Story: "Daredevil - Part 13 - Baiting the Trap"

Napoleon, a survivor from the Mutiny of the Bounty, and a demonic killer in the cobblestoned streets of Toulon, 1793.

This is Part 13 of the story.
If you haven't read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 , Part 11  or Part 12 yet, please start there.

BAITING THE TRAP 

TOULON, DECEMBER 1793

MIDNIGHT HOUR. 13th DECEMBER. LUSSI NIGHT.

It had been nearly two weeks since the body of Christiane was found in an alley, crucified, nailed to a wall with long spikes, subjected to horrifying acts of torture, gutted in the same way as the other women, alongside the body of Peter Skinner, his throat ripped out as if by a wild animal.

And for all the time since, nearly two weeks now, nothing. No other victims, no more women butchered. The killings had stopped, as abruptly as they started.

To be sure, Zajac was still missing, and if, as was generally assumed, Zajac was the killer, then what was more natural than this, the killer moving on to new hunting grounds, another unfortunate city?

Tarun, lingering in prison, was evidently resolved to stand mute, so nothing more had been learned about their motivation for the killings.

Toulon didn’t care. Toulon was busy with more important matters.

For, all the while, the French siege guns were pounding Toulon’s defenses with hot lead ball, wearing down the resolve of citizens and defending troops alike. In fact, the British 30th Regiment was leaving, had all but left, and along with them most of the Spanish, Piedmontese, and Neapolitan forces, leaving only a remnant; enough to man the artillery in the forts still standing; enough to put up the fight required to keep the French Revolutionary Army at a cautious push rather than an all-out assault; enough, essentially, to cover the retreat.

The French Royalists were about to be given up, lambs to the slaughter. Toulon could care less about the butchery of a few prostitutes. The little lambs of Toulon were living in an abattoir, whether they admitted it to themselves or not. Blood would soon run in the streets.

And that other lamb, Naboleone thought, Sergeant Samuel Job Lamb, had been in a strange, quiet mood, ever since the night of Christiane’s death. Almost as if the combined excitement — if you could call it that — of chasing this killer while serving as Naboleone’s agent informer, his inside man, had taken something out of him, and now that the killer was gone, now that the butchery was behind them, now that O’Hara was in captivity, it was as if Lamb was deflated, like one of the Montgolfier’s aerostat balloons with all the hot air cooling, escaping.

Nowadays, Lamb was rarely seen, and when he surfaced, there was a drawn, drained quality to his appearance. Naboleone was concerned about the man he in some ways had come to view as more than his agent provocateur — his friend.

In the inn ‘Le Vieux Monde’, Naboleone was sitting with dark-bearded Jean de Vienne and white-haired, albino-eyed Freund, just the three of them, as the clock struck midnight.

“Lussi Night,” Freund said. He straightened, stretched, moved his jaw from side to side. “In memoriam of St. Lucy, the Sicilian saint who would not stop speaking, even as she was burned on the stake, even as a Roman soldier stuck his spear through her throat. This is the night the Spirit speaks freely. This is the one night even I can speak freely. For one hour, this hour, the midnight hour.”

Naboleone looked up from his thoughts, from his wine, paying attention, all of a sudden, noticing:

“You speak a beautiful Corsu, Freund. I didn’t know that you spoke the language, and with the transizione dialect of my hometown, Ajaccio, no less.”

“Ah, yes, that is a side-benefit. To you I am speaking fluently in what is most pleasing to your ears, as the apostles did at Pentecost.” Freund turned to Jean. “And you, my old friend, how do my words sound to you?”

“Aramaic, of course, just as spoken around the Sea of Galilee, all those oceans of time ago,” Jean said, in what sounded, to Naboleone, not in the slightest Aramaic, rather Corsu, perfectly spoken in the cadences of Ajaccio, just the same as Freund.

There was something about the air in the room too, a certain … shimmering … quality.

“Very well.” Freund leaned forward. “We can speak freely together, for the next hour. This is the one night of the year I am allowed to tell all, and — with a few exceptions — what I say, you will forget, though a remnant, an intuition, will remain.”

