Fragment 13 - Border Crossing

When I planned this trip to Europe, I had no intention of getting into anything other than a nice, relaxing tour of the continent. While I hadn’t planned any specific schedule, I’d made a list of places I wanted to visit that could relate to both Tracker and Antoinette, though only Antoinette had any kind of home there. Because of this, I wanted to research the area and the continent in general for the final book in the series of novels featuring them.

FORCE will have succeeded in protecting the rights of the Enhanced, whether they be mutant or construct, and helped to bring those corrupted by their new abilities under control. Now the United States was sending the two as emissaries of peace and an example of how the Enhanced can work with normal humans for the betterment of all. Antoinette was chosen in particular due to her Continental birthright and Tracker because he was her husband and father to their first two children... well, in a sense, anyway. Having legally adopted Tracker’s half-brother and half-sister, both constructed from the same genetic material as Tracker himself, Antoinette mothered them with a fierce intensity, the tiger’s savage protectiveness defending them from harm as she loved and taught them everything she knew. Only months old when the kits were adopted, they were now quite mobile and inquisitive, bearing the aspect of five-year-old humans at an age of just over two years. Like their father before them, they were growing fast.

But that’s beside the point. Henri’s parents (Rhiann told me his name after he’d departed so precipitously) looked at the crumpled paper he’d given me their address on. While they spoke very little English themselves, I was able to understand that their own parents had been part of the French Underground during WWII and had maintained their contacts in Switzerland even after the war had been forgotten by almost everyone else. This couple continued the ‘game’ and re-enacted some of the daring escapes by Allied pilots from the Nazi overlords. They practically beamed in happiness when they realized they were playing the ‘game’ for real this time. Ten days later we set out on bicycles for a family picnic, me wearing some of Henri’s clothing to make me look more French. My mutton-chop beard and mustache were shaven off, replaced by a pointed, waxed, van Dyke style just barely taking shape, giving more of a 1950’s be-bop look than anything modern. My hair and my beard both were touched up with color to hide the grey that barely encroached upon my head, but dominated my remaining beard. I looked like a completely different person. It didn’t hurt that I’d lost almost thirty pounds since arriving in France as well.

Today we set out on a ‘family picnic.’ Jean, Henri’s father, carries my backpack wrapped in a large blanket in the basket of his bike while I carry the bottles and jars for our lunch in mine. Michelle, as my ‘mother’ carries the things she cooked, preparing for this outing. Travelling several kilometers down a little-used macadam road, we turn off onto a dirt track and set up our picnic, making sure we’re easily visible from the road while letting the trees shade us from the warm sun.

The scenery around here is beautiful. In some ways it reminds me of the Green Mountains in the northern Appalachians, not too far from my own home. Relatively steep, tree-covered slopes line the horizon to the east, while looking west you seem to see forever. We picked up our picnic about mid-afternoon and rode down the lane paralleling the hillside. About a kilometer later, we turn into a grassy field occupied by a single barn tucked up against the woods at one end. As we approach the woods, a faint path winds up the hillside between the boles, forcing us to walk the bicycles beneath the canopy. Maybe a hundred meters in, Jean and Michelle stop and lay their bikes under a deadfall. Exchanging my pack for the things carried in my basket, they pull a branch covered with dry leaves over to conceal them, the whole looking like a natural effect of the deadfall when they finish.

Jean takes control of my bike and leads us up the steepening hillside, working at an angle across the face and back again as we climb higher. Less than an hour later, we emerge into another field, stopping just under the trees. By the smile on his face and the whispers between himself and Michelle, I know that we’ve crossed the border. But we’re not done yet. He tells me that his good friend lives about another kilometer away, but that we can’t be seen approaching the house. He says his friend’s neighbor, whose own home lies about 300 meters distant, has been known to make a fuss and impose himself into the party any time he sees visitors arrive. Lacking any immediate family of his own, he has made himself part of his neighbor’s family. My presence would be difficult to explain if I were discovered.

So we are waiting until well after sunset. Somehow Michelle had managed to keep a small bundle of bread rolls concealed, and now handed them out to her husband and myself. Even though we’re only about a thousand meters or so above sea level, the air feels cool and damp. We nibble on the bread and watch the field and the sky above for any sign of activity. The scene is so serene and quiet that I almost felt like I’d stepped into the past. No sound of motors; no sight of vapor trails; simply primeval forest.

Apparently this one was too... ordinary?