The old Buick slowly made its way through the dark countryside, headed away from the high school. The couple inside was elderly, cautious, and tentative on the road. It had been daylight when the meeting at the high school started, now it was well after eleven PM. John's eyes were not what they used to be. He'd had cataract surgery a couple of years ago. It had helped, but seventy-eight-year-old eyes were still seventy-eight-year-old eyes.
He just had to take it easy, and make sure he didn't get in an accident. Before last Saturday an accident might have meant losing the drivers license. That would have been a loss of the freedom they enjoyed; living on their own land, tending the garden, tending the house. It would have meant moving into an assisted living apartment that their daughter had shown them in Wheeling. But that was before last Sunday, when what folks were calling the Ring of Fire came to Grantville, West Virginia.
As he drove the Buick slowly up the hill and out of town, following Route 250, John thought back to the meeting two weeks ago with his daughter in Wheeling. She'd been trying to talk him into moving up to Wheeling. "This is the place I picked out for you and Mom." She was almost shouting; John was hard of hearing. "Isn't it nice?" He had spent too many years in the textile industry. There was no such thing as OSHA when he started, and hearing protection was for sissies and women. Sometimes he wished he had used those awful cotton ball earplugs. But that was past.
"But these places are hard to get into" she said again, a little too loud.
"I can hear, dammit. There's no need to shout."
"But Dad, if you'd turn your hearing aid up, I wouldn't have to shout."
"What?"
"I said, if you turn your hearing aid up there would be no need to shout"
"Wait a minute, honey. Let me turn up my hearing aid." The device squealed with feedback as he adjusted it. It never did fit correctly. "There. What did you say?"
"I said that you can move in here, in Wheeling, close to me, Billy, and the kids, but this place is hard to get into."
"Don't want to, honey," he drawled. "It isn't time. Not yet. Someday, maybe, not yet."
"Dad, these places aren't easy to get into. And this two bedroom is open now. You should take it." Elaine looked nervous. "This an assisted living facility, with a nice dining hall. Mom won't have to cook, unless she wants to. There are only a few apartments that have a kitchen."
"It has an electric range, and your Mom never liked electric ranges." John was beginning to feel more uncomfortable by the minute with this conversation.
"Dad, there are only four two-bedroom apartments with a kitchen in the entire complex. And this one is vacant now. I want you to have the extra room of the two bedroom." She paused and smiled sweetly at him. "Dad, this is open now. It doesn't happen very often. You could see the kids more often. And there's a whole lot less for Mom to clean. And this is so much closer to the doctors. You know that's important, Dad. Mom is at the doctor right now. You can't keep driving all that way, and it will be so much easier for Mom." Her smile had changed into something else. It was still a smile, but it had pain around the edges.
"Elaine, honey." John could still be charming if he wanted to. He didn't want to hurt his daughter's feelings. "Elaine, honey, it's not time for this. Not yet. We like Grantville. It's small, but we like it. And, yes, there's only the one doctor. But he knows us, knows our ways. We have the house. I still do the yard. We have the garden. Where would your mother have her garden if we lived here?"
"But that drive, Dad. It's so dangerous."
"It's just over an hour and a half from our house to yours. And I've been driving Route 250 since we moved out there twenty-five years ago. Long as we get home before dark, it's all right, honey. It's all right." He smiled down at her. He was still a tall man, even at seventy-eight. Elaine had taken after her mother. Short, dark hair and eyes, and a little fat. "I enjoy the drive."
He did enjoy the drive. It represented freedom. But now. Now things were different. Unbelievably different. Unreal. He kept looking out at the moon, and that confirmed the truth. The crazed, hard, real truth. They had gone back in time. Nobody understood how, or why. It had picked them up and turned them around and dropped them down in this new here and now. Except this new Oz was real. And nightmarish. And dangerous. With bands of soldiers that were supposed to be armies terrorizing the countryside. In the middle of a war. Melissa Mailey, the high school history teacher, had told them. No way to get back. He looked at the moon again. He knew they were right. The moon was in the wrong part of the sky . . .
The worst thing he heard at the meeting was that driving wouldn't be allowed for personal reasons. Most people had walked home, but there was no way for his wife Millie to make it. Everyone had told them to go ahead and drive home. She couldn't walk the nearly six miles to their house on the other side of town, near where the Ring of Fire came down and sliced the earth like a scalpel. The Ring ran less than a hundred yards from their home at the north edge of town. What had been the edge of town. They were now driving west on what had been a north south road, back in another time and place.