“What are you talking about?” Naboleone said, suddenly sober, as if the cover had been ripped open and the wine’s soft eiderdown-stuffing had all spilled out of his billowy brain. He felt more alert and aware than at any other time he could remember.

Looking at his own hand, fingers closed around the cool, rough-textured wine cup, he could see every pore in the skin, every hair on the back of his hand, the small ridges on his fingernails, all in sharp relief.

The wine in the cup seemed a richer, deeper red, and the taste of it on his tongue, grapes, yes, but also of the sun and the earth and of blackberries.

What is happening? Have I been drugged?

“My name,” Freund began, “is Myrrdin Ambrosious Aurelianus Wyllt. You know me as Merlin.”

Naboleone looked at him, eyes wide, then threw his head back in laughter.

But his laughter sounded hollow in his own head — hollow, dry, false, a play-acting, and he stopped, suddenly.

Focusing his eyes on the white-haired, white-bearded, pink-blue-eyed man in front of him, with a sudden clarity that matched the increased acuity of his eyesight, of all his senses, he thought:

Can this be true? Can this be the truth of it?

Yes! But, no, it’s madness.

He shook his head, tried to clear it.

“Merlin,” he said, finally. “Merlin, the wizard Merlin?”

“The same.” Freund (Merlin?) smiled. It was a kindly smile, a wise smile. “I have much to say, and not much time, so let me tell what I can. You will want to hear this, even if you will not remember it. You see, tonight I can speak of the future.”

“The future?”

“Yes, your future. You see, your future is my past.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you not heard the legend of Merlin?” It was Jean, interjecting. Naboleone was again struck by the perfect Corsu, spoken in his own dialect, by both Jean and Freund … Merlin. It was this simple fact, this simple, but incredible, impossible, fact that finally made him believe, absolutely, even though it was still madness.

“Yes,” he said. “Well, some,” he added, truthfully. “Maybe not very much. King Arthur. Guinevere. Excalibur. The Sword in the Stone. The Knights of the Round Table. The Holy Grail.”

“Merlin lives his life in reverse,” Jean said. “For him, all our legends are still in his future. He has not yet met Arthur, Guinevere, Galahad, or encountered any of the others. But one day he will.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I am allowed to know,” Jean said simply.

“Why? Who are you?”

“Me,” Jean smiled. “You will not remember, but I will tell you anyway. I am Yohanan Bar-Zebedee. John the son of Zebedee, brother of James. John, the Beloved Disciple. John the Evangelist, author of the Gospel and two epistles in the Bible. John, the wanderer, the everlasting pilgrim. It is God’s will that I shall not taste death, until I see Christ return. When His Kingdom comes, I will still be alive and breathing. Then, my long journey will finally be over.”

Naboleone shook his head. “This is madness,” he said. But he … believed. He knew, and the knowledge was as real, as unassailable, as knowing his own mother’s name, as knowing the sun would rise in the morning, that a cannonball’s flight would describe a perfect parabolic path governed by the incontrovertible laws of physics. Knowledge. Truth. “Of course you are,” he said, and his tone was not mocking, rather matter of fact, stating the truth of it. “I must have known, deep down. You change your name to commemorate your journey. So now you’re Jean de Vienne. Soon you will go to England, and there you will be John Toulon, am I right?”

“You are right.” John smiled. “And in this way I will continue to wander, homeless, a stranger and sojourner on the earth, my name signifying my last temporary abode, the place I just left behind, with my true home yet to come. And in between, some pleasant company in some pleasant inns, before it’s time to once more break camp.”

“And you really were with Mozart in Vienna?”

“Oh, yes. Saw him through to the end. It’s one of my Gifts of Grace, seeing souls through, where it is most needed, or at least helping them make their choice, for in the end it is your choice.”

Turning to Freund … Merlin … Naboleone asked:

“You live your life in reverse? Why? And … how?”

“I am walking towards my final encounter, to see my Master, with my own eyes, with these pink eyes, at the foot of the cross,” Merlin said. “I can’t rest until then. I sleep, but even in my sleep, I walk. I must consume bread and wine, His body and blood, every night, with salt, great amounts of salt, seasoning and preserving me, as I walk, backwards through time. I don’t know what happened in your yesterday, but I remember what will happen in your tomorrow and the next day and the next day until your death. I remember all that will happen, but, except for this hour on this night, the words catch in my throat, and I cannot open my mouth to speak of the future. My future is your past, the past of the world. Your future is my past. And you, young Naboleone, you I remember well. I remember your future, the future of your fame.”

