Dramatise Personae
Flora Dennis: Our plucky young protagonist. Fourteen. Orphaned. Auburn-haired. Precocious.
Professor Petrie Shannon: Uncle and guardian of Flora Dennis. Archaeological professor and world traveler. Forty-seven years old. Bachelor.
Ella Drew: Housekeeper for the Shannons and eldest of eight children. Eighteen years old. Incredibly handy and creative thinker.
Lord Daniel Valjean-Allerdyce: Rival of Prof. Petrie and collector of rare antiquities, often via less-than-honest means.
Anna Montvale: Colleague of Prof. Petrie. Archaeology expert. Has a mysterious connection to Lord Valjean-Allerdyce. Thirty years old and unmarried.
Professor Petrie Shannon: Uncle and guardian of Flora Dennis. Archaeological professor and world traveler. Forty-seven years old. Bachelor.
Ella Drew: Housekeeper for the Shannons and eldest of eight children. Eighteen years old. Incredibly handy and creative thinker.
Lord Daniel Valjean-Allerdyce: Rival of Prof. Petrie and collector of rare antiquities, often via less-than-honest means.
Anna Montvale: Colleague of Prof. Petrie. Archaeology expert. Has a mysterious connection to Lord Valjean-Allerdyce. Thirty years old and unmarried.
Chapter One
Uncle Petrie's house was decorated with the spoils of his many travels: feline statuettes from Egypt, a gold mask from Genghis Khan's fabled lost city, African tribal drums, a fragile paper fan from Japan.... Name a place, he's been there, and usually has a gripping story to go with it.
I was used to his long leaves of absence, oftentimes during those weeks I was to be home from school, but, as my guardian until I turn twenty-one (in a good seven years, mind you), he rarely disappeared without a written explanation. Which was why I was perturbed to find the house devoid of his presence when I arrived at the start of the summer holiday. Ella Drew, our latest housekeeper, escorted me inside when I arrived. At eighteen, she was hardly an elder to me; I was comfortable sharing my confidences with her when the need arose. Now was one of those times, for a smidgen of worry was tugging at my insides. "Ella," I said, "how long has my uncle been away?" Ella set my bags inside the dumbwaiter (as the only hired help, she has to be inventive) and let me operate it before she answered: "I was visiting my mother in Longbourne all week," she replied. (Ella had seven younger siblings, and her mother was constantly ailing.) "When I came back yesterday, he was already gone." "How odd," said I, making a beeline for my uncle's study. Perhaps a clue to his whereabouts could be found within. Loose papers littered every remotely flat surface in my uncle's study. Books were arranged haphazardly on tables and chairs, even on the floor; anywhere but the shelves, where those books which remained leaned crookedly against one another in the ample space. I waded through that paper ocean until I reached the writing desk, where my uncle penned a monthly column for The Archaeology Times entitled The Travels of Professor Petrie Shannon. I could see that beginnings of next month's installment were written in the designated notebook as it lay open on the desk ... as was something else. FLORA, my name was printed in large letters on the adjacent page. Below was a hastily scrawled message, a mixture of English words and foreign symbols: 'I am in \_} of °`^ •|•. Contact *\•° ; she will send you to me. Work quickly, but beware the ~°{ |~• !' I looked upon the page in wonder. To the untrained eye, these may seem like the ramblings of a madman, but my erudite uncle was far from insane. Clearly, he believed this information far too sensitive to convey in everyday jargon; he was using Ajwhean glyphs, the gist of which he'd attempted to teach me for some years now, but to little success. According to my uncle, the linguistics gene so active in the illustrious Shannon line hitherto, had remained dormant in my mother as well. That isn't to say I hadn't retained any of Uncle Petrie's teachings. Russian Cyrillic and pre-Columbian glyphs may have been an exhausting challenge, but I could carry an animated conversation in Spanish and I knew several scathing insults in a variety of tongues. Nevertheless, to understand my uncle's coded message, I would need extensive time to study the ancient Ajwheans' written language. The words I could understand suggested such desperation, it was evident to me that extensive time I did not have.I took my evening meal in the kitchen with Ella. She had amusing stories to tell about her little brothers and sisters' latest antics, but my mind was only partially attentive to her words. Uncle Petrie's message and its esoteric meaning troubled me greatly. The doorbell sounded in the front of the house. Dutifully, Ella shot out of her seat to answer it. When she returned, it was with an acquaintance of my uncle, Anna Montvale. At thirty years of age, Miss Montvale was highly regarded by my uncle as a bearer of much worldly knowledge. She refused to be intimidated by scholarly books, and was fluent in a plethora of languages, written and spoken. She visited often, and would converse animatedly with Uncle Petrie in Latin or, if I was present, Spanish. "Good