OOM: Krampus II: Pyramid

[road_to_calvary]

Javert looks awful. He does not seem aware of the lash mark across his back that has sliced through his thin coat. Perhaps it is just as well. The heat of the chase will be keeping the knowledge from him, but will wear off soon enough. It is not just that though; he has blood on his head, and visible on his knees through the holes ripped in his trousers from crawling, and falling; a cursory glance reveals the same of his own. Well. It could have been rather worse. He feels almost lightheaded from relief at finding himself in a place with light, and clear air. Almost clear air. It is still very hot, but now without the wet heat of the tunnels. There is sand too, and shade in the form of sandy walls on either side. They appear to be in a crack in a cliff, or similar; he can see blue sky from where he lies, and hear nothing at all.

He looks to his side. Javert looks back. Valjean nods, to thank him for the rescue at the end there. To his surprise, Javert nods back. And then he gets up, and that is that. He watches him walk further into the shade, and sit where it must be cooler. Or maybe he simply wishes to get further away from him. Either is possible.

‘Do you have any further ideas?’ he says, and Valjean shakes his head.

‘None whatsoever. I stand by my assertion that we are in God’s hands.’

‘That is not a great deal of help.’

‘Au contraire.’

‘Oh?’

‘It tells us to keep moving. Our actions will decide our fate, and I am sure you agree, sitting here will accomplish nothing.’ He stands, hiding a wince at the pull in his shoulder, and ignoring the ache of bruises and scrapes. Javert shoots him a dark look, but stands also. Valjean glances behind; there is no sign of a doorway behind them. So it is magic then. If it were simply encased within Milliways somehow – tunnels through the mountain already there – the doorway would surely be permanent. Instead, there is nothing. He pulls uncomfortably at his cravat, both because of the heat, and because magic is unsettling.

‘Valjean. Come and see.’

 Javert has made it to the opening of their shaded cove, but no further. He goes to him, with no expectations of what might be there. Even so, he is surprised.

They are in a desert. There is nothing for what seems a mile - or two, or three -but sand. Sand, and a sky the deep turquoise blue of one that rarely sees clouds. That is strange enough, but it is not the only thing, because in the near distance rises what is, unmistakeably, one of the Great Pyramids. It is an ancient sight that cannot be anything else. But what is strange is that it is not the scene depicted in travel books that he has often looked on; it is not a collection of pyramids. It is one, and one only. And there are no other visitors. Not a single moving person, or animal, or bird. It is the two of them, and a pyramid, and a desert, and that is all.

He clears his throat. ‘How far, do you think?’

‘Two miles, perhaps? The sand will be deceptive. It may be further.’

Valjean nods. ‘You have younger eyes than I. I wonder, do you see a source of water?’

‘No.’

The nature of the challenge is clear enough, then. It is not a pleasant prospect, but when he compares it to a day spent carrying a man through a sewer, it does not seem as bad. So he sighs, and takes his coat off. ‘We should put clothes on our heads to cover them, as the Arabs do. The sun will not be kind.’

Javert, once again, looks at him as though he is mad. ‘I am from the south, Valjean.’

‘Ah, yes. Still, I think this may be worse.’

Than Toulon? Probably not. They will not be working in this heat, just walking. He fastens his coat around his head as best he can, and loosens his cravat. He does not want to untie it completely. Javert has not moved. ‘I beg you, listen. Have you not seen the drawings, or read of deserts? You will be overcome with the sun if you do not.’ He would rather not have to carry him. But he will, if he must. Perhaps the same thought has occurred, because Javert hesitates, then begins to unbutton his coat. Valjean turns back to the pyramid. ‘We are agreed? That is our destination?’

‘There is nowhere else.’

‘Indeed. I see no door, but perhaps one will be evident closer to.’

‘Let us start, then.’ Javert moves off without waiting. His head covering is loose, and will fall, but Valjean says nothing. He notices the patchwork of the man’s shirt, and a frayed seam or two, and sighs to himself. But it is none of his business. He simply walks faster to catch up, and then matches his stride. Not only does he have no particular desire to speak, he is aware that it is prudent to keep ones mouth closed in the desert to preserve moisture. He is not sure it matters, as they will not be here – hopefully – for a long time. But it is as good a justification as any to hold silence, if either of them needed it.

Javert, it seems, knows little of deserts. ‘Why did you not fight it?’

‘It? Oh, the – you have asked me, and I have answered this.’

‘You do not like violence?’

‘I do not.’

‘Or chains.’

‘Would you have special love for them, if you had been bound in them for years?’

It keeps Javert quiet for a time, as he hoped it would. They have only gone a hundred yards or so, but already his throat feels dry. The sun is relentless, and the empty silence seems to press down on him. He looks around in vain for any other sign of life. A bird, a lizard. But there is nothing. It is as still as if they were walking through a painting. When he looks behind, their footsteps are obscured even though there is not a hint of breeze to stir the sand. He has a notion that the pyramid is watching them, but knows it must surely be his imagination.

‘Is it the same reason you did not fight Thenardier?’

‘When? At the sewer?’

‘The – no. Not the sewer. Why, did he threaten you there?’

‘Indeed, no. It was he who let me out.’

Javert scowls at the sand – it is too bright to keep ones head lifted – and appears to think. ‘Of course. The government key. It is too much; far too much that he would have such a thing.’

