*~*~*~*
A sober hand reached for the television remote laying idle upon a highly polished teak desk and pointed it at the monitor. The screen blinked and then blacked out, silencing the elaborate wall-mounted display in a sizzling hiss. A black leather chair, forced into an almost prone position under the guidance of its occupant’s redistributed weight, groaned as it stretched its padded cover and reflexive components to its utmost limits, holding the figure comfortably above the richly carpeted floor.
It is obvious by the news report things are still okay. It doesn’t matter that the young person has been captured and if they blab, who will believe them anyway?
The confident thoughts provoked a relaxed attitude as the man stared at the honey colored exposed ceiling beams. The scheme was still on track and there were plenty of willing contenders to take the place of the fool who’d gotten himself caught.
*~*~*~*
As La Suisse hastily cut through the calm lake surface, Grandpa could see the outline of the Château de Chillon on the distant shore of Lac Léman. The ordeal with the police had cost him valuable schedule time and put Grandpa behind for the rest of the afternoon. To make things worse, disgruntled passengers were being forced to leave the observation deck, avoiding an icy bath from the rotor wash as the presence of the Euronews helicopter hovering just above them and slightly to port followed their progress. Nonetheless, it was an annoyance he couldn’t do anything about and even Anne-Claire was distracted by the prying bird, wondering what the helicopter was so interested in, while it’s unwelcome presence interrupted her thought process as she replayed the shock and events of the past hours.
“Did you know there’s a secret room under the dungeon and running off a passage below the Château de Chillon?” Grandpa spoke as if he was just talking to anyone who would listen, but in fact he was trying to avert Anne-Claire, eager to distract her mind away from the traumatic event.
“Sorry, Grandpa, were you talking to me?” Anne-Claire glanced at him and then back at the Euronews helicopter still following close by.
“There’s a secret room under the dungeon of the Château de Chillon,” he repeated.
Anne-Claire’s gaze quickly returned to her elderly hero and stared at her grandpa with an incredulous frown, wondering whether she had heard right. The peculiar statement did the trick and as a consequence, she forgot the irksome noise created by the blade wash of the helicopter only a few hundred metres above them.
“Grandpa, I’ve been in Chillon Castle so many times and I can tell you there are no hidden rooms under the dungeon! Even if there were, it would be underwater anyway because the dungeon is at lake level! According to my school studies, there are over a hundred rooms in the ancient complex and I can assure you there isn’t anything hidden. We know everything there is to know about the castle!” Anne-Claire sounded a little more annoyed than she intended.
Grandpa raised his eyebrows and then smiled. “So, you know this for sure?”
Anne-Claire appeared confused, searching her memory for anything strange about the mysterious castle but knowing the long, turbulent history, she conceded there may be something lurking in its murky past worthy of a second look. Willing to at least listen to her hero’s explanation, she apologized for her terse comment. After all, Grandpa had never lied to her before, but now she was beginning to doubt her own sanity.
“Have you seen where Lord Byron in the early nineteenth century engraved his famous name into the dungeon’s support pillar?”
“Mmm, of course! It’s been preserved under a clear Perspex cover,” Anne-Claire was in familiar territory and gaining confidence again.
“Well, when we dock at the Château de Chillon wharf and you go on the castle tour with your mum and dad’s visitors, have a careful look at the pillar with Byron’s name carved into it. There are two fading names also carved into the pillar in small letters and in the shape of an arrowhead. You’ll have to look carefully to see them, but they are there. The names nearly intersect at one end and they point toward the hidden room.”
Grandpa watched for his granddaughter’s reaction, with Anne-Claire sensing the deliberate challenge. Her expression suggested she’d swallowed the hook and her curiosity was working overtime, forgetting the events of the past hours.
