Pierre glanced to the northeast. The rumbling sound seemed to intensify. A frown creased his forehead, bringing a shadow to his dark eyes. What did all this mean for little villages such as his? Would they become German, or remain French? For centuries the citizens of the area had adapted to their different masters, and much of the population spoke both languages. But the stories coming out of the war zones were alarming. If only half were true, this was going to be a different kind of occupation, and even the smallest villages might be in for terrible times.
He sighed gloomily, checked on Jean-Henri once more, then lifted his scythe again.
About quarter of an hour later, Pierre again stopped his work. The artillery was silent, but from the north there was a deeper sound. Crump! Crump! Moments later he thought he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. Bombs! Big bombs. War was approaching, and it was coming fast.
His ear caught another sound. It was faint, and for a moment he thought it was only the hum of the bees. He glanced around. Jean-Henri was about fifty meters away, sitting by the well near the château. He was poking at something with his stick, totally engrossed.
Looking up and around, Pierre tried to focus on the sound. It was more distinct and quickly growing louder. Then he saw it. An airplane was moving across the sky, north to south, no more than a kilometer or two away. He peered at it, squinting against the light. The silhouette was easily recognizable—thin fuselage, glass canopy, inverted gull-wings, and two landing gear struts with wheels attached to the undercarriage. It was a Junker JU 87, better known by its nickname Stuka—an abbreviation of the German word for dive bomber. Though the war had been on less than a year, the Stukas had become one of the most feared and hated weapons of the German war machine.
Now Pierre understood the deeper explosions. It was the Stukas going after individual targets with deadly accuracy. As he watched, the airplane banked right and started coming straight at him. He dropped the scythe in horror and spun around. “Jean-Henri! Run! Hide!”
As he turned back, he was startled by how rapidly the plane was growing in size. He could see the blur of the propeller and the sunlight glinting off the canopy. The sound of the engine was growing louder every second. It was a beautiful sight in one way, and for a moment he was mesmerized by it.
“Pierre!”
The shout from his wife jerked him around. She had come out the front door of the château. Her face was upturned, and she held one hand up to shade her eyes. To his surprise, he saw that she had the pouch clutched to her chest.
“Get down, Monique!” He waved his arms like a madman. He was gratified to see her leap off the porch and crouch down behind the stone steps. At the same moment, he saw Jean-Henri scamper behind the well, which was also made of heavy stone masonry.
He broke into a lunging, awkward run, still shouting and waving his arms. As he ran, he looked over his shoulder. The plane was huge now, and coming at him with breathtaking speed. It was about two hundred meters above him, but coming in a shallow dive. He saw yellow flashes from each wing. Instantly the hammering of machine guns followed, almost swallowed up in the roar of the engine.
He flung himself to one side. Rolling three or four times, barely aware of the roughness of the ground, he looked up in time to see two lines of geysers—mud, dirt, and grass spouting upward—coming directly at him. The sound of the heavy caliber bullets hitting the earth was like the vicious snapping of some horrible monster, but the noise was so rapid it almost blended into one continuous blast of sound.
Throwing his hands over his head, he buried his face in the grass as the bullets passed by him on the left and right, missing him by two or three meters on either side. As they ripped past him, he leaped up, looking around frantically for his wife and son. But he had no sooner started to get up when some giant’s hand swatted him from behind.
He flew four or five feet through the air, then landed hard and rolled over and over. He ended face up, staring dazedly at the empty sky. His ears rang; it was like he had suddenly been wrapped in a cocoon.
Where was he? What had just hit him? He turned his head. Directly to his right, a dark shape was climbing almost straight up, rapidly diminishing in size. It took him another second or two to realize that the Stuka had pulled out of its dive just as it had passed over Pierre. It was probably no more than fifteen or twenty meters above him, and moving at close to five hundred kilometers per hour. The blast of its wind stream had knocked him rolling.