evening," she greeted me warmly, taking the seat Ella offered her at the table. As I returned her greeting, my eyes fell upon the pendant she wore on a chain around her neck. It was probably a gift from my uncle, for they were good friends, considering that it had such a strange design. It was similar to a pre-Columbian glyph.... ....Which I had seen before in my uncle's notes! Ella had transitioned the subject of our conversation to the weather conditions out in Longbourne, where the dirt roads were almost impossible to traverse by foot; but I spoke up quickly. "Your necklace, Miss Montvale," I said with unusual abruptness. "What does it signify?" Miss Montvale touched the pendant with a dainty index finger. "Oh, this?" She smiled shyly. "This is an Ajwhean glyph, symbolizing ixil cho', or princess. I've had it for some time now, you see, but I rarely wear it." "Where is your uncle, Flora?" she asked, as if on cue, looking about the room as though he should suddenly materialize. Either she truly didn't know, or she wanted to know if I truly did. And I told her that truthfully, I did not. |
"He left this note for me in his study," I said, procuring the torn-out paper from my pocket.
Miss Montvale examined my uncle's message with great interest. "He used Ajwhean glyphs in place of certain words," she observed. "Right here is the symbol on my necklace," she added, pointing to it. Now, the note read, Contact the princess. Did the princess perhaps refer to Miss Montvale? "What does he say?" I asked. Miss Montvale translated my uncle's message in its entirety. "I am in the Island of Two Eyes. Contact the princess; she will send you to me," she said. "Work quickly, but -- here is the part I am uncertain of -- beware the old man and... That second glyph translates to either goblin or dwarf. The context is so uncertain as it is, I cannot determine which translation is adequate; nevertheless, it is clear that Petrie -- your uncle, that is -- is warning you of somebody, perhaps an old man." I accepted her explanation gratefully. "Do you know what he refers to by the 'Island of Two Eyes?'" Miss Montvale fell silent for several moments. The recess was interrupted when Ella gave a start, for the tea kettle had begun to whistle loudly. Finally, when three steaming cups of Earl Grey tea were distributed among us, Anna Montvale spoke: "The Island of Two Eyes is a legendary island off the coast of Madrepal. History acknowledges but two failed attempts by the British Empire colonize the place. It is an inscrutably dense rainforest; if it is populated by man, he is surely uncivilized by our standards." I nodded, imagining in my mind's eye this mysterious mass of jungle foliage. "But my uncle," said I, "has presumably arrived there." "He certainly expected to be," Miss Montvale concurred. "He couldn't possibly have written that after he arrived." "He said I must join him," I said determinedly. "Ella, will you help me secure tickets to the country of Madrepal?" "Tickets?" Ella and Miss Montvale repeated in surprised unison. "Yes, tickets," I replied, affirming that my use of the plural form was intentional. "I am but fourteen; surely it would be improper for me to travel alone." "I will accompany you, Flora," Ella volunteered resolutely. "And I will accompany you both," Miss Montvale added. If I had possessed my uncle's experience as a world traveler, my stomach might have been a heartier passenger aboard our international flight. Between interactions with a paper bag, Ella and I entertained ourselves with the miniaturized sights below. Buildings seemed the size of mere bricks, and trees were but broccoli stalks from our vantage point. With time, the scenery changed. Miss Montvale, who had slept for most of the flight, pointed out the great Amazon River, known to the natives as the Río Negro, or Black River, as well as the surrounding mass of green foliage. We could only imagine what kinds of creatures could inhabit such a wondrous place. Some time later, the three of us stood in the main square of what was surely Madrepal's biggest city. It was pure pandemonium! Men, women, children, and quadrupedal animals weaved through congested the street while vendors and con artists alike stood on the fringes, shouting their wares and false promises to the masses. Everyone was dressed lightly, befitting the balmy weather; in our "proper clothes," namely Ella's and my cardigans, rumpled blouses (that of course started out freshly ironed and wrinkle-free when we first set out upon this journey), wool skirts, and thick socks, we stood out like two robins in a tree full of doves. One could tell at first glance that we were two English girls and inexperienced travelers at that! On the other hand, Miss Anna Montvale's complexion didn't shine with perspiration like ours; rather, she seemed quite at home in this alien place, cool and collected. Under her leadership, we made our way through town, inquiring the whereabouts of Uncle Petrie. Finally, a man eating a banana with a fork and knife recognized the man we described, and directed us to a reputable guest house not far from the square. "The gentleman told me an English traveler took up lodging here a fortnight ago and hasn't left since," said Anna for our benefit, for her conversation with the banana-eating man had been in rapid-fire Portuguese. "How many English travelers do you suppose frequent this place?" Ella asked. "After all, it could be anybody but Professor Shannon." Miss Montvale shrugged. "The sight of an Englishman in Madrepal is rather uncommon in modern times. I am sure that if it is not Petrie lodging here, it is a colleague who knows him." "Or a rival," said I. My uncle had plenty of those, and these often unsavory characters played dramatic roles in his tales of travel. As disturbing as they were, I felt a twinge of excited anticipation. Never had I imagined myself meeting one of these rivals face to face! |