But confusion was at war with her mind. It has to be true, she thought. Grandpa doesn’t lie and it will be easy to debunk if Grandpa is just making up the story. But why hasn’t someone found it before? It must be a story. Anne-Claire’s mind grasped for truth, furrowing her brow as she tussled with the conflicting thoughts. Then it all fell into place with the suddenness of a thunder clap. Danica would have a great story to read, with Grandpa stirring Anne-Claire’s imagination into a fever to write. Watching the château looming ever larger as they came closer to the wharf, Anne-Clair stood and sidled over to her hero, thankful for the story and eager to revisit the scenes with a sharper and more determined eye and just for fun, check out the names she suspected weren’t there.
“I have to go and find Mum and Dad and the others now, Grandpa,” Anne-Claire suddenly confided and reached up to place a kiss on Grandpa’s cheek. “Love you, and thanks, Grandpa, I’m actually looking forward to the visit now.”
Grandpa hugged his granddaughter and returned her sentiments. A big smile crossed his lips as he watched Anne-Claire, bristling with eager curiosity, leave the bridge and run back to the rear deck.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 23
Impatiently perched on a concrete landing adjoining the Château de Chillon wharf, a Euronews crew stood ready with cameras rolling, capturing images of La Suisse as she skillfully and gently manoeuvred into position against the castle access dock just one hundred metres south of the ancient island bastion. As soon as La Suisse’s expert crew had secured her to the wharf and opened the railing gates, a flood of eager English tourists disembarked the steamer, gawking and babbling, pointing at the castle’s stone facade and the imposing structure lurking in its shadow.
Eddying around the camera crew like an annoying swarm of mosquitoes and swallowing the determined searching paparazzi in a tsunami of humanity, the crowd momentarily disrupted the view of the geriatric steam icon. Unable to focus and locate a newsworthy tale, the reporters dizzied into a frenzy of confusion, probing the milling horde and frantically trying to prevent the threads of a high profile breaking news story from simply walking away. Realizing the crowd had moved on and left the paparazzi empty handed, the reporters and camera crew tried to force their way aboard La Suisse but were repelled by staunch crew members, refusing to let them enter without an appropriate fare.
Anne-Claire nestled close to her parents and cousins, following the throng of tourists bustling along the lakeside walk, Quai Alfred Chatelanat from La Suisse to the entrance of the Château de Chillon. With a final curious glance, she turned back to face the deflated and defeated camera crew, then refocused her concentration to the mystery Grandpa had placed before her, convinced and confused all at the same time but eager to put this new piece of information to the test. She caught a glimpse of Grandpa on the starboard bridge wing, manoeuvring the lumbering vessel away from the dock to make the return journey with just a few new passengers. Anne-Claire waved animatedly above the crowd, hoping her hero would see her gesture and to her delight, Grandpa waved back.
Surrounded by a wall of old people, Anne-Claire studied the pavement as she walked, trying to write the opening lines of her story for Danica in her mind and adequately describe the scene for someone who had never been to her native homeland. High above their heads and embedded into the foot of the towering Alps but partially hidden by thick mountain vegetation, the incessant roar of speeding traffic drifted down over the lakeside walk from the A9, a classically engineered motorway and purportedly built over the ruins of an ancient Roman trade route.
Only metres away, the passing electric buzz of a uniquely Suisse passenger train threw off speed in a long, mournful groan as the po
werful electric motors reversed effort, braking the moving carriages and bringing the speeding snake to a perfect squealing halt beside the timeworn castle. Then with equal intensity, the powerful motors gasped in electricity from overhead lines, exciting striving rail components into a symphony of mechanical stress. Not unlike like the solemn echo of times gone by when thousands of straining peasant men cried, ‘Yo-ho-heave-ho’, besieged together under an oppressive enemy, trying to move the daunting load of tyranny and emerge the free and proud Suisse people.
Opening an unrestricted view of the Avenue de Chillon, the train gained speed and disappeared further along the lakeside track just as squealing tyres and a blaring horn violently compelled Anne-Claire from her thoughts and forced her attention to focus on the close call with a pounding heart. With her nerves on edge, she tried to obscure the agitated voices drifting down from the roadside near-miss and concentrate on the towering castle walls.
