Grantville Gazette Volume 26 Read online

  "And may we in good conscience extend them an ecclesiastical blessing, do you think?"

  Mary Ellen looked at her husband, thinking that his tone of voice was not entirely ironic.

  "Clara is perfectly willing to be nice and kind to her stepdaughters and their children. She was very anxious to assure me of that. Also that even though there was no prenuptial contract, she would never try to gain any unfair financial advantage for her own children, should she be fortunate enough to bear any. Lots of other stuff, equally conscientious."

  "None of which had any bearing on the crucial issue of whether she loves Wes Jenkins or just considers him a 'good catch.' Although I did ask him if she has been demanding and he said not."

  "Oh, Simon, don't be such a grump. She does love him. She loved him for a long time before they married one another, according to all reports from Fulda. Andrea Hill told Kortney that it was perfectly obvious to anyone who bothered to look that they were quite taken with each other at first sight. The whole Grantville delegation over there has been trying to cheer them on for nearly a year."

  "Um, why? Not that Wes isn't a very fine person and all that, but . . ."

  "Leave it in the unexplored gray area that exists somewhere between her brain and her reproductive hormones, Simon. She not only loves him—she thinks that he is a wonderful man and also an outstanding lover, which is somewhat different." She shook her head as a vision of Wes Jenkins' metal-rimmed glasses, long, narrow face, and prominent nose passed through her head. "Although, to some extent, I do have to share your sense of wonder."

  Then she looked up. "Speaking of reproductive hormones . . . Did you ask him what his reaction would be if they happened to start a family? Another family, for Wes?"

  "Sure. It's something we're supposed to cover. He looked a little startled, but he just said that he had survived diapers, baby food, and squabbling toddlers once already without going berserk, so he supposed he would manage to again if they showed up this time around. Well, he also said that he wouldn't have deliberately gone out and picked a young widow with two kids as his second wife the way Ed Monroe did down in Suhl, to maximize his chances, so to speak, after Diana and their two girls were left up-time. But he's not against the idea in principle."

  Mary Ellen leaned forward and poured her husband another cup of tea. "Why are you so worried about this particular marriage?"

  "I suppose that it's because Wes is so very much in love with her. Which he clearly is, in spite of the fact that the most I could get out of him was the rather stiff statement that 'at the very least, a man owes it to his wife to tell her that he appreciates her, every now and then.' He doesn't think that her first husband was very affectionate. Um, even though Clara was a widow and everything that went with it, Wes doesn't think that she had ever actually been kissed, at least not more than a peck on the cheek, which, as he put it, 'sort of has to make you wonder, considering how well she took to it after a little practice.'"

  Mary Ellen mentally added a second garrote to the late Caspar Stade's neck, just to make sure he stayed dead.

  Simon picked up his cup. "Do you know—I still sort of miss dunking tea bags up and down. Sassafras isn't quite the same. I wonder if real tea in tea bags will come back during our lifetimes?"

  "Who knows? And considering what I got for selling my little aluminum tea balls to the girl who is running Morris Roth's jewelry store for him, we certainly couldn't afford to keep those just for the sake of having a comforting little 'dunk it up and down' routine when we're feeling nervous." She gave her husband and colleague a look which said plainly that he should get to the point.

  "And he's still more than a little bemused by the whole thing. Not that he has any doubts, but . . . In my session, I acquired the information that in the midst of abduction, threatened torture, and impromptu, do-it-yourself matrimony, Wes made sure that the shirt he took off, being the only one he had, was neatly hanging from the back of the only chair in the room where they were imprisoned, with his slacks carefully folded on the seat, putting his glasses in their case on top of them, before he moved on to the next stage. What kind of impression would that make on a new bride? A bride who's quite a bit younger?"