Trying to get to his feet, Pierre only made it to his good knee. Everything seemed to be spinning around him. He was confused and disoriented. Finally, he regained sufficient presence of mind to remember his wife and son. He raised his head, looking toward the château. There was no sign of his wife. That was good. He registered that the twin tracks of ripped up earth did not lead toward the house, but went straight across the meadow. That was good too.
Impressions were coming faster now. He glanced up. The Stuka was a black speck high in the sky, but as he watched, it gracefully arched over and started another dive, this one nearly vertical. He gaped in horror. Again he tried to get up, and this time he managed to get fully to his feet. He swayed back and forth, looking around wildly.
What he saw sent a chill through him colder than the coldest of winter blasts. Directly ahead of him, about forty meters away, Jean-Henri was coming out from behind the well. He was facing away from Pierre. His head was tipped back, moving slowly from side to side as he scanned the sky. For a moment, Pierre wondered if his son had been injured somehow. Then it hit him. He was looking for the Stuka.
“No!” he cried and broke into a hobbling run.
Jean-Henri didn’t hear him. His total focus was on the sky, and he was moving out into the meadow where the trees wouldn’t block his view.
“Run, Jean-Henri!” It was a primal scream, but even as he shouted it out, he knew the boy couldn’t hear him.
One of the unique things about the Stuka dive bomber was that its designers had included a siren in the craft to add to its psychological effect on anyone on the ground. As the plane’s speed increased, the siren came on, and it sounded like the scream of a wounded banshee.
No! A dive that steep meant the pilot was going to bomb them.
Yelling, shouting, sobbing, Pierre stumbled and went down. Scrambling up again, he pushed himself harder. But he knew with a horrifying reality that he would not reach his son in time.
He stopped and cupped his hands. “Run, Jean-Henri! Run!”
Why wasn’t he running? Why was he standing there, looking up at the aircraft coming straight at him? Pierre wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to drop to his knees and pray. He wanted to leap across the entire distance and knock his son out of the way.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that Monique was screaming too. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her running, her dress billowing, her long dark hair flying out behind her. She had the pouch in both hands as she ran, holding it high, as if to ward off the black shape hurtling toward them.
And then, to Pierre’s utter astonishment, Jean-Henri did the unthinkable. With the Stuka coming straight at him in a black blur, he raised one hand and waved at the pilot.
Pierre raced forward, his eyes fixed on the bottom of the fuselage, watching for the long dark shape of the bomb to break free and start its own peculiar scream as it fell toward the ground.
But the guns never fired. Nothing dropped from the plane. About three hundred meters up and a hundred meters out ahead of their son, the plane suddenly pulled out of its dive, flashing over their heads so fast they momentarily lost sight of it.
Gasping, Pierre whirled around.
As the Stuka pulled away, rapidly disappearing into the blue sky, it waggled its wings. Once. Twice. Then a third time.
The pilot was waving back!
Half an hour later, Pierre still had not returned to cutting hay. He sat on the steps, shoulder to shoulder with his wife, their hands tightly clasped. Jean-Henri was playing a few feet away
. He had two small plastic airplanes, a gift from his grandmother. One was in each hand as they dove at each other in a mock dogfight.
“Enchantement,” Monique said finally, half under her breath. The old pouch was in her lap, and she stroked the embroidery with one hand.
“What did you say?”
She turned. “Don’t you remember what your mother said on the day of his christening?”
“I do, but I have never believed in enchantments or protective spells. That was just her way of giving him a grandmother’s blessing.”
She gave him a sidelong look, but said nothing. She looked down at her lap. She traced the embroidered letters on the flap with one finger. “Le Gardien,” she murmured, not looking at him.
“It was a little miracle,” he said, “I grant you that. But that doesn’t mean it was some kind of magic. It’s more likely that when the pilot saw Jean-Henri waving to him, he was reminded of his own son—or brother, or nephew—and pulled up just in time.”
She was watching her son. “If that is what you wish to believe, then believe it.”
“But you don’t.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know what my eyes saw.”
“You are a dreamer, my love,” Pierre said. He leaned over to kiss her.
Just before their lips touched, she pulled back and smiled. “Enchantement,” she said again. Then she kissed him back, squeezing his hand all the tighter.
