The old man peered over his shoulder at the hut from his position standing at the back of the sled, a sick feeling rising in his gut as if he was saying goodbye to a trusted friend. With a pile of furs lying in the passenger well of the sled, he breathed out a nervous sigh, turned and mushed the dogs on toward Katu. The dogs barked with excitement as the old wooden sled jolted forward and sped across the Salix glauca effortlessly.
Two hours into the journey, the old man spotted a strange sight in the distance. He called the dogs to a halt and tried to squint, to clear his vision and focus. The fear rose, marshalling his senses to high alert at the outline of a large nanuq prostrated on the ground, as if he was preparing to pounce.
Thoughts flashed through his mind and then reason took over: all nanuq should be hundreds of kilometres to the north by now and if this particular bear was a threat, Akiak would have surely warned him. The old man trusted her implicitly; her senses were sharp, always testing the environment around her for threats and she missed nothing. From her position at the head of the stationary dog team, she raised her snout again to taste the air in the direction of the nanuq, wary of the deadly menace. Convinced Nanuq offered no threat, she turned to concentrate on another distraction and contemptuously lost interest in the hulking, motionless form.
The old man stepped from the sled and reached for his rifle, then cautiously measured his ground till he was almost on top of the predator. The smell of decaying flesh assaulted his senses and a gasp filled his lungs. There had been a momentary struggle before this large, three metre tall male nanuq had succumbed to a single, brutal force that had stolen his life. The old man prodded the dead beast with his rifle butt and estimated the nanuq to be close to 700 kilos then searched around till he found the footprint of the culprit, perfectly preserved in a mud puddle created by melting snow. He dropped to his haunches and examined the massive pad print, then compared the huge male bear’s paw lying dead before him.
It was nearly fifty millimetres bigger.
He swallowed hard, the fear bristling the hair on the back of his neck and out of habit he searched the surroundings, gripping the barrel of his gun tightly. After all these years, his old nemesis was still around somewhere. The last time he saw a track like this he was only a boy, nearly sixty years ago, and the memories of that horrific day etched forever into his young mind, shaped his life and as a fugitive, drove him deep into the wilderness.
Read more of The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq
*~*~*~*
Exclusive Preview of New Novel by Dodie La Mirounette and Jack Dey
LA BELLE SUISSE
With his meagre belongings in his hand, Philippe de la Calle stepped from the crowded train, pondering the rising apartment towers and the lavish streets of his once boyhood home. He hadn’t been back here in thirty years and now the memories sealed in the timeless corridors of his mind collided heavily with the opulence that staggered about in the unrecognisable streets where poverty once gripped his hand and kept his family prisoner. Somewhere in his tangled thoughts, wooden shanty housing leaned together in a mass for communal support and if one stick was removed then the whole town would collapse; so it was with the simple community structure of poor families living and relying on each other to survive.
A storm of wealthy influential invaders had seen the potential of the small seaside hamlet as a tax haven and playground for the rich and famous. With the casual stroke of a pen on a blank cheque book stub, life changed drastically for the poor, stealing the land from under their feet in a desperate greedy grab and displacing families who had depended on it to survive for centuries.
Philippe gawked around at the ordered lavish streets, bordered by sandstone buildings groomed with gold leaf architecture and emblazoned with impish statues. Walk paths of rich, intricately cut Italian stone meandered lazily between millionaires' villas, diverting here and there through an ornate and expensively decorated park. Fountains splashed and gurgled on every profligate street corner; where once there was thirst, now water seemed to bubble up from under every manicured rock.
An incredulous sweeping gaze at the tidy harbour, protected from the Mediterranean’s boisterous moods by heavy rock barriers, abruptly halted Philippe in mid gawk. In a time gone by, a great and proud natural seawall of granite protected the village from the ocean's wrath; now it stood impotent and tamed as a backdrop to a fester of towering apartments. The sea in front of the buildings, reclaimed and pushed back, now accommodated meandering streets and a circus of harbour front villas. Beyond the reaching luxury, a fleet of magnificent private floating palaces lay at anchor, neatly moored in million dollar pens, polished and watched over by zealous crews until their millionaire masters were ready for another lavish party among the latest sports or movie stars, showing off their abundant wealth in another exuberant sea jaunt.
Philippe swivelled on his feet and slowly completed a three hundred and sixty degree scan. All about him, trillions of Euros lay buried in a hoard of personal greed, while the people he had lived and worked among had died in droves from lack of a daily meal, clean drinking water or a few Euros of antibiotic medicines.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur!”
A petite, well-dressed young woman drew Philippe back to earth. “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle,” he apologised and stepped aside so she could navigate around his gawking, incredulous frame. Another group of approaching spellbound humanity disturbed Philippe’s train of thought further and he began to follow the young woman along the path lest he be swept up by the wave of coveting tourists.
It took some time to orient himself in the unfamiliar streets but as his thin and tall, fifty-year-old frame came to an abrupt stop in front of an opulent structure, the bitter memories came flooding back. He was just about to step from the ordered kerb and cross an immaculate street to face his nemesis when a red and black Bugatti-Veyron sports car blared its horn in warning, and then quickly slipped away in an expensive plume of racing formulae fuel. Philippe stared after the vivacious vehicle, realising he had just missed being run over by 1.1 million Euro. Checking for further fast moving indulgent drivers, he quickly scampered across the street before a yellow Lamborghini, driven by a sports model blonde, approached and roared past in a flash of vibrating noise.
Now safely across the roadway of spoilt disdain, Philippe stood silently, contemplating the extravagant building threatening to engulf him in a tsunami of past regret and shame that divided his family and destroyed the people he loved. Philippe’s father, the village leader, had colluded with the wealthy invaders and engaged with them in a despicable bid to defraud the people of their ancestral home and for his efforts, he was rewarded with a small fortune by poor people’s standards. Seeing the need for a rich man’s playhouse, Philippe’s father had invested all he had in a gambling den for the wealthy and now after thirty years, he was one of the wealthiest men among the wealthy.
