“How so?”
“L’année sans été,” he muttered.
“Pardone?”
“The year without summer … just two hundred years ago, I believe. Let me see…” He stepped to a bookshelf, ran a finger over a row of spines … “Ah!” He thumbed through it as he returned to the desk. “Here. In 1816, the famous year without a summer.”
Much too recent, Laura thought, but still …
“Was that impact-related?”
He shook his head. “No, volcanic. Due to the Mount Tambora eruption in the Dutch East Indies the year before. It caused crop failures, famine, and food riots in Europe and North America.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” Rick said.
Duval’s expression said he wasn’t surprised, but tact won out. “We are much more interested in global warming these days. This was global cooling.”
Laura said, “Can you think of any other years without summer?”
“How far back do you wish to go?”
“How about back to the time of the druids and such here in Gaul.”
“No … I don’t recall any…” He twisted his goatee for a few seconds, then straightened. “Wait.”
He sat, moused his computer awake, then clicked through a number of screens.
“Yes. Here it is. You will find no direct recording of the event—druids and their ilk did not believe in writing things down—but I saved an article about later accounts because the astronomical event they described was so singular and amazing. Texts from the thirteenth century mention tales of fire in the sky over sixth-century Gaul. They say the sky ‘burned’ for days.”
Laura leaned in for a look but the screen was all small-print French. “What would cause that? A meteor shower?”
“Perhaps, but nothing like the Leonids and Perseids that we watch from our backyards. This must have been a huge flock of meteors—big ones. It might even have been a comet that broke up in the atmosphere and caused multiple impacts. Whatever made the sky burn back then had huge climatological effects.”
Laura was suddenly excited. “Enough so that this ‘fallen star … slew summer’?”
“Oh, I should say so. Most definitely so. For after the fire came the cold. Crop failures all over the western world caused mass starvation. Those coincided with the Justinian Plague and, for all we know, triggered that plague. The end result was the fall of the Roman Empire and the start of the Dark Ages.”
“All from a ‘fallen star’?”
Duval gave a small, sad smile. “Civilization is much more fragile than we think.”
“So any idea when this happened?” Rick said.
“A very good idea. The druids and pagans kept no written records but the Romans were obsessive. Multiple sources record the cold temperatures and crop failures and famines, and from that they can estimate the year of impact of your ‘fallen star.’”
“And when would that be?”
Duval leaned closer to the screen. “It says 536 AD.”
10
Nelson had acquiesced to a tour of the monitoring station as a courtesy to the agents in place. Not that he needed it—he knew the make and model of every drone stored in the detached stable.
Interpol and La Sûreté were well aware—unofficially, of course—of what went on in the farmhouse and even called on its occupants for help from time to time when they needed to peek in on the activities of certain Islamist factions in and around Paris.
The tour over, he and Bradsher now sat in the tiny office that had been accorded Nelson for his time in France. He had offered his hosts no details of his mission beyond the fact that they were tracking the movements of a pair of Americans currently in country.
The most immediate concern, for Nelson at least, was how to keep both those Americans in country.
“What we need,” Nelson said, “is to create a plausible scenario for her husband wherein Doctor Fanning is trying desperately to get back to the States but is frustrated at every turn. We’ll feed piecemeal accounts of her travails to him via text messages.”
“How long do we want to drag this out?” Bradsher asked as he scribbled on his pad.
“As long as we have to.”
“What about the doctor’s end?”
“I believe we have her covered. So let’s see what scenario we can concoct to delay her return.”
While Bradsher mulled that, Nelson considered the message he would compose from her deputy sheriff friend. He had accessed her voice mail and listened to the man. He was sure he could duplicate the tone of his chatter in a text.
Hey, Doc. Tried calling but can’t get through. And your voice mail is all screwed up. Keeps booting me out. But that’s okay. Have I got news for you. Wait till you hear this …
Oh, yes. No problem there.
11
“You’re sure of that date—536?”
As Laura spoke she stared at Rick who stared straight back. She was certain his shocked expression mirrored her own.
“Quite,” Duval said. “From all accounts that was another année sans été.” He peered again at the screen. “I have a paper here from Cardiff University that says examination of tree rings—from multiple sources such as oaks pulled from Irish bogs and ancient American pines—show that plant growth around the world virtually ceased between 536 and 545 AD. It also mentions Chinese scrolls from that period referring to a ‘dust veil’ obscuring the skies. Roman and Greek records from the time mention a ‘dry fog’ that blocked out much of the sun’s heat.” He looked up. “The plume effect from a comet exploding in the atmosphere would do just that.”
“Would that be described as the ‘sky on fire’?”
“Mon Dieu, yes. All the fragments would incandesce as they shot through the atmosphere.”
“Then where might we find the impact craters?”
Another Gallic shrug. “There might not be that many, if any. Comets are called ‘dirty snowballs’ because they are mostly ice and dust. A collision with Earth’s atmosphere would vaporize the water and scatter the dust. The fragments would set the sky on fire, as it were, but much of the matter would remain in the atmosphere, causing the ‘dry fog’ described in the sixth-century accounts.”