Part One: Danni
Chapter 1
Hanksville, Utah
Friday, June 13, 2008
This is the personal journal of Carruthers Monique McAllister.
But if any of you guys ever call me Carruthers, KAPOW! You’ll be wearing a black eye for the rest of your life. Just wanted to make that clear.
Actually, everyone calls me Danni.
I know. It makes no sense at all, but I’ll explain in a minute.
Today is Friday the 13th. And today is my 13th birthday! How cool is that?
But my birthday party isn’t until tomorrow.☹
I really, really wanted to have it today, but there’s no way Mom would let me have a party on Friday the 13th. She said we can’t tempt the fates. When I asked her what that meant, she just shook her head. But she wouldn’t budge. My birthday party is tomorrow. CRAZY!!!
Don’t get me wrong. I think Mom is way cool. But she has friggatriskaidekaphobia. That means she’s scared of Friday the 13th. I found that on Google. Grandpère says they must have invented Google just for me because I’m always asking questions and want to know everything. He’s right. I love Google!!
Grandpère doesn’t believe in this whole bad luck thing and went ahead and gave me my present today. It was this journal. Mom was all right with that as long as I waited until tomorrow to actually start writing in it. I didn’t say anything, which she took to mean I agreed. Too bad for her.
At dinner, when Mom wasn’t looking, Grandpère slipped me his pocket flashlight and a couple of extra batteries. So that explains why right now I’m writing under the covers in my bed. Glad he included extra batteries, ’cause I’ve got a lot to say.
Okay, let me tell you about Grandpère. He’s my grandfather (Mom’s dad), and he has lived with us since my grandmother died of a stroke five years ago. His name is Jean-Henri LaRoche. It’s French.☺
Oh, and BTW, it’s not pronounced Jeen Henry, like we’d say it in English. It’s Zhahn Ahn-ree. But we all call him Grandpère. (You say Grahn from the back of your throat, like you are going to spit. BTW, I think Grandpère is a waaay cooler name than Grandpa.)
As I said, my full name is Carruthers Monique McAllister. I was named after my mother and my great-grandmother, Grandpère’s mother. My mom’s full name is Angelique Carruthers LaRoche McAllister. (It’s easy to fall asleep before you get through saying that. Ha-ha.) The other side of Mom’s line comes from Ireland, and their last name was Carruthers, so that became her middle name.
When I was born, Mom decided she wanted me to represent both the Irish and French sides of our heritage, and thus my name. But why, oh why, did she decide to make my first name Carruthers? Ugh! Sometimes Mom can be seriously weird. Not in a bad way. But seriously! I mean, really? Carruthers? It totally sounds like an Irish pub. Not cool!
Fortunately, Dad solved the problem. When I was little, Dad always used to sing me Irish songs to get me to sleep. His favorite was “Danny Boy.” He sang it to me almost every night. And one night, when I was three, when he finished, I sat up in bed, pointed to myself, and said, “I Danny Boy.” From that point on, I’ve always been Danni to my dad. He changed the “y” to an “i” so it looked more feminine (and so Mom didn’t freak). Even now, he keeps reminding her “Danni” is as Irish as “Carruthers.”
Dad only calls me Carruthers when I’m in trouble. Mom never calls me anything but Carruthers.
So anyway, I’m Danni McAllister. I’m thirteen years old (as of today). I have my mom’s dark hair, but Dad’s green eyes and some freckles. Dad calls them leprechaun kisses, and Ricky thinks they’re cute. That helps.
Oh, who’s Ricky? Ricky is Ricardo Manuel Luis Ramirez, my best friend—but only his dad calls him Ricardo. We didn’t start out being friends though. We hated each other in elementary school. When I was in the fourth grade, Ricky—who was in the fifth grade—found out my name was Carruthers. He thought that was so hilarious he started telling everybody about it one day in the school cafeteria. When I gave him and two of his buddies bloody noses, he went back to calling me Danni. And so did everyone else. ☺
Our middle school is in Bicknell, which is about sixty miles from Hanksville. Since his house is the second bus stop from mine, we sit together every day. I have a lot of other good friends, but none of them are as good a friend as Ricky.
