up to willingly walk into another oubliette?

He had to decide and do it quickly before Illya became any weaker.

“Seamus my man, I will let you know...”

Another nod from butler and a turning of a newel post closed the stairs, hiding the secret tunnel once again.

Mark and April, though they’d gotten sleep on the flight were finally overcome by jet lag and though they wished otherwise, they were forced to stop for a few hours.

The sun was setting over the Connemara landscape making it look as though it were a backdrop for some weird science fiction movie.  The treeless land filled with minute flora took on a purple hue as the light faded. There were large white boulders dotting the surface, looking perhaps like what one might imagine the surface of the moon to be.  It was surreal and hypnotic.

They pulled the car into a small seaside village and Mark, more familiar with the way things worked in this part of the world, walked into the local pub while April waited in the car.

After ordering a pint of dark beer he inquired if anyone nearby offered Bed and Breakfast. Knowing his British accent might not go over well, he tried imitating an American one though why he chose a Texas twang...he was unsure.

“Excuse me, but me and the Missus are right tired from our flight over from the States. We heard you folks will put people up for the night for the price of a bed and breakfast. Is that right?”

He listened as some of the locals muttered together, speaking in Gaelic, and finally one of them answered in heavily accented English.

“Ah sure ‘tis a bed yer lookin’ fer, just for the night ye say?”

“Well at least for a few hours. The Missus is might tired, her being in a family way and we’re headed north to see her granny. Poor old lady is on her last legs so we need to...ugh, get there right quick.”

“Why didn’t ye say this was a family emergency lad. ‘Tis sure I can put the two of ye in a room upstairs,” the barman answered.

The price was settled upon and paid,  and Mark went out to the car, filling his partner in on their quickly contrived cover story.

“I’m your pregnant wife...?”

“I had to play the sympathy card as well as pretend I was a Yank. We’re in Gaelic speaking country and some of them aren’t too keen on the British.”

“So I take it we have a single bed.”

“One would assume,” he blushed. “Don’t worry luv, I’ll take the floor.”

“You will not. I know you’ll be the gentleman so we can share the bed for a few hours.”

April shook her head as she stepped out of the car. Luckily she was wearing a full grey woolen cape and could hide the fact she wasn’t actually preggers.

They stepped into the pub, Mark beaming with April holding his arm as he escorted her. She tried to put a little bit of a waddle into her gait, just for effect.

“This is my wife fellas, Mrs. Slate.

“Mark honey, why so formal? Hello, my name is April how are ya’ll? Ya’ll are so kind to be putting us up with such short notice. My granny will appreciate that.”

“And where would it be that your grandmother is living?” One of them asked.

“Ugh...um, you know the name is so darned hard to pronounce. I have it written on a piece of paper in the car.”

“Might it be Enniscrone in Mayo?”

‘No, no...that doesn’t ring a bell.

“Ní hea, ní hea, b'fheidir Carrowhubbock sin?” Some one spoke in Gaelic.

“What did he say?” April looked bewildered.

“Beggin yer pardon Missus, the amadaun (fool) fergot ye don’t have the Gaelic. He asked if it’s Carrowhubbock, that’s just outside Enniscrone.”

“Really I don’t recall,” she smiled charmingly as someone handed her tea served in a lovely floral bone china cup and saucer.

“So where are ye from in the Shtates?” Conor D’Arcy asked.

“Umm New York at the moment.”

“Aw would you be knowing my nephew Michael Kirwin…my sister Katie’s son. He lives in Maryland.”

“That’s a fair distance aways from where we live,” Mark answered, though a bit bewildered at first. He forgot that many of these people had never been beyond the confines of the area in which they were born and raised,  much less the county and had no concept of distance in the United States.

“Ah, mores the pity,” Conor said in response as he puffed on his pipe.

The locals were charmed by April’s auburn hair, though they called it ginger... asking if she was full blooded Irish. April supposed she could be as part of her cover, was since the grandmother they were going to visit was Irish and pointed that out to them

“Oh yes, ‘tis true, that’s right. That’s right,” they all agreed.

“And yer family’s name?”

“Ummm...ugh, O’Harte.” April picked a name she’d read in a newspaper somewhere.

“O’Harte ye say? That’s a Sligo name by way of Grange. Is that where yer seanmhathair lives...sorry, I meant grandmother.”

“No, that’s not the name. As I said I can’t pronounce it.” April sighed, thinking these people, though just being friendly were relentless, bombarding her with questions like a friendly T.H.R.U.S.H. interrogation. She tried not to laugh as unlike the feathered friends; she didn’t want to insult them.

April and Mark both began to yawn and that finally ended the conversation. A toast was offered to the couple and Mr. and Mrs. Slate were finally led upstairs.

Luckily it was two single beds in the simple but cozy room. There were quaint eyelet lace curtains draped across the windows and of course the requisite portraits of Pope John the XXIII,  the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus adorned one of the walls.

As soon as the door closed the agents both fell into their beds, not bothering to roll down the down-filled white duvets and were sound asleep within minutes.

Three hours later April awoke and after going to the bathroom down the hall she returned to wake her snoring partner.

“Mark dear, rise and shine we need to hit the road.”

“Wha? Oh sorry April,” he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and retrieved his hat from the floor.  It was nearly midnight by the time Mark freshened up and they tiptoed down the stairs, making their way out the door to where they’d left the Cooper parked.

The pub was empty as they expected it would be since the locals were men who’d be up early to work throwing out their fishing nets from their curraghs, or digging peat in the bogs for their fuel stocks.

This made for a clean getaway for the agents with no more questions to be answered.

“How’s the signal?” Mark asked as April pulled her communicator.

“Strong as ever and same direction. Wagons ho! North to Alaska James!”

“April what the devil are you talking about?”

“Just some quotes from John Wayne movies. He was my dad’s hero.”

“Sure luv, whatever you say,” Mark humored her as he drove off, turning on the headlights when they were just outside the confines of the village.

“Plip-plop plop…” raindrops began to hit the windshield and Mark turned on the wipers blades. Not long after it turned into a downpour with the wind-driven rain blowing in wildy off the water.

“Bollocks!” Mark swore, “This isn’t going to be easy.”

The mini-Cooper being so light, swayed as if it were being pushed by some unseen hand when the winds hit it. They continued north along some precarious roads, with immense bolts of lightning lilluminating the night sky.  Hours passed until April called out they’d reached their destination.

“The signal looks to be strongest here,” she pointed a small flashlight to their map, zeroing in on a town called ‘Ballyhoorisky,’ in Donegal.

The storm was still raging as they drove into town that consisted of simple row houses, typical of the country...each painted a different color. The streets weren’t in a logical straight line, but curved and as their layout followed the contour of the land itself.

The agents continued following the signal, taking them out of the town and literally to the edge of a cliff.

“Oh God, do you think they’ve been thrown to their deaths?” April moaned as they sat there in the car;  the only sounds were lumbering rolls of thunder while the waves crashed on the rocks below.  Winds continued to lash the car while the motor of the wiper blades hummed as it methodically swooshed them back and forth, back and forth.

“What’s that?” Mark said as lighting lit up the darkened sky.

They both squinted out at the sea, realizing they were looking at the outline of a castle perched atop an island just off shore.

“There Mark, that’s where they have to be!”


Continued in part 8 ...the 'conclusion.'