To her delight, she caught a fading glimpse of La Suisse and the white cross surrounded with a red background—the Suisse national flag—flapping proudly from the stern flagpole. Then obscured by the overbearing castle’s southern wall, the steamboat quickly vanished from view, yet its massive size disturbed the lake surface, leaving the turbulent white wake as the only indication a large vessel had passed by. Soon the confused foamy water settled back into a chilled grey-blue, greatly emphasizing the borders of the island castle’s stronghold against the lake’s watery boundaries and adding a new degree of mystery to the Suisse fortress.
The imposing castle walls, built directly onto an impervious rock island, gave the impression of a fairytale personality. Square clock towers—finely crafted by medieval stonemasons—joined hands with rotund watchtowers, stretching along the full length of the landward side and giving its occupants a commanding view of all visitors and the time to discern favorable intent. On the lakeside, sheer walls extending four storeys vertically deterred anyone with malevolent purposes from attempting to infiltrate the enclosed and protected courtyard, making a marine assault virtually impossible.
With no time to stare, the crowd carried Anne-Claire and her family along until they entered the classic stone arches of the Quai Alfred Chatelanat garden, partially surrounded with finely manicured hedges facing the castle’s southern wall and leading to the only entrance into the timeworn fortress. A tourist bus slowly edged into a parking bay neatly arrayed along the Avenue de Chillon roadside, but separated from the castle access by the formidable electric train line. One hundred metres to the north of the castle’s approach, an ornate ancient timber bridge offered a protected covered passage above the busy train track and the high voltage death lurking in its wires. Once safely across, a sloping stone path delivered eager sightseers down into the southern entry, joining the group recently disembarked from La Suisse.
Another ancient covered wooden bridge spanned the castle’s moat, joining the island fortress to the mainland but mischievously, the structure became a bottleneck, forcing tourists into queues intent on relieving eager visitors of an entry fee. Discontentedly, anxious idling patrons, blocked from entering the historic castle by a solid line of ambling humanity, searched over the crowd trying to discover the obstruction to their anticipated visit, until hands reaching into deep pockets and fossicking for elusive Swiss francs gave away a vital clue. People mingled, waiting enthusiastically for their turn to pay and enter the historic Château, then carefully and reverently added their footsteps to the ancient halls with the intention to personally experience the relics and images of a romantic era long past.
The anticipated moment finally came. Laurent purchased two family tickets and the five people passed through the foyer, entering a small internal courtyard and stepping back centuries in time. Anne-Claire made no secret that her attention and intention was buried in the architecture of the cavernous ceilings and walls of the ancient dungeon. Intrigue burned in her heart and tingled every pore, anxious to find the dungeon pillar, the mystical names and the supposed secret room Grandpa had captivated her imagination with. Anne-Claire’s mother turned around just in time to see her daughter disappear across the first courtyard and through the weapon magazine room on her way to the dungeon.
“Anne-Claire!” she called perplexedly. “Can’t you stay with us?!”
But it was too late. In her haste to go exploring, Anne-Claire was already clear of earshot.
Cautiously picking her way around a group of ambling sightseers, Anne-Claire exited the magazine room and speedily swept through the arsenal chamber and then entered a small archway leading directly into the impressive floodlit dungeon. The five magnificent stone pillars separating floor, walls and ceiling had stood the test of time for well over 800 years. Skilled ancient hands had carved the stone into five giant octopi, their tentacles interlocking and overlapping the dungeon walls and ceiling in a graceful marvel of engineering excellence, while the strong backs of the rotund stone pillars anchored the structure to the bedrock floor. Purposefully built to be vigilant and constantly under stress, keeping the dungeon ceiling and walls in place, yet the architectural prowess struck awe into the heart of those fortunate enough to behold their stunning floodlit profile. Anne-Claire circled each pillar, searching for Lord Byron’s elusive signature but knowing full well where to find the carving, she savored the hunt with ardor, unwilling to dismiss any clue—no matter how small—and possibly overlook the key to the secret room Grandpa had so vehemently portrayed.