Anyway, back to me. I am exactly five feet three inches tall. I hope I’m still growing, but Grandpère thinks this is it. My favorite food is peanut butter pizza. (Just kidding!) It’s actually cheese enchiladas and fried ice cream. My favorite color is light purple (lavender, my mom calls it), and my favorite hobbies are reading, hiking, camping, and riding four-wheelers. I love taking our ATVs up into the Henry Mountains near our home to search for old Spanish gold mines. Sweet!
I live on a small ranch on the north side of Hanksville, Utah. We have a few head of cattle and grow some of our own hay. It’s the greatest place on earth to live. There are national parks and monuments all over the place down here. And Lake Powell. We have jet skis and a houseboat we share with another family. I love Lake Powell. It’s the greatest.
As I said, my mother’s name is Angelique. (That’s pronounced Ahn-zhel-eek, not Angel-leak.) I think it’s an amazing name. Especially for her. She is very beautiful, with long black hair and gray eyes. She speaks fluent French because when she was growing up, Grandpère and Grandmère spoke French in their home. She was raised in Boulder, Colorado, where Grandpère taught French literature at the University of Colorado.
Mom loves beautiful things, and often dreams about living someplace like Paris or London. I tell her she ought to be a fashion model. She just says, “Oh, you!” but I can tell she likes it when I say it.
“Carruthers?”
I jumped like a snake had been dropped down the back of my shirt. I turned off the flashlight, slammed my journal shut and stuck it under the pillow, then threw back the covers just as Mom opened the door.
“Are you all right? I thought I heard someone talking in here.”
I gulped. I always talk to myself when I write. “Umm . . . no, Mom, I’m all right. Really. I can’t sleep.” I gave her a big smile, the kind which always gets me out of trouble.
She came in and sat down on my bed. Absently, she reached across and pushed one strand of hair away from my face. “Do you hate me for making you wait until tomorrow for your party?”
“No.” Disappointed, yes, but I could never hate my mom. “It’s all right.” I squeezed her hand. “Really, it’s okay. But why won’t you and Cody come camping with us tom
orrow?”
She laughed softly. “Because my idea of roughing it is having to adjust the air conditioning unit in a hotel room by hand. Maybe next time.”
Yeah, right. Not in my lifetime.
She stood. “Daddy called awhile ago. He was in Price. He said he’ll be home around eleven.”
I glanced at the clock: 10:41. “Did he get my new cowboy boots?”
“He didn’t say, but I’m sure he did.”
“Tell him to come in and see me, even if I’m asleep.”
She smiled down at me. “I won’t have to.”
Getting to her feet, she bent down and kissed me on the forehead. “Happy birthday, Danni.”
My eyes opened wide. Danni? Did my mother just call me Danni? Then I saw the smile behind her eyes. This was her way of saying she was sorry about the party. I raised half up, threw my arms around her, and gave her a hard squeeze. “I love you, Mom.”
“And I love you too, Carruthers. More than you can ever know.”
I laughed. I guess one Danni was all she had in her. She blew me a kiss, moved back to the door, and reached up to turn off the lights. She dropped her hand. “I’ll leave this on,” she said. “May as well write in your journal at your desk and save Grandpère’s batteries for when you really need them.”
“I . . . umm . . . my journal?”
She laughed aloud. “I may be superstitious, but I’m not blind. You can write until your dad comes home, then it’s off to bed. Promise?”
“Promise,” I said. As she closed the door, I threw the covers back and climbed out of bed.
Okay, so that was so totally cool. Mom just called me Danni. That may be the first time ever.
I’ve already told you a little about Grandpère. He was in born in France. He is very tall—over six feet—and wears a little French goatee. It’s cute. His hair is black too, but starting to turn gray around his ears. He always wears a French beret when he goes out. Since everyone around here wears cowboy hats—well, except for one or two—some people have taken to calling him Grandberet instead of Grandpère.