"Whadaya think there, Millie?" Charming again. Her full name was Militsa, a family name from her Greek and Serbian ancestry. But he called her Millie, as he had done since they met.
"I dunno, John. Garden is pointed the wrong way. It will be on the east now, not the south side. It seems to be about the same time of year, near as they can figure. Growing season should line up pretty well. Least it ain't winter." Millie sighed. "I hope Elaine is okay." She paused for several minutes. "I mean, what if the rest of the world ain't around anymore and we're the only survivors?"
"I don't know Millie, I just dunno . . ." They looked at each other across the dark car. The rest of the ride was silent, except for the noise of the worn Goodyear's on the blacktop.
They arrived home. The porch light was still on, just as they had left it. The house was a one story, framed, two-bedroom home with a living room and an eat-in kitchen. There was a front bay window, and everything was immaculately painted. It was normally quiet there, but the quiet now was eerie. Usually there would be a truck or a car with its tires whining out on Route 250, noises from the town below, and the gentle background hum of civilization. The neighbors at the end of the road were outside the Ring of Fire; the neighbors between their house and Route 250 were away to see their kids in Chicago. John wondered if he should still keep an eye on the neighbor's house. Suppose so. They might come back. Never know.
He opened the door, stood in the doorway, and listened to the house. Quiet. Just the tick tock of the grandfather clock that had been his mother's. The floor creaked, quietly as he entered. The smell of familiar liniments for sore muscles, and the earlier chicken lunch were pleasant, gratifying, comforting. The same as always.
Millie pulled herself up the three steps to the porch using the railing, then stopped to listen to the quiet. Wheezing softly, she stood near him, barely touching. John knew they were both wondering what would come next.
The next morning John woke early. But Millie was already up and sipping coffee at the kitchen table. It was still dark.
"You're up early," John said. He was standing in the kitchen door archway that led to the living room.
"Been thinking," she replied. "Thinking about a lot of things." John waited. You don't spend 58 years with a person and not learn when to listen.
"I've been thinking about this stuff," she said after a few moments, gesturing to the basket of medications. They kept the amber and white plastic bottles in a small white plastic basket on the kitchen table. She pushed them gently away from her, towards him. The red and white border on the Formica table was worn from years of use at their two places across from each other.
Millie had the most need for ongoing medication. Her stroke of a few years ago, along with her emphysema, had left her dependent on several medications. John was only on blood thinners and some occasional pain medication for his knees and lower back. "There's no chance of us getting back. We don't even know if there's a back to get to," she said. It was not a question. "Did you hear the wolves last night?" she added after a bit.
"Yes," he replied. He sat down across from her and took her hands in his. He looked at her for an hour while the sun rose. Millie had sharp, intelligent dark eyes that missed little, and white curly hair. They sat there, saying nothing, just looking at each other. They felt each other's presence, companionship and pain. They felt the house around them start to creak as the morning sun began to warm it. The east exposure popped and cracked as it warmed. Birds began to sing, and the flowers along the house began to open to face the sun. They sat for a while longer, holding hands, quiet, simply being together as they had done for so many years.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
"I don't want to make a fuss," she said. "I've never wanted to make a fuss." She put her head down on the table, sobbing softly. "I don't want to make a fuss . . ." After a while, it was quiet again and she slowly raised her head and looked up. John returned her gaze, and smiled. Charming smile still. Finally she spoke. "Isn't it odd to see the sun come in that window that way, with the shadows going there. At this time of day the cat used to sit on the back of the couch there in the sunshine, almost all year. There's no sunshine there anymore. Everything is the same, but it's not the same. It's unreal on one hand, and on the other it's very real. Like the sunshine on the couch."
"It was the moon for me last night," he said. "The moon was in the wrong spot."
"I don't want to make a fuss," she said. "I've never wanted to make a fuss." There was hint of anger in her voice this time, mixed with frustration. She paused. "The chickens might have a few eggs this morning. Why don't you get some and I'll cook us a nice breakfast of bacon and eggs."