“I am … I will be … famous?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I will have glory? Power?”

“You will be the most powerful man in the world. You will be remembered forever. You will rule the world as your empire. You will be Emperor. Your family and your most trusted, loyal friends will seed the Royal Houses of Europe. Your name will go down in history.”

“My name.” Naboleone grimaced.

“Yes, well, your new name. You will need a new name.”

“A French name,” Naboleone agreed.

“Names are important. There will be a man, hundreds of years from now, a Prussian, an Austrian, a German, who, for a brief time of unparalleled evil, will build an empire, just like yours, though of shorter duration. But for a coincidence of birth, fortunate for him, unfortunate for the world, his name would have been ‘Schicklgruber’.”

“Comical.”

“Yes, not the name of a ruler. Not the name of a leader, or the Führer, as he will insist on being called. But he will not be the comical ‘Schicklgruber’. That is not his fate. No, because his grandfather had a sudden inner conviction to acknowledge his illegitimate son, this man’s name will be ‘Hitler’.”

“Hit-ler. Hmmm. Strong name.”

“Yes, strong. Terrible. And he will cause terrible death and destruction, the most horrible in any man’s memory. But his name, you are right, it is strong.”

“I need a strong name too. A French name.”

“Napoleon,” Merlin said. “Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte.” Naboleone was mentally trying out the name for size. “Yes, that is my name. So simple, such a small change, yet such a great difference. Still me, but … French. And, as it is, after Paoli, I am ready to give up all things Corsican. You know, it sounds, somehow, more right for me, does it not? From this moment, it is my name. Napoleon Bonaparte. But you said I will not remember any of this. How will I remember my new name?”

“Here.” Jean handed him a scrap of paper along with the innkeeper’s goose-feather pen, pushed the inkwell across the table. “Write it down. Slip it in your pocket. Something like that is allowed, am I right, Merlin?”

“You may write down your new name.” Merlin was solemn. “You will not remember much of this night, only those things you are allowed to remember. You will find that slip of paper in your coat. It is your fate. I am not disturbing your future by allowing you to discover the name history will know you by.”

Naboleone … Napoleon now, scribbled down the name, tucked it away in his peacoat. “The name of an Emperor. I will be crowned Emperor Napoleon, the first.”

“This will come to pass. In fact, you will crown yourself, place the crown on your own head, symbolizing that no-one bestows the power on you, except you, yourself.”

“Ah, wonderful. And this will happen? For certain?”

“Yes. If you make a difficult choice.”

“What choice?” Napoleon leaned forward, eyes large, burning, intense. “Tell me. Whatever it is, I will make the right choice.”

“Your choice is between three paths,” Merlin said.

"First: an ordinary life, a forgotten life, but in its own way a very happy life. In fact, this path provides the greatest amount of happiness for you and those closest to you, in this life, and the next.

"Second: a noble death on the battlefield. This is the shortest path, and beyond it is an eternity of bliss.

“Third: the life of the Emperor with fame and fortune, ruling the world. This is the longest life, and it ends in sadness, in frustration, and it involves wars and death throughout Europe, but there is glory, much glory for many glorious years, fifteen years of glory, then sadness, frustration, loss, exile, until your death, but then, after death, a lasting glory in the memory of history through all generations.”

“I choose this third way. I choose the Emperor.”

“You are certain?”

“I am certain. Very certain. Tell me what I must do.”

“It involves some pain, I’m afraid.”

“I am not afraid. I am not afraid of pain. I am not afraid of anything.”

“Then, let me tell you. Everything else you hear in this hour will be as a dream, washed away when this hour comes to an end. But this, what I am about to tell you, what you must do, my dear Napoleon, if you are to live out your fate of glory and fame and power, this you will be allowed to remember, in every detail, so you can be certain to get it right, to get it precisely right.”

“I am ready.”

— END PART 13 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 14 of the story.