“So there’d be no ‘Wound,’” Laura said, feeling some of her initial elation fade.
Duval raised a finger. “Ah, but there might. Some comets are ‘snowy dirtballs’ in that they have a rocky core. If that was the case with this comet, then yes, enough matter could survive the fall to impact the surface.”
“Any ideas where to look?” Rick said.
Duval spread his arms. “The whole world. Just because you see bright lights flashing through the sky does not mean they will impact nearby. France—or Gaul, back then—has the Atlantic to the west and the Mediterranean to the south. A watery impact could have a tsunami effect but leave no noticeable crater.”
Laura wandered to the office window and stared out at the wide lawns. The Meudon campus was large and peaceful. A few low buildings clustered here and there within the bordering trees, but most of the space seemed devoted to lawns.
Okay, what do we have?
A jaw-dropping astronomical event occurred in 536 AD and changed the course of western history. The people chasing her and Rick had named their group/cult/order/whatever after the year of that event. She had good reason to believe from the poem’s reference to a “fallen star” that “slew summer” that the same event caused the “Wound” mentioned in the poem. The professor said the comet might not have left an impact crater but Laura was sure it had. Else why would the lines from the tattoos cross in southern France?
She turned back to Rick and Duval.
“Let’s assume that this particular comet had a rocky core and that it landed in France with enough force to cause a ‘Wound.’ Where might we find that?”
He raised his hands in supplication. “You are asking the impossible from me.”
She glanced at Rick with a raised eyebrow. “Impossible is a
n opinion.” This earned a smile.
Duval said, “An impact crater in the populated areas would be well known and catalogued. We have nothing like that. So your crater would have to be in a remote region.”
“The Pyrenees, perhaps?”
He nodded. “The Pyrenees would be perfect. But like everything else on the planet, the Pyrenees have been extensively photographed from space and nothing like what you are looking for has been spotted. If it had, geologists and astronomers would have been all over it.”
“You’re depressing me,” she said.
“I am sorry. But think about it: Your crater would be almost fifteen hundred years old by now, and long since reclaimed by the forests. With all the erosion and overgrowth in that time, you could walk right through it and think of it as a small valley and nothing more. Unless…”
Was this dour Frenchman offering a ray of hope?
“Unless what?”
“Unless it became a lake. If the impact occurred on a hillside with considerable runoff, or opened an underground spring, it eventually would have filled with water.”
Laura gave herself another head smack. “That’s it! Why am I so stupid? ‘Auburon lies drowning … He sleeps in the Wound.’ Duh! It’s been right there in front of us all the time: The Wound is an impact crater that’s become a lake!”
“Do not become too excited,” Duval said. “The Pyrenees have hundreds of lakes—perhaps thousands of them. When you look on a map you will find all these puddles of water named Estany This and Estany That.”
“What’s ‘estany’ mean?”
“It is Catalan for lake or pond. And on the French side you will see Lac de This and Etang du That.”
“You’re a regular Debbie Downer,” Rick muttered.
“What is this ‘Debbie Downer’? I do not know this.”
“Thousands?” Laura said. “Really?”
“Perhaps I exaggerate. But many, many, many lakes.”
Laura pointed to the snake on the tattoo. “Any areas particularly known for snakes?”
Duval shook his head. “I would not know.”
“What about the name Auburon?” Rick said. “Does that point us to any locale?”
“It is Old German or Frankish. Old Gaul and Aquitaine were full of Franks during the sixth century.” He twisted his goatee for a second or two, then added, “Perhaps I can suggest one thing that might narrow your search for this Wound. If it is not a lake, I tell you now that you will never find it.”
“You call that help?” Rick said.
“No-no, wait. I am not finished. If this Wound is now a lake, it will be round, and it may have an island at its center.”
“Really,” Laura said, interested now. “Why do you say that?”
“Large impact craters often contain a central peak. I do not think—in fact, I am sure you will not find a very large crater. But if the impact was caused by superheated rock, heated to the point where it was molten, there might have been enough central upwelling to leave a peak. When the crater filled with water, the peak would become an island.”
Laura no longer had any doubt that they were looking for a lake in the Pyrenees. Finding a lake with a central island would narrow the search—if they could find any such lake.
“Do you know of a directory of lakes in France? Or better yet, in the Midi-Pyrenees region?”
“I believe there is. In fact, I am sure I have seen one. But the lakes are listed by name. Your lake would have to have a name to be listed. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“Then the directory will be of no use to you. But your lake might not even have a name. It might be in some remote area where the locals refer to it merely as ‘the lake.’”
Definitely a Debbie Downer … but he was only stating facts. She turned to Rick.
“Any ideas?”
“Google Earth.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. That could take forever.”
He shrugged. “I don’t see that we have a choice. At least we have a starting point with the coordinates that Israeli gal gave us. Find that spot and do a widening grid search from there. I’ve played with Google Earth before. We settle on a magnification that will let us spot any lake-size body of water, then use the maneuvering arrows to slide back and forth and up and down. Lines of latitude and longitude can serve as our grid. It’ll be tedious as all hell but we can take turns. Unless of course you have a better idea.”