  "Well, this is Wes Jenkins, of course. The same Wes we have all known and loved at First Methodist for years. Not some generic hunk on a romance novel cover. Will you please relax, Simon? I keep trying to tell you that Clara loves him just the way he is. This very thing actually came up under 'differences that might become problems.' She noticed almost at once that Wes is very neat. A lot neater than she is naturally inclined to be, apparently. The way she reacted is that she resolved to become more orderly herself, so the difference would not become a problem."

  "That's . . . an admirable reaction. I guess."

  "Simon, you're being downright obstructionist about this. I hate to say it, but you are."

  "So what do you think?"

  "For one thing, he told her that she is beautiful and that he loves her, which she clearly regards as a level of exuberant demonstrativeness putting him somewhere up there with Sir Lancelot dramatically galloping in on a white charger to rescue Guinevere from trial by ordeal." Mary Ellen waved both hands in the air. "Marry them. Put his conscience at rest. If you don't, I will."

  "Would that shake Clara up?"

  "Not any more."

  "All right. I'll do it." He got up. "I guess I had better get down to the school board meeting."

  "Have a good evening."

  Mary Ellen gave him a kiss that was considerably more than a peck on the cheek and sat back down to finish her own tea, wondering how long premarital counseling would survive contact with seventeenth-century culture. Thinking that there were some things that no minister (male) really needed to know about the members of his congregation, because it would just cause embarrassment to both parties. She laughed to herself. On the basis of Clara's report, when Wes undertook to "tell his wife that he appreciated her, every now and then," his definition was considerably more expansive than he had indicated to Simon or she had thought it was appropriate to repeat.

  She shook her head over the nature of humanity. Outdoors, the wind was picking up. She decided that another cup of tea, sassafras or not, would be just the thing. Tomorrow morning, it would be winter.

  * * *

  Still Life with Wolves and Canvases

  Written by Bradley H. Sinor and Tracy S. Morris

  "Werewolf?"

  Denis Sesma caught himself chuckling as he retied three small strips of leather on his horse's saddle. This was not the first time that his traveling companion, Elizabeth "Betsy" Springer, had asked that question. Actually, it was more like the fifth time in the last two or three days, that the tall redhead had said the same thing.

  The first time, Denis had grabbed for the pistol that hung from his saddle, only to hear his friend's laughter coming from just behind him.

  This whole "werewolf" thing was one of those "movie quotes" that Betsy seemed inordinately fond of repeating. Denis wasn't all that sure just what "movies" were—other than they were something like theater. But he had a hard time grasping just exactly how.

  He'd tried ignoring Betsy when she started spouting these lines, but there was one thing Denis had learned in the last five months since he'd met Elizabeth "Just call me Betsy" Springer in the offices of the Grantville Times: that was a nearly impossible task.

  Betsy was a tall, thin girl with her shoulder-length red hair tied back in a pony tail, dressed in a red woolen work shirt and the blue trousers that Denis had learned were called "jeans." Denis had been in Grantville for just over six months and was still not accustomed to seeing women wearing what were normally considered "men's" clothes. His cousin Mirari had told him it was the Americans' way of doing things, and that he'd better get used to it.

  Without even turning toward her, Denis replied "There wolf, there castle."

  "You're learning," she said. At that moment, a wolf's howl rang out. It could have been anywh
ere from fifty feet to five miles away; the heavy forest and mountains here in southern France tended to play tricks with sound.

  "Now that was timing." She looked in the direction the noise seemed to have come from. "I couldn't have planned it better myself."

  "I'd be happy to take credit for it, but somehow I don't think you'd believe I was responsible," said Denis. "I think we had better find someplace protected to camp, or an inn. I am not fond of the idea of waking up and finding myself in the middle of a wolf pack."

  "I told you: wolves are more afraid of humans than we are of them," Betsy said.

  "Yes, but you also said that there are going to be a lot of wolf attacks in the next hundred years or so."

  "Werewolf attacks," Betsy corrected.

  "Wolf attacks," Denis restated firmly. He cleared his throat and began to recite. "'Over three thousand people were killed in France between 1580 and 1830 by wolves. And over a thousand of those were not rabid.' That's a statistic that they don't mention in your Time Life Books: Mysteries of the Unexplained, I'll wager."

