Island of Echoes
Authors: Roman Gitlarz
Island of Echoes
Roman Gitlarz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Roman Gitlarz
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To write to the author, please direct all messages to [email protected]
There was a time when I believed in earnest that the world and its mysteries were well known to me. I had been a rather unabashed youth and the trait followed me into adulthood. I was a traveled man. My family, American by birth, had close relations with our European cousins. Trips to the continent were frequent and I was instilled with a desire for foreign places.
My English grandfather, an old-fashioned military man, beseeched me to explore the exotic before it succumbed to familiarity. He credited his knowledge of life to the distant travels of his formative days. If that were so, I would have never ventured beyond the borders of my home town, for my grandfather was a closed-minded and firmly rigid individual. But I trusted that recognizing his unyielding grasp on the past would ensure that I did not fall into the same habit.
Unmarried, I had devoted my earlier years to study. Perhaps too much like my grandfather, I believed that prestige came in the traditional forms, customarily a title or series of letters behind one’s name. It was probably as a result of my frequent family outings that I began to appreciate the history behind the wonders of our globe.
I completed my graduate studies at the
Université de Bretagne, studying under Professor Thomas Fay.
A young man with a history degree could not find a better mentor or colleague.
He was intent on putting together a research trip across North Africa and I was quick to jump on board. Not only was the professor renowned as an expert in his field, the thought of seeing my name printed as a contributing author on the finished work conquered any doubts I had about the journey.
We began in Marrakech and gradually made our way west, stopping in places such as Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli. The trip took eight months in all and I enjoyed it immensely, save perhaps for the cuisine. Despite the sense of exotic adventure these place-names evoke, I’m afraid recounting the expedition would not make for an interesting read. Eight months are difficult to relate in several pages and most of my time was spent in research or translation. But it was as such that, at the conclusion of the expedition, I found myself in Alexandria in the early summer of 1894 at the age of thirty. Unbeknownst to me, my real journey was only just beginning.
It all started at one of the harbor markets, a loud unsavory place. People shouted over the sound of crates and barrels being unloaded, the waves of the sea crashed against the docks, and the seabirds screeched endlessly overhead. The smell of fish penetrated every fiber within a mile and I often felt I was stepping over fish rather than wood, as the area was considerably moist and slippery. The port of Alexandria had a deep-rooted history as a commercial hub. It was perfectly situated between east and west, at the very core of the ancient world. I remember wondering whether the chaos surrounding the docks had been a constant throughout that time.
I made my way from pier to pier with the intent of securing passage back to Europe when I overheard French being spoken, shouted really, amid the bedlam. This was not in and of itself unusual as France and Britain had quite an interest in Egyptian affairs, but it piqued my interest. The source of the dialogue was difficult to spot for a rather large ox-cart, overflowing with Persian carpets, was making its way through the mass and blocked my view. When it finally passed, it revealed a young man, several years my junior, strenuously disputing something with a leek seller. It was clear he didn’t speak the native language and the vendor had no knowledge of French. I wasn’t sure if the young man shouted out of frustration or due to the surrounding noise, but I decided to intervene regardless.
“Bonjour!” I announced, “I don’t believe this man understands you. Would you mind if I stepped in?”
Relief instantly flooded the young man’s eyes. “Please!” he responded enthusiastically. My French was second nature and the many months I had spent in North Africa could cast anyone into a proficient barterer. The dispute was settled in no time and we made our way from the stall.
“Phillip Laurence,” I introduced myself, extending a hand.
“
Rémy
Durant,” he responded, taking it. “A pleasure.” He had a firm grip. His arm, though lean, was well-muscled and his disheveled clothing led me to suspect he worked on a ship. My inquiry was confirmed.
“Ah, yes. A tramp freighter. We don’t often make port in Alexandria so I am unused to it.”
“I don’t think one ever gets used to this,” I responded, indicating the commotion.
“And what about you, Monsieur?” Rémy asked.
“I’ve spent the last few months traversing the Sahara on a research trip,” I informed him. “My professor returned to Europe several weeks ago but I elected to stay and further explore this land. In fact, I was on my way to secure a crossing. Are you headed back to France?”
“Not directly. My captain picked up a contract that will stop us in Sicily before we return.”
“Does your ship also carry passengers?”
Rémy
laughed at this. “Is it in season to be leaving? We stopped in Port Said just before this and picked up a man, a missionary intent on returning home.”
“Oh? Could your ship accommodate another? I will pay an honest fare.”
Rémy
thought for a moment. “Well, Monsieur Laurence.”
“Phillip,” I interrupted amicably.
He nodded. “Phillip. We have the cabins and my uncle, the Captain, would surely agree, but we depart in a matter of hours. Would you be ready in time?”
I met his gaze with determination. “I’ll make certain of it.”
The ship, named
Bigorneau
, was a little steamer. It was clearly old, the interior still primarily built of wood rather than iron, but it was well-kept. A level of cabins sat atop the main deck with a lone room, the bridge, just above them. The outer walls were chestnut in color with dark brown trim and accents. The harsh sea wind left an ombré in hue towards the bow of the vessel, though it wasn’t glaring. I expected the cabin windows to be round little portholes, but I was surprised to see they were fairly large and square in a traditional design. The stairs and railing around the upper deck were fashioned of iron. Although I spotted flecks of rust around their bolts, the ship compared very well to the other vessels in the area. The main deck was swept and mopped and the hull, black as night, shined smartly.