Try as she might, Laura couldn’t come up with one.
They were looking at major drudge work, but she realized she didn’t care. She was into this now—fully invested in the search. Were Rick’s loony ideas contagious? She preferred to think her new fierce determination was being fueled by the intellectual challenge of assembling this jumble of disparate pieces into a coherent whole.
“Google Earth, here we come.”
12
Sent by Laura Fanning 18:02 GMT/UTC/DST + 2:00
Tried calling again but keep getting bounced. Can you call ATT and see what’s the problem and can they fix? I’d much prefer speech to text. Since I haven’t heard to the contrary, I’m assuming and hoping that Marissa is fine. I guess you guys are having lunch around now while I’m looking for a restaurant for dinner. After that we plan to spend the rest of the evening poring over Google Earth. Thanks again for taking care of Marissa. Give her my love.
Received by Steven Gaines 18:09 GMT/UTC/DST − 4:00
Tried calling again but keep getting bounced. Can you call ATT and see what’s the problem and can they fix? I’d much prefer speech to text, especially with Marissa sick. How is she? I’m going absolutely crazy here. I’ve spent the whole day running from ticket counter to ticket counter and going online. I cannot get a flight out of here today or tonight. I managed to grab a seat on an early am nonstop tomorrow that gets me in to Newark of all places at noon your time. Tell Marissa I love her and I’ll see her tomorrow.
Received by Laura Fanning 18:11 GMT/UTC/DST + 2:00
Hi mommy. It is me marissa. Daddy says to tell you i am feeling great. Natasha is here and we are doing geography. Where are you so I can find you on the map. I miss you. Love marissa
Sent by Laura Fanning 18:14 GMT/UTC/DST + 2:00
Hi, honeybunch. I’m so glad you’re feeling good. You had me worried there for a while. I’m in Paris. When you find it on the map look really close and you’ll see me waving at you. Love you. See you soon.
Sent by Steven Gaines 18:22 GMT/UTC/DST − 4:00
With all the NYC flights out of Paris u cant get a seat? Thats completely crazy. But okay. Ull be here noon tomorrow. Thank god. Dont want to scare u but things not good here. The pcr test u ran came back positive. Shes got cmv. Still dont know what that is but docs say not good. Guess I dont have to tell u that. I wish u had wings. We need u here. Hurry, hurry, hurry.
13
Rick entered E 1° 21′ 36″ and N 42° 47′ 38″ into Google Earth and Laura found herself looking down on an empty mountainside nearly a mile above sea level in the Ariège department.
“‘Middle of nowhere’ … no question about that.”
Professor Duval had directed them to the Hotel Victor Hugo a few towns away—an old-style, four-story structure with cranky plumbing and small rooms, but suitable for their purposes. They ate so-so sushi in Masaki, the Japanese restaurant on the ground floor, then were directed to an Internet café where they rented the biggest screen in the place and prepared to burn their eyes out of their sockets.
They had an immediate false alarm with a lake just north of the coordinates. The label said Etang de Lers.
“What does that mean?” Rick said.
Laura hadn’t a clue. “Etang is a pond or lake. Lers…” She shrugged. “It’s not round but let’s take a look.”
“I’ll be damned,” he said as he zoomed closer. “It’s got an island.”
Could it be? Could those crude azimuths have crossed within a mile or two of the Wound? It seemed impossible, too good to be
true …
Arranged?
The island sat near the southern shore and supported a stand of trees. It looked nothing like a central peak from an impact. More like a peninsula from the shoreline that had been cut off by rising water. If the water level dropped, it would become a peninsula again.
Plus Etang de Lers had a blacktop road running past it, a snack bar on the north shore, and was surrounded by photo icons.
“Not the Wound, that’s for sure,” Rick said. “Looks like a tourist stop. A swimming hole in summer and a snowmobile spot in winter.”
They took turns, searching clockwise in a grid pattern as they moved out from their starting point in an ever-enlarging square. For what seemed to be the longest time they found no lakes. Then, as their search slowly expanded toward the west, they found many, all labeled etang instead of lac. From the air the lakes stuck out reasonably well, appearing dark blue, almost black against the greens and browns of dry land. Occasionally the white blur of a cloud would be reflected on a surface.
“I never knew lakes came in so many shapes,” Laura said as she relinquished the mouse and rubbed her eyes. Over two hours at this now with nothing to show.
“And how few are round,” Rick said.
True. Most were freeform style, their shape dictated by the terrain surrounding the depression where they’d formed. But not one lake so far, no matter what the shape, had possessed a true island, central or otherwise. Laura was convinced this was a hopeless exercise, but didn’t want to say so. She believed in keeping mum unless you had something better to offer. She didn’t.
“Hey, here’s something,” Rick said.
She leaned in as he zoomed down on a blue-black circle.
She looked for a label. “Where’s its name?”
“Doesn’t seem to have one. Looks about half a mile across … and … is that an island in the middle?”
She gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Yes! Smack-dab in the middle!”