  "You read that?" Betsy blinked. "But . . ."

  "You Americans were allowed to hunt animals," Denis cut across her argument. "Your wolves learned to be afraid of humans. Here a wolf knows who the predator and who the prey is. And when his natural prey runs out—" He threw a sly glance up at her red hair. "—Red Riding Hood looks quite tasty."

  "Ha, ha. Very funny. I think I would prefer not to put wolf prey on my resume." Betsy sounded less sure of herself than she had a moment earlier. "Remember, it was not exactly a fortune in expense money that old man Kindrad gave us, so we might want to consider camping."

  A wolf howled again. The sound was closer this time. "If we can find an inn, it might be safer," Denis said. "I have the distinct feeling that we are being followed."

  Betsy immediately turned in her saddle. Denis winced and shook his head as she made a grand show of studying the terrain behind them.

  "I don't see anyone," she reported.

  "Nor will you. Especially since you've just alerted whoever it was to the fact that we're aware of them. Trust me, with some hunters there is no way you would see them if they were following you."

  "Did you see a signpost anywhere to give us some clue where we are?" she asked.

  "No. Nothing since we passed the crossroads."

  "As long as there wasn't anyone playing a fiddle there, we're fine," said Betsy. "This is where Rand McNally would be a big help."

  "Rand McNally? Who is that? A Scottish guide of some kind?"

  "No, they're maps. Sometimes it seemed like it took a year for my father to get one folded back properly," Betsy said. "And he'd never let me do it. It always had to be folded back just the way it came."

  "Well, there is no reason not to respect the wishes of your father," Denis deadpanned. "Until then, draw an X on the map and label it 'Here be Dragons.'"

  "Werewolves," Betsy muttered.

  "Those, too."

  "We could stop and ask for directions at the first farmhouse we come to," she suggested.

  Denis looked sideways at her. "One look at you and they will think we're mad. And that will be before you even open your mouth."

  "So? Just tell them the truth. We're looking for missing blacksmith apprentices."

  "Then they'll know we're mad for certain. After all, who would come all this way to find people that they aren't related to and don't even know? Should I leave out the part where we are on the road because you're fleeing from your engagement to Sven?"

  "I'm not engaged to him and his name was Albert, not Sven," Betsy said. "And it was all a big cross-cultural misunderstanding."

  "The kind that can only happen after one too many pints of Thuringen Gardens' best . . ." Denis trailed off and shook his head. "I'm not the one that you should be explaining things to; more like Sven . . . excuse me, Albert. I don't see why you didn't just let him ask your father's permission for your hand. Surely things would have been straightened out then."

  "You don't know my dad like I do." Betsy rolled her eyes. "I love him, but he's hopeless. Besides, Albert should have figured things out by this point."

  "And if he hasn't?"

  "I'll just tell him that I eloped with you." Betsy batted her eyes at him.

  "God save me!"

  Another wolf howled off to the west; the sound was much closer than before.

  "You may be right about us getting off the road." Betsy nodded in concession.

  Denis pointed toward a small thatched hut that was set back from the road. It was a sturdy looking place with earth and wood walls. Its presence was masked by the trees and brush so that it was easy to miss if you weren't looking directly at it; though it looked like no one had lived there for many years.

  "Great," muttered Betsy. "Just great, first werewolves and now this."

  * * *

  The hut was old; the air inside heavy with dust, its former owners long since gone. There were only two rooms, one that had served as kitchen, living and sleeping area for the residents, while the other had been for storage and possibly a pen for small animals.

  This was not the first place that Denis had seen in this condition; he was fairly sure it wouldn't be the last. While war might have stayed away from this part of France for several years, the conflicts between Huguenot and Catholic were going strong. Any kind of unrest usually meant that bandits would come out to play and there were times when you couldn't tell them apart from the latest local authorities.