As a young man, Philippe sensed the rising tide of affluent evil gripping at his bones, stifling the overwhelming desire to make a difference in a lopsided world, ignoring the cries of the suffering and filled his mind instead with the rich man’s disease. But no longer able to survive an audience with his conscience, Philippe, along with his mother, left his father and brother to live a life of indulgent riches. Now, as a fifty-year-old missionary and after working in abject poverty in some of the poorest hot spots of the world, it had been nearly three decades since he’d seen his wealthy and elderly father and the place he once called home.
Philippe took a last glance at the opulent casino, patted down his ragged clothing and started to climb the hill to his father’s house bulging out onto a nearby hillside. As he approached the sprawling driveway, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter that had started him on his latest pilgrimage and began to read again.
Philippe
Your father is not well and the doctors suggest he has only weeks or possibly months to live. I am not sure why he requested to see you and mother one last time befor
e he dies, but you owe it to him for giving you life, to at least make some kind of effort and fulfil his dying request. I still can’t forgive you for walking away from the family when father invested his complete fortune in the casino and it looked like we would be poor again, but as you will see, father is exuberantly wealthy now and I only hope he has kept his promise to cut you out of his will. Just so you know, it is my intention to contest any favours he has set aside for you in his last testament and I can afford the best legal team possible. Personally, I couldn’t care if you don’t come, but father asks every day after you and I urge you for his sake to make a concession in your selfish lifestyle and fulfil a dying man's request.
Once again I remind you, I am the first born son and I am entitled to every bit of father’s substantial estate, simply because I stayed and supported him in his decisions and I will see to it you receive nothing from this incredible self-made man.
As agreeable as ever, your older brother Robert.
Philippe folded the tattered letter and placed it reverently back in his threadbare shirt pocket. From the moment he had received the news of his father, it had taken him nearly a month to travel across some of the most inhospitable territory on Earth, calling on favours with grateful people to help him traverse across continents just so he could get to his ailing father’s side. But now, he wasn’t even sure his foolhardy journey was all for naught and whether he was too late to fulfil his father’s dying wish. After the nerve-racking trek, he stood peering down a lavish driveway and into the haughty eyes of extreme opulence. He paused for long moments, considering the final few metres of his sojourn and what lay in wait for his arrival. With a quick prayer for strength, he pushed his feet on toward the enormous front doors, staring at a plethora of closed-circuit cameras, watching him, watching them.
Philippe lifted his hand to knock, but before his knuckles made contact with the expensive paintwork, one half of the massive doors opened and a maid met his eyes with a disdainful frown. “Eh, vous là-bas, le vagabond, get away from the door before I have security run you off!”
“If you please, mademoiselle, I am Philippe de la Calle and I have come to see my father, Henri Rousseau!”
The maid’s eyes suddenly clouded with fright. “Excusez-moi, monsieur, I did not know! Your father told us to expect an unusual person in the form of a fils prodigue.”
Philippe smiled at the quavering maid. “Oui, mademoiselle, I guess my attire does suggest the presence of a prodigal son.”
The front door soon gave way into a mammoth, echoing amphitheatre with full length windows traversing two storeys above to the ground floor and giving an unhindered view of the impressive harbour and the millionaire’s paradise below the foot of the mountain. Gold staircases led to ornate balconies far above Philippe’s head, while each unintentional sound amplified and distorted in the clinical ambience of splendid white marble floors and ceilings.
A booming voice originating from one of the opulent staircases overpowered Philippe’s awestruck gaze and he turned to meet the unmistakable owner. “So, you have disowned my name as well as my family, Philippe de la Calle! Why are you known as Philippe of the Streets?”
Philippe’s shocked countenance stole the ability to respond to the spritely elderly gentleman walking effortlessly down a flight of stairs to greet him.
“I... it is an identity with the people I live and work among, Father. The poor of the world!” Philippe’s voice echoed around the palatial surrounds as he gawked at the healthy older man.
“Arr, the poor of the world,” the disgruntled voice echoed around the cavernous hall. “People who refuse to take advantage of the wealth the world offers.”
“No, Father, you have it wrong. These are people who have no opportunity to take advantage of the wealth of the world; when you consider that one percent of the world’s population controls fifty percent of its wealth.”
“Statistics, Philippe, that mean nothing. You grew up with the poverty of this place and look at me now. I have power, recognition and everything I could ever want.”
“But are you happy, Father?”
“ARE THE POOR HAPPY, PHILIPPE?!” the booming voice echoed around the room and shocked the younger man.
“They are among some of the happiest people I have met, especially when they know our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”
“You always were a simpleton child, filled with the superstitions of religion. But there is no religion except wealth and fortune. Look what it can do for you!” the elder man swept his arm around the opulent surrounds.
“And what of your impending death, Father?” Philippe whispered.
“I will not die, Philippe; you can see how healthy I am and I have many beautiful young women around to keep me young.”
“Everyone dies, Father, and yet we are eternal beings; our spirit is alive for ever. You may be rich now, but what awaits you without Jesus is eternal agony and poverty.”
“Huh! More of your confounded brainwashed idealism, Philippe! Robert told me I was wasting my time trying to make you see reason. The only thing that exists is now and today; and today I am a king!”
A calculating stare settled in the old man’s eyes as he bored into his wayward son. “Here is my challenge to you, Philippe de la Calle. Stay with me and in my home for six months and I will show you the power money wields and the truth of its idealism, instead of your toothless God.”
*** COMING SOON ***
*~*~*~*
Back to top
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends