But there was also a creepy feeling. Chimeric gargoyles, imaginary creatures from mythology, snarling or laughing, Max couldn’t tell, glared down at him from the corners of the building. Mythical equivalents of scrapyard dogs.
He stopped in his tracks. Facing him on the building’s huge stone wall was a massive snake, a giant anaconda, sculpted into the stonework. Its body squirmed, twisting in a big
Crocodiles gazed blindly at him, one each side, straddling a low balustrade that ran down the steps. Their chiseled tails curled upwards towards the door, mouths agape, front legs gripping the stone, as if ready to strike.
Max’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He’d experienced crocodile attacks before, and these lifelike creatures made him shudder. Max’s dad had taken him to ancient tombs in Egypt. Crocodiles were revered as part of the pantheon of gods. Max remembered that the crocodile deity was called Sobek and was believed to have emerged from the “Dark Water” to create the world. He also guarded the dead. These two crocodiles guarded the portal to a hidden world.
Max stepped between them towards the entrance, half expecting them to come to life, to whip their heads around and strike. But the creatures held within the stone sculpture lay silent as he approached the chateau and its secret.
11
“You pay extra for a guided tour, which we don’t need, and it’s about half price if you’re under thirteen,” Max told Sayid as he pushed the wheelchair towards the entrance. The van had merged into the coast-road traffic, with a promise from Bobby to return in a few hours when they called him. “So, you’re under thirteen if they ask. I can’t get away with it but you can.”
“I thought I looked older than that,” Sayid moaned.
“No. In fact, you look about ten.”
“Ten!”
Max laughed. “Well, you behave like a ten-year-old. Now shut up and look stupid if they talk to you. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
The small window at the side of the front door showed an office, where a middle-aged man, who minutes earlier had been thinking only of going home to the fish lunch his wife had prepared, now looked with anguish at the fair-haired boy trying to pull another youngster in a wheelchair up the steps. It was not worth offering to help and risking an injury to his back, the man reasoned; besides, the boy looked strong. But how would the youngster view the chateau in a wheelchair?
“Not exactly geared for disabled access,” Sayid said, wincing, as Max jammed the wheels up another step.
“Yeah, well, I’m hoping it’ll help us fool him later. I have a plan.”
Sayid looked at his friend, who gave him an encouraging smile in return. Max’s plans usually meant trouble. Sayid had told Max he didn’t want to be left out-but he knew he needed a degree of bravado he would find difficult to muster.
Max turned and looked at the German couple, who were already halfway up the steps.
Max’s German was fairly basic-he was better at understanding than speaking the language-but he could pull off a good accent, and his limited vocabulary would be enough to achieve what he needed. The German tourist spoke rapidly. Max only grasped about one word in three, but he quickly assured the tourist that everything was OK.
By the time they reached the studded door it seemed as though they had known each other for years. Just what Max had hoped for.
Max groaned.
The German turned.
The tourist’s concern for the boy seemed genuine as Max shook his head sadly. The look on his face said everything. He didn’t have enough money. The stout man waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, turned back to the ticket seller and, using sign language, indicated he was paying for everyone.
Sayid looked over his shoulder at Max. What a clever ruse. How did Max get away with things like that? The Frenchman smiled, ushering “the German family” inside.
The ticket seller, by way of appeasing his guilt, as well as protecting the floors and the banisters, and avoiding the risk of walls being scraped, agreed to Max’s leaving the wheelchair in the entrance hall. Sayid got himself onto his crutches as Max tucked it into a darkened corner. The wheelchair would play its part later.
Black walls decorated with an ornate design of bright blue and gold enamel panels made the place seem like a miniature royal palace. Max thanked the German man for his generosity and tried to look appreciative when he explained that the chapel they now gazed at was a private place of contemplation for Antoine d’Abbadie and his wife, Virginie, and that the scientist-astronomer, who died in Paris in 1897, lay buried with his wife in a crypt under the altar.
Max saw the ticket seller go back into the office, thanked the German for his explanation and pointed the couple towards another room as he eased Sayid away.
“Come on, Sayid. We need to get around faster than a tourist.”
Sayid was well practiced on the crutches and quickly developed a swinging momentum as they moved towards the next room.
“Blimey, hang on. I can’t keep up!” Max laughed.
It wasn’t true, of course, but it made Sayid feel less of a hindrance than he thought he was. “Where do we start?” he said.
“Dunno yet. We’ll check down here first. There’s a load of stuff about Ethiopia,” Max said as they walked beneath richly painted scenes of ancient Abyssinia, as it was then known. “If Zabala spent who knows how many years working here, then maybe it means something.”
They stepped into a bedroom. The decor was overpowering. The four-poster bed seemed small compared to the lavish surroundings. Arabic letters flitted across large canvas panels.
“What does that say, Sayid?”
Sayid looked at the delicate calligraphy. “Er, not sure. Something about … Oh, hang on, it’s an old Arab proverb. My granddad was always saying things like that: ‘Never throw stones in your own drinking well’s water.’”
Max looked blank.
Sayid shrugged. “I think that’s what it says. Whatever that might mean.”
“Well, ‘Don’t do anything stupid close to home, as it’ll come back on you!’ Or ‘Make sure you’re connected to water.’ How would I know?” Max said.
“You’re the one looking for clues!”
“That’s not one of them, I’m sure. Come on.” Max moved quickly to another room, keeping an eye out for the ticket seller, but there was no sign of him, and he couldn’t hear the Germans anywhere either. He could see the edge of the parking lot through a window. Their car was still there. Good, that meant he didn’t have to do what he’d planned just yet. He entered the chateau’s dining room. Wood-paneled to shoulder height, buffalo skins on the wall and Antoine d’Abbadie’s family motto boxed next to his coat of arms. It was a Latin inscription.
“What’s that say?”