  "I wish this place were big enough to bring the horses in with us," Betsy said. "If there are wolves around here I don't want to leave them out as a temptation."

  The two horses they were riding were ancient beasts, only one or two steps removed from plow horses or someone's next meal. "Tempting morsel" would not be a description Denis would have used for either animal.

  "Don't worry; I tethered them on the other side of this wall. If anyone or anything shows up they should make enough noise to alert us," he said.

  "And we can't even have a fire. Wonderful."

  Denis would have liked a fire as much as Betsy. It might be almost May, but there was still a chill in the air. A fire would scare away wolves, but it could also be a beacon to whoever might be following them, if there was actually someone out there in the darkness.

  Betsy pulled herself to her feet and went into the hut's other room, where they had stored the saddles and other tack.

  "Denis, come here a minute," said Betsy in a strange tone of voice.

  Picking up his pistol, Denis went through the door in a half dozen steps. Betsy was kneeling down near a stack of refuse next to the wall.

  "What's the matter?" he asked.

  "Look at these. I almost tripped over them in the dark."

  A heavy blanket had been pushed to one side and there were a good dozen rolls of canvas bundled together and piled one on top of each other. Betsy sat back on her heels and held the topmost roll out for Denis' inspection.

  His questing fingers brushed the surface, enticing memories of the dried oil paint, the rough feel of canvas to the touch, and the hand of his old master on his shoulder as he worked on an under painting.

  "Paintings? Who in their right mind would store paintings out here in the woods?" he asked.

  "A good question. Perhaps you can ask my captain. But for now, if the two of you want to live long enough see the sun come up again, I suggest that you not move," a strange voice said.

  * * *

  "Papers! My Great Aunt Lilibeth has papers! It just depends on whether or not I believe your papers are real. And even if they are real, whether or not they actually belong to the two of you."

  Denis looked around the room that was serving as the office for Captain Marcus Pohl. It was certainly not as opulent as he would expect to see occupied by someone who commanded the dragoons that served the bishop of Mende. But he was a military man, and these rooms definitely had the plain, Spartan look that went with that profession.

&n
bsp; The region that governed Gévaudan, known as Mende, was at the crossroads of several major pilgrimage routes. Since bandits loved to prey on pilgrims, Pohl and his dragoons found much to keep them occupied.

  "I've explained who we are: my name is Denis Semsa, and my companion is Elizabeth Springer," said Denis. "We work as writers for the Grantville Times. Why have we been arrested?"

  "You haven't been arrested, just brought in for a friendly little chat. When my men find strangers lurking in the forest, I start asking questions about why they are there and who they are," said Pohl. "And I keep asking them until I am satisfied with the answers I receive."

  When they had been brought before the captain, he studiously ignored them for a half an hour as he continued to sharpen a formidable looking sword. Once he was satisfied with his work, the blade had been resheathed and now lay on the desk in front of him. Once he looked at Denis and Betsy his scowl seemed to indicate that he knew that they were trouble, and wanted very little to do with them before beginning his questions.

  "I . . ." Betsy stood up, a look of irritation on her face.

  Denis automatically put a hand to Betsy's arm to stop the sarcastic reply that he knew she was about to make.

  "Judging by your manner of dress, you are Americans."

  "Actually, I'm not American. I'm part Belgian and part Basque," Denis started to explain. This was the third time he had told the story since the three dragoons had found the two of them in the hut. "A handful of blacksmith's apprentices who worked for an American company vanished in this region while transporting raw goods and our editor thought that it might be a good story."

  "And you've come all this way for a newspaper story?" Pohl shook his head. "Why?"

  "Because the the last reports of them were in Gévaudan," Betsy cut across Denis' explanation. "And there have been and will be reports of a lot of wolf killings in this area."

  Pohl raised an eyebrow at that. "Wolves have been killing in this area for years. There have been rumors of wolves and men who turned into wolves all over this part of France for decades. What's different now?"