"Okay," said John, as he rose from the table. He straightened slowly and went out the back door, towards the small henhouse. It was adjacent to the garden. The back yard was expansive, running well away from the house. They had bought the house and the four acres of land up here more than thirty years ago, before he retired. Early in his career he had worked in the quarries in the area, as a heavy equipment mechanic. Then he spent forty years as a maintenance specialist in the mill industry, keeping the spinning machinery running. It was those places his hearing had been damaged by the constant noise of the spinning machinery. He'd torn out many machines over the years. Then he'd crated them up to send to India and Pakistan, as well as Mexico. Soon there were no more textile plants, except for a few. The ones that remained were little more than antiques that made specialty products. It was okay. He was ready to retire. He always hated the business anyway. It was hard, always being away from home. Not to mention, he was constantly caught between labor and management in what was normally a hostile environment.
He went to the henhouse and took a look inside. Whatever the Ring of Fire had done, the chickens didn't seem to mind. Plenty of eggs this morning. As he walked back through the garden, he admired his wife's commitment in the planting and maintaining of it. The garden was substantial. The decorative parts of it were more in the lines of a traditional English garden, with flowers and multiple plants and hedges in the front closest to the house. The back section was for cabbage, corn, peas and beans. There was rhubarb for pies in the spring. The whole thing was surrounded by a fence that was designed to keep the whitetail deer from eating everything in sight. He wondered how the deer were going to feel about the wolves.
The next morning started like any other. Breakfast early, then to the outside chores. Millie went to the garden, slowly, carefully. John had built her a small battery powered cart to sit on as she weeded and tended. The cart had balloon tires he'd salvaged off of a golf cart somewhere. There was a well used trolling motor and an old car battery, and some bits and pieces for a gear reduction steering. It also had a tiny differential and axle removed from a riding mower somewhere. It drove easily and was comfortable for Millie. There was a little shelf he built on it for small tools. They'd widened the rows of the garden to accommodate it. He smiled as he watched her head into the still small plantings.
John then went to the shed. He liked to call it a workshop, but it was just a small shed that had been built some years ago to hold a Model A Ford. Built by the previous owners, not him. It was small, but the roof was good. The floor was dirt, but packed and laden with seventy years of motor oil. It was nicely painted on the outside, like the rest of the place. There was a small electrical service that he had put in shortly after he retired. Inside, the shed was packed with the accumulation of a handyman who had grown up during the depression. That is to say, he threw away nothing that could remotely have another purpose, no matter how badly broken, worn out, or just plain junk.
There was another pile in the back of the shed, under a small lean-to that held bulk junk. Angle iron, a set of pulleys from an old flat leather belt drive that looked like undersized steel wagon wheels, with a broad flat surface where the rim should be. He was going to put them in the ground, half buried at the end of the drive one day. An industrial bit of humor at the expense of the many half buried wagon wheels. He thought that would be funny. Nobody would get it except him, but that was okay. He chucked silently at the thought.
"I suppose all of my junk is going to come in handy," he muttered. His son-in-law had tried for years to get him to throw some of it away. "Throw it away," Billy had always said. "Heck," thought John, "he was just afraid of having to clean out the shed after we died." Today, John decided he was going to sort out some hardware in one of the jars. Somehow some metric nuts had gotten into the normal threaded stuff. Hated that. He could still tell from looking the difference between a ten-millimeter nut and a 7/16th nut. Hadn't lost that touch. He was just getting to work when he thought he heard a car horn in the driveway.
"Hallo, the house. John, Millie, you there?" John emerged from the shed into the bright sunshine. The air was very crisp and clean. The Grantville city police car had pulled up behind the Buick. When the weather was bad, he would pull the Buick into the barn, but they had left it out last night. The policeman, who looked familiar, was standing behind his open car door, both hands below the window and out of sight, his eyes moving constantly until he spotted John coming around the corner of the shed. As John moved closer, he saw another person, this one a woman, get out of the passenger side of the patrol car. She too looked wary, eyes constantly moving to the tree line that marked the edge of John's property, to the barn, and finally to the shed.
"You remember me John? I'm Officer Onofrio. This is Maureen Grady."
"Hi, John," said Maureen, smiling broadly. She walked around the car and towards him to shake his hand, arm outstretched. She looked about thirty or so, light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a flannel shirt and jeans. She also had a .380 semi-automatic pistol in a holster on one of her slightly wide hips. "I'm Maureen Grady. I think you know my father in law, Dennis Grady, Sr.?" She continued to smile.
John looked slightly suspicious. Maureen Grady had that same tone that his daughter had when she was trying to talk him into moving to Wheeling. Ingratiating, pleasant, and just a little too much smile. He shook her hand. It was small and smooth in his large and rough hand. "You married Dennis' boy? He is Dennis, Jr., if I recall?" She nodded in the affirmative to him, ponytail bobbing slightly, and he continued, "I was working with your father in law when Dennis, Jr. was born, I believe."