‘You will have to take it off him when you return.’

Another span of silence. ‘You show cruelty I had begun to think you incapable of.’

The words twist in him at once. ‘Apologies,’ he murmurs, and looks to see if they have made progress. It appears not. ‘I do not say it to be cruel. But I do not believe your situation to be hopeless, Javert.’

‘You have seen the river.’

‘Indeed. But the bar is full of items that might help. Or people. And I do not believe you want to die so easily.’

Javert snorts at this, but says nothing for a long time. Valjean is conscious of his own tongue in a way no one ever should be. It is still moist, he is sure. But not as it should be. It feels thicker, as if it takes up more room in his mouth. His throat is starting to ache for want of a drink.

‘Anyway, I did not mean at the sewer.’

‘Gorbeau then? Why would I fight him there?’

‘Because he was going to kill you, perhaps? Rob you, and then commit assassination?’

‘Mmm. Perhaps. But, you see, I trusted to God. And my big sou to cut my bonds.’

Javert stops dead. His coat unravels itself from around his head at the sudden halt; he swears at it, and snatches it loose. ‘You trusted to God? You were tied down, you were threatened, you took a poker to your arm rather than let them threaten you with it. God did not set you free. You cut yourself free. And then escaped because they were distracted. You took advantage of the situation; and besides Valjean, do you think the Almighty would begrudge you defending yourself in such a situation? I do not understand you. You make no sense at all.’

He begins trying to tie his coat back on, muttering angrily. Valjean watches him in silence. He may be a mystery to this man, but the feeling is entirely mutual. When the covering is somewhat secure, Javert glares at him once more, as if his own failure of understanding is somehow Valjean’s fault. Then he unbuttons his cuffs, and pushes his sleeves up his arms. Valjean feels a brief stab of envy at that, but says nothing, and just resumes walking. ‘There is nothing to understand,’ he says, as if they had not paused at all. ‘I trusted that God would either free me, or my life would end. Much as the situation we now find ourselves in. What will be, will be.’

‘And you will do nothing to sway the outcome one way or the other?’

‘Of course. I will do what I must to survive, up to a limit.’

Javert is quiet. When he speaks, his voice, finally, carries a note of weary understanding. ‘...and that limit does not embrace violence. I see. You would have let Thenardier kill you, rather than raise a fist to him. Him, who even you must surely acknowledge is lower than a sewer rat. You do know how he was treating the girl you took from him?’

A flash of anger rips through him at once. Always anger, that he is too weak to turn away from. ‘Of course.’ And regret, because he wants Cosette, and she is not here, and it has been months. ‘But to strike a man for self-serving reasons, for revenge...no. I will not. Besides, I did not need to.’

‘Oh?’

‘I prayed for release. Or the chance of it. When I was tied down in that room.’

‘And?’

‘He sent you, did He not?’

 

*

 

They have been walking for hours. There has been no more talking. The pyramid has seemed to remain out of reach, and it is difficult to swallow now, difficult to see past the blinding glare of sun on sand. He has slowed for Javert’s dragging pace; the man has told him to leave him several times, but stopped when it became clear it would not happen. They were both soaked in sweat a couple of hours ago; now they are dangerously dry. His head spins. Everything hurts. He thinks, in delirium, that he would hit Thenardier now, maybe, if it would get him a drink. Maybe.

Javert stumbles. He lost his coat half an hour ago, and would not let Valjean go back for it. It is impossible not to notice how much less of a man he is now compared to his form at home, and not for the first time he wonders what exactly happened. But now is not the time to wonder anything but how much further they have to walk. He hooks an arm under Javert’s and pulls him up. ‘Lean on me.’

‘...no.’ It is barely a whisper. The man’s eyes are glazed. ‘Look.’

‘What?’

‘Look.’

He looks. He could fall to his knees with relief. They have come to the top of a rise, and from this vantage point, the pyramid is close enough to see the detailing on its bricks of sand.  They have been walking uphill, and everything was distorted in the glare. The worst is over. They are nearly there.

‘Come on. One last attempt.’

Javert nods, and manages to rise without help. It is both easier and harder to step down the slope; the sand is loose, and gives beneath their feet. Neither are strong enough to stay upright; when he treads too deeply, he finds himself on his back, and rolling, blinded by sand in the eyes, up his nose, in his throat. He cannot choke it out; there is no moisture left in him. It is Javert’s turn to pull him along. He cannot see, and allows the guidance. Until, mercifully, shade falls over his blinded eyes. They are at the wall.

He sinks down to rest, and try to clear his face. He hears, vaguely, ‘stay there. I will find the way out. Or in.’ He nods, and knows no more.

 

*

 

He wakes to something pulling his arm. He tries to open his eyes, but they are gritty and painful, and will not behave.

‘Just get up. I have found a door. I will take you there.’

Javert’s voice does not sound like his own, but he is not going to argue. He does as he is told. Somewhere in the delirium of his hindbrain, he hears himself laugh. Sun on your head, led around by this man. We have been here before. But it is only the anger of a long-repressed creature, and he tries to shake it off. What does it matter who leads him around? It does not matter where he goes, or whose hand takes him there.

He is pushed. ‘There. Turn left.’ He turns left. Everything is cooler. ‘Go on, Valjean. It is a door. You must step up; I cannot lift you.’

He steps up. He trips; he falls. But he is through.