Chapter Two
Lord Daniel Valjean-Allerdyce was not only an Englishman, but, as his hyphenated name suggested, of French descent. When we were escorted to his quarters by the guest house's manager, Valjean-Allerdyce sat in a simple wooden chair, wearing an elegant velvet smoking jacket and puffing heavily on a pipe he held in a strong, weathered hand. The finery of his ensemble contrasted greatly with the room's furnishings, but he seemed almost oblivious to the fact. Judging by his silvery hair and dark, lined features, he appeared to be about sixty years old.
The manager, a small, balding man who sweated uncomfortably in his cheaply tailored suit and wire-rimmed glasses, introduced us hastily before creeping back to his station. Valjean-Allerdyce rose from his seat, standing well over six feet. His steel-grey eyes examined us critically, as though he was looking for the most subtlest of imperfections within us. Self-consciously, I felt inclined to button my cardigan a little higher to hide my rumpled blouse. When his eyes settled upon the eldest of our party, Miss Anna Montvale, something in his expression changed almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, it was only to her. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Montvale," he said with a slightly patronizing tone to his voice. "What, may I ask, brings you to my lodgings ... and this infernal country?" Miss Montvale met his eyes evenly. "We come in search of a friend and relative. As a fellow countryman to the man we seek, might you have encountered Professor Petrie Shannon during your time here?" Once again, something in Lord Valjean-Allerdyce's heavily tanned features hardened in reaction to her words. "Professor Shannon, you say?" said he. "I have read his column many times, but I have yet to meet him personally." At that remark, I felt a little deflated inside. He claimed to be unacquainted with my uncle; so much for the rivalry my imagination had conjured up. "Mademoiselles," said Valjean-Allerdyce, "Madrepal is no place for three young women -- or any civilized persons -- to traverse unescorted. I strongly advise you to return to England, where you will be safe. This professor of yours will turn up in no time, but certainly not here." He cleared his throat, and, as if on cue, a thin, sallow-faced man materialized from the shadows. "My valet, Andreas, will see you out." And we were seen out. In the stuffy lobby, we waited for Andreas the valet to return to his master's rooms before Miss Montvale approached the manager, where he sat behind his desk. "Senhor," she said, "we would like to rent a room." Then, she turned to Ella and me. "I do not know that man whom we met upstairs," she said, "yet I instinctively feel that he is withholding information about Petrie's whereabouts. We will use this opportunity to observe his behavior." "Perhaps, inadvertently," added Ella hopefully, "he will lead us to the professor!" * * * * The next morning, Miss Anna Montvale surprised us all by looking calm and refreshed -- in a pair of cotton slacks! I wore slacks myself from time to time, but never had I imagined such plain garb adorning Miss Montvale! It made sense, of course, that she might; who would tramp through thick, jungle underbrush or climb the pyramids of Giza, as she has surely done, in a long, woolen skirt? "We'll secure passage by boat to the Island of Two Eyes today, and provisions for the journey," she declared, amusedly eyeing our surprised expressions. Negotiating with the various local boatmen to take the three of us across the Río to what they frightenedly dubbed Isla Muerta, the Island of Death, by the locals, was understandably a trying process. Surely, there was a reason for this unholy name, but if my uncle was there, we must ignore the macabre folklore of the indigenous peoples to come to his aid! "Oh, Miss Montvale," wailed I, "how will we ever find my uncle at this rate?" Anna Montvale wrung her hands through her hair, which had become surprisingly disheveled in the midday heat. Her distraught desperation and frustration at these aggravating circumstances marred her features as we trudged in futility along the dockyard. "I'm afraid these aggravating circumstances are marring our chance of success," she declared pessimistically. "The odds are not in our favor today." |
Suddenly, we heard footsteps behind us. The boatmen we encountered
were rough-looking. Had it dawned upon them to steal our valuables?