"You have an excellent memory, Mr. Trapanese," said Maureen, still smiling. She moved a step back, apparently to take him all in. She crossed her arms and smiled a little broader.
Now John was very suspicious.
"Where is Mrs. Trapanese?" asked Officer Onofrio. His question came out a little strong, edgy even, John noticed. His eyes were still scanning, not stopping, moving from the tree line, to the garden, the corners of the house, and the sides of the barn. He still stood behind his open door, the motor still running. "Is she in the house?" he asked. This time the question was a little softer, friendlier. As if to make up for the abruptness of the first question.
"Nope," answered John. "Garden." He gestured over his shoulder towards the garden. "How is Dan Frost doing?" John had heard the police chief had been wounded on the first day of the Ring of Fire in a skirmish with some German troops. Tilly's men, they were called. They had just destroyed some big town and killed just about everyone in it. They were still out there, roaming the countryside, destroying, burning, killing and stealing all in their path. They said Dan Frost was doing okay at the meeting the other night, but to not ask would be impolite.
"He's doing well," said the policeman. "Thanks for asking, sir."
Millie came rolling out of the garden on her little electric cart. The cart was very low to the ground; John had built it that way. It moved quietly towards the house. At the side of the house there was a short ramp that went up about eighteen inches and leveled out, ending in a handrail. Next to the handrail was a small box with a cord coming out of it. The ramp and the railing were attached to the house. Millie piloted the little cart alongside the house and up the small ramp, her back to the house and her feet progressively getting higher from the ground. When the ramp leveled out, it was exactly the right height for Millie to slide out of the seat and stand up, supporting herself on the railing. Steadying herself for a moment, she reached around and plugged the battery charger into the cart. Then she began to walk towards them, wheezing slightly. The ramp was something John was proud of. It made it easier for her to sit down and get up from the low cart.
"That's very nifty," said Maureen. She sounded like she meant it. "Did you build that?"
"Yes. The ramp and the cart. Cart came first." He smiled. "Not the horse."
Maureen paused a moment, like she wasn't sure what to say. Then it dawned. "Oh, cart before the horse. I get it." She laughed, a real spot of laughter, that was clearly different than her earlier smile. "I didn't quite expect that," she said, still smiling. Officer Onofrio gave a small smile, too; he had heard the joke before. He had been out here on two separate ambulance runs that had taken Millie to the hospital a few miles away.
"May we go inside and talk?" asked Maureen. She gave a quick glance to Onofrio, who nodded slightly in the affirmative. "Do you want to wait out here, Officer?"
"That would be fine, ma'am," replied Onofrio.
As the three of them eased into the vinyl kitchen chairs with a cup of coffee, Maureen saw the neat kitchen, the white plastic basket on the middle of the table with medications, and the worn table. It reminded her of her parents, years ago. The details were different, but the feeling was the same, they were living out the last years as best they could. This was going to be hard. "Well," Maureen said, letting her smile return, the one that made both John and Millie look at her with suspicion, "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here?"
"Not really" said Millie, cutting into the flow of where Maureen was going. "You want us to move out of here, don't you? Too dangerous, or too far from town? For our own good?" Millie was smiling, comfortable, and just a bit argumentative.
Maureen stopped for a moment and blinked a bit. She finally sighed, resigned. "You're right, Mrs. Trapanese. We think it's too dangerous."
"Who's we?" John asked, flatly.
"Well, we're organizing as best we can, and trying to think of everything that might happen. You know Dennis, Jr., my husband is a—was a police officer over in Clarksburg?" They nodded. "Well, he's helping out as best he can, and so am I."
"How are you helping?" asked John.
"I've some experience in social work, and I just thought I could help him and the police force out. This is a good way to help. I've some help watching the kids. You wouldn't believe how this has brought the town together. Everyone is looking for something to do to help. Kind like after the tornado a few years back in Clarksburg. Everyone just stepped up, and did a job, no complaining. This is one of those times."
"There's not much we can do," said Millie.
"You can help us by moving into town," replied Maureen.
"Why is that a help?"
"Basically, this is not a defensible position—we can't defend this part of the road easily. You are not safe here. In town you'd be a lot safer, closer to help. And we don't have to spend the effort to keep you safe all the way out here. We're stretched way too thin as it is." She sat back in her chair. "It's not safe out here on your own."