Rémy
was coming down the stairs from the bridge when I arrived at the wharf. He spotted me and saluted with a wave of his cap. His blond hair reflected the brilliant Egyptian sun. I returned the greeting and paid the local who transported me and my luggage to the docks. The young boatman disappeared into a room on the main floor and emerged with whom I presumed to be the Captain. He was a stocky man in his early fifties, with flecks of gray scattered throughout his dark hair and beard. He dressed simply, but the authority of a man in charge surrounded him indisputably. They walked out onto the pier together.
“Captain Lucas Travert,” the older man stated, extending a hand. His grip was firm and he instantly struck me as the kind to take charge rather than sit back and delegate.
“Phillip Laurence.”
He gave a brief smile. “
Rémy
tells me you’re looking for passage to France. Or out of Egypt, at least.” Despite the authoritative stance and deep raspy voice, he had a cheerful disposition. “We are only going as far as Marseilles.”
“That’s quite alright. I shall make use of the rails from there,” I said. I still needed to finalize my papers at the University before making the crossing home to America.
We agreed on a price and, to my surprise, the Captain dropped all formality and patted me on the back.
“Why don’t we bring those trunks in and enjoy a glass of wine before heading out?” he suggested.
The cabins aboard the
Bigorneau
were clustered together on the main level. I assumed everything below was used for cargo. There were two larger rooms, one forward, just below the bridge, and another aft. The forward chamber was the Captain’s cabin. The aft compartment was known as the dining room. Four minuscule cabins were fitted in between the larger rooms, though I suspected they were originally two rooms which had been divided in years past. The two starboard apartments were respectively occupied by
Rémy
and the other passenger he spoke of. I took one of the port rooms.
There was a bowl and pitcher in front of the mirror and I took a few minutes to freshen up. I smoothed out my gray suit and hung my bowler on the door hook. My brunette hair, pressed down by the hat, needed a slight tussle and I refreshed my face with a wet cloth. I noticed that my skin had bronzed over the last few weeks and I even spotted flecks of gold in my chocolate eyes. I was grateful not to have inherited a trait for burning despite my naturally fair complexion.
The dining room, like everything else on the ship, was rather cramped. There was a table in the center with eight wooden chairs, two of which did not complement any of the others. A large amount of bread and cheese was laid out and the wine was already breathing. The other passenger, a priest dressed entirely in black save for a white collar, was sitting at the table and commenting on the status of life in Africa. I was surprised to hear that the conversation was in English.
“Ah, Monsieur Laurence,” the Captain interrupted as I walked in. “Allow me to introduce you to Father Daniel.”
“Father,” I acknowledged, and we shook hands. He looked to be the same age as the Captain, though the two men could not have been more dissimilar. Father Daniel was tall and slim, with particularly bony cheeks which gave the impression of piety. His face was shaven and his hair, raven black, matched his dutiful garb.
“I apologize, Father” the Captain stated, “you were saying?”
Father Daniel waved a hand passively. “Oh simply that civilized governments should do more to increase the culturing of these inland peoples. I’ve spent the last two years on mission and only helped perhaps a hundred individuals find truth.” His speech was accented, though I could not distinguish its origin.
“We’ve been hearing of the Father’s adventures in Africa,” the Captain informed me in surprisingly proficient English.
“And what about you, Mr. Laurence?” Father Daniel asked, picking up his wine glass. “Was Africa to your liking?”
“Very much,” I responded honestly, “but my work took me through many of its attractive locales.”
“Ah,” the priest retorted, almost disappointed.
“Please do tell us of your adventures,” Captain Travert requested heartily and I briefly summarized my trip and its highlights.
Out of respect and genuine curiosity, I then inquired into the travels of the
Bigorneau
. I learned that the Captain purchased the little steamer in Marseilles just three years prior and worked primarily with textiles. Bringing the raw materials in from the east seemed to be paying off for him as he was already making plans to purchase a second ship.
“And my nephew has been with me every step of the way,” he stated with pride, raising his glass to Rémy. The young man
, I found out, was twenty-six years old. He smiled and drank in thanks.
The four of us made small talk for a bit before Travert decided to leave port. I was not a believer in fate, nor do I fully subscribe to it now, but it chanced that the exact timing of our departure caught the attention of someone else as well. Just as the two boatmen were getting ready to take the ship out, we heard a calling from the pier.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” it was the shout of a young woman. Curiosity got the better of us all and we made our way out on deck. The source was a serving maid standing on the quay. “My lady wishes to speak to the Captain of the ship,” she stated.
The elderly woman behind her could not have looked more out of place among the commotion of the Alexandrian dock. Her dress, long and dark, was accented heavily at the shoulders with stylish purple ruffles which led up and formed a collar around her neck. Her gray hair was pulled back below a small matching hat. Three oversized black feathers protruded from its tip. She leaned against a decorated cane and stood as straight as a Parisian mannequin.
Captain Travert walked out onto the pier and introduced himself. She nodded politely.
“I am Lady Pearson and this is my granddaughter,” she acknowledged the regal carriage behind her and I could barely make out another woman seated inside. Her speech overflowed with class and every word was enunciated in proper English. “I seek a ship to take us back to the continent post-haste.”