Instinctively, my hands clutched my pockets, eager to protect their
contents.
"Pardon me, ladies," came a man's voice. It was high and reedy, and the distinctively lazy way the syllables of his words were run together suggested that the speaker was an American. We turned around to see the thinnest man I had ever seen. His rolled-up shirtsleeves hung from thin, lanky arms, and baggy pants did nothing to conceal two sharp kneecaps. Tufts of greasy blond hair stuck out in every direction from underneath a rumpled, wide-brimmed hat that only made his face seem gaunter. He was easily triple my height, but less than half my weight. "How might we help you?" said Miss Montvale cooly, inspecting the man suspiciously. "I, uh, heard that you three were lookin' for a boat," he continued in that peculiar drawl. "My buddies and me, we got a boat, and we ain't afraid of no local superstitions." His sparkly blue eyes darted about, as he tried to recollect an important detail. Then, they lit up and he extended his right hand. "The name's Millet. Eddie Millet." Miss Montvale shook his hand stiffly. "Mister Millet, are you familiar with the Island of Two Eyes?" Eddie Millet shrugged. "Never heard of it in my life, to tell ya the truth. But if you show me a map, me and my buddies can figure out the way." "Your ... buddies?" Miss Montvale repeated, clearly unused to such foreign jargon. "Yup." Eddie Millet gestured to a group of men sitting in the scanty shade nearby. In the distance, it was difficult to discern their features, but it was clear that they were no better off in appearance. He led us to the group and introduced Miss Montvale, myself, and Ella to Freekeh, Amaranth, and Sorghum. Their mannerisms were were awkward and uncouth, and they did not volunteer their first names. Freekeh was a slight, narrow-shouldered man. He wore an elaborate yet worn turban upon his head, a full beard upon his chin, and a sort of cloth bandolier of many once-vibrant colors, now quite faded, across his chest. Amaranth, on the other hand, was stocky, with hands like a seal's flippers. His threadbare tunic did little to conceal his bulging stomach, and his wide-brimmed hat cast an ominous shadow over a thick mustache, unibrow, and beady, black eyes that darted rat-like constantly. He struck me as a furtive, suspicious sort of man. It was Sorghum, however, who truly frightened me. He stood as tall and straight as a rail, and a severe widow's peak slashed through his unnaturally pale brow. His visage was almost vampiric, and suddenly, all the fictitious accounts of the supernatural that my schoolmates had contrived (and I had scoffed) entered my mind. That nightmarish face unsettled me greatly! "Island of Two Eyes is dangerous excursion," Amaranth said curtly when Millet explained the situation to them. "Mister Millet, you told us that your friends do not fear the locals' superstitions," said Miss Montvale irritably, turning to the lanky American. "Superstitions, pah!" spat Amaranth over the edge of the dock and into a hapless boatman's palm. With one stout, grimy finger, he pointed to a series of blue twists and turns. "Amaranth fear only the nature. These are Falls of Fear." Amaranth looked like the sort of man who would gladly slice through nature with a sharpened machete, one of which dangled from his generous belt. If he feared the Falls of Fear, then they surely were fearsome to traverse! "We risk much life over Falls of Fear," Amaranth said. "How much money you pay?" Though it was Millet who initiated this meeting and potential transaction, Amaranth was clearly the one in charge. Anna Montvale offered a generous sum, but I could see that it comprised of most of our money. Amaranth's ratlike eyes darted greedily over the bills, a mix of foreign and local currency. "This good. Good." With a nod from Freekeh and a peculiar tilt of the head from Sorghum, Amaranth finalized, "Yes, we will do it." "Pardonnez moi," a voice rang out behind us. "If you four gentlemen will listen, I have a superior proposal you may find satisfactory." It was Lord Daniel Valjean-Allerdyce. |