"Have you had any more incidents since Dan Frost was shot on the first day?" John asked.
"No, just some refugees coming in. Mostly on the other side of town, but a few from this way. They say that the main army has been moving off, away from us."
"Well, Miss Grady," John continued, "I don't think we're in any real danger out here. The barn and yard are well lit, and the phone is working again."
Maureen was getting a little impatient. "What are you going to do for supplies? And how are you going to get to town? What about groceries? Have you thought these things through, Mr. Trapanese? Mrs. Trapanese? Our response time out here will be significant. And out here at the edge of the Ring of Fire, you're the most vulnerable to outsiders. Do you understand how serious this is?"
"Of course, I don't understand young lady," Millie harrumphed. "Who can understand this nonsense? The sun is in the wrong spot, the moon is in the wrong spot. How can anyone understand this?"
"Mrs. Trapanese," Maureen began, "may I call you Millie?" Millie gave her a nod and an additional harrumph, just a bit disdainfully. "Thank you, Millie," she continued. "You're right. Nobody really understands what's happening. It may be that in a few weeks it will sink in. Right now we're just dealing with the reality that we have. And that reality is that this is now a much more dangerous place. It may look the same, but it's not the same. And we don't think it ever will be the same." She paused. "I know you don't want to give up your home, but why don't you come into town? It will be better for you in the long run."
John and Millie exchanged glances across the table. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Millie spoke. "I don't give a shit about the long run."
Maureen blinked again. She started to open her mouth to protest and stopped. She looked at the basket on the middle of the table, and back to Millie and John, who returned her gaze.
"I don't," continued Millie after a time. "Please don't take offence, Maureen. It's just that it's a little too much for us old folks to take in."
"But Millie, you shouldn't think like that," said Maureen. Maureen didn't believe her own argument.
"Then how should I think, Maureen? Should I pretend that the Walgreen's is still in Wheeling?" Millie kept her voice measured, calm, and strong and met Maureen's gaze full on. "I've a few weeks supply of medications, and I know what to do to make them last. Been doing that for years. Too expensive otherwise."
John leaned forward, placed his hand on Millie's, and said, "We're not moving into town. It's not safe there, either, so far as I can tell. The difference between here and down there isn't very much. I don't think it really matters all that much where we live." He too looked at Maureen, with kindness, but also with determination. "And if you're wondering, yes, I do have some weapons here. We met in Greece when I was serving with an Army transport unit right after the war. I should be able to defend us against whatever bad guys are lurking in the shadows. Not that I think it's necessary."
Maureen and Officer Onofrio drove back to the police station in silence. The V8 drone of the cruiser was the only background noise, along with a couple of squelch tails on the two-way. After a couple of miles, Onofrio spoke up. "I don't know if I'd do anything different, Maureen. I mean, that is where they retired to, where they wanted to spend as much time as possible. Can't really disagree a whole lot."
"I know." Maureen sighed. "I'm just worried about them. What are they going to do? It's dangerous out there on the edge. We just don't know what's going to happen."
Heinrich was famished. His vision was foggy. As he came to the ridge, he paused. The land below him seemed different somehow. Where he now stood the land around him was colors of gray, brown and black. Below him, the land—sharply cut as if by a knife—was a brilliant green. The trees, the grass, all looked alive. He looked down at the farmstead below him. It looked prosperous and untouched by battle. Surrounded by green, with a garden. His spirits lifted. Perhaps he could get a meal, for himself and . . . he looked back to the stand of trees near the ridge. They would be safe there. At least for now. He began to pick his way down the ridge. The ground was soft, and fell away easily. Caution, he told himself. Caution, don't fall and break a leg.
Heinrich was leading the horse. It had no strength to bear any riders; the hipbones were protruding over the loose flesh. The horse couldn't go much further. The young German looked back and gave the lead a tug. "There may be some food down there, my sturdy friend. Lets go and see." So together they walked down the ridge, until it reached level ground. He looked to the farmhouse, and saw the two farmers standing under an extended roof that formed an overhang to the front door.
He paused, trying to regain his bearings. He then trudged to them, head down. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It was all he could do. He looked at the man. A big man in front of the farmhouse. The man was peering at him with some sort of a short telescope; he saw the flash of light off of the lens. The man then began to look above him, at the ridgeline. The woman then took the telescope, and handed him what looked like some sort of a small farm tool. From this distance, and his foggy state of mind, that was