Eventually, after close scrutiny, she rejected four of the pillars conclusively, leaving the clear undisputed contender and finding the Perspex cover with the famous engraving protected behind it exactly where she’d suspected. All around the famous scrawl, decades of visitors had crafted their own insignificance beside the famous poet’s, hoping to borrow from the poet’s infamy and leave their own graffiti for generations to come. As the overzealous would-be artists encroached closer and closer to the famous scratching, it became necessary to safeguard Byron’s legendary work and preserve it for future generations to enjoy. Thus conserving a tangible and observable connection with the distant romantic past by the Perspex cover. Anne-Claire gazed at Byron’s timeworn and taciturn signature, but she wasn’t impressed with the poet’s insignia after seeing it so many times before.
Instead, she crouched to her haunches, looking for another jewel, avidly searching around the base of the pillar, brushing the surface with her fingers and blowing off the years of accumulated dust. Circling the carved structure again and again, vigilantly searching for the signature and watchfully checking each scratch and dent, Anne-Claire found nothing like Grandpa suggested. She raised herself to a standing position and sighed, frustrated, but understanding why her hero had embellished the story, giving her imagination a boost in drawing a vivid word picture for Danica. But Grandpa’s story would’ve been a greater adventure if she’d actually found the two names formed into an ancient arrow like he’d promised, even if the hidden room was pure fairytale.
Disappointed, Anne-Claire decided to check the pillar’s circumference one more time, just in case she’d missed something important. Bending over and moving around the pillar at the same time, she unexpectedly came upon something that looked like a series of insignificant faded scratches. Moving closer to examine her find, her heart began to race with expectation as she cleaned the dust from the pillar's wound with her hand. Then with astonished disbelief, two light abrasions appeared under her fingers, delicately inscribed into the ancient stonework. Joined at the front to form an arrowhead, two faded names pointed directly to a rocky spot not two metres away, just like Grandpa had said. She crouched again, and wet her finger with her saliva and tried to clean the inscription further. Drawing closer to examine the strange find and staring with astonishment, Anne-Claire studied the arrowhead and the names making up the distinctive symbol in disbelief.
Baron Willy de Bad and Dominique de Blonay.
Jumping to her feet, bouncing on the spot and consumed with exube
rant excitement at her discovery, the sudden movement from a crouching position left her dizzy and light-headed. Feeling unsteady, Anne-Claire stumbled, but as she tried to regain her balance, a violent tremor shook the dungeon palate, stealing her footing altogether in the pulsating quake. Unable to balance on the rippling floor, Anne-Claire crashed to the ground, hitting her head on a protruding rock.
As consciousness, teased by the gnawing pain, flickered between light and dark, she watched helplessly while a ghostlike trapdoor in the floor opened beneath her. With no control of her limbs, her semiconscious body rolled over like a rag doll and fell headlong into the yawning hole, settling her smarting frame into a numbing heap. A sudden deep blackness surrounded her, leaving only a few strands of coloured light dwindling from the dungeon above her. With the last bright rays of understanding dimming into twilight, the trapdoor began to close, scraping raucously as heavy rock dragged over heavy rock, entombing her into a dank, deaf world.
In the midst of rising panic and desperately trying to break free of semiconsciousness, she felt her last lines of resistance fail when a frantic scream for help dropped helplessly at her feet. Acting like strong smelling salts, the open pit’s clammy and musty stench roused her faltering mind to the rumbling rock trapdoor gradually closing, sealing her into a deep crawling darkness and slowly stealing what consciousness remained until her only escape route closed in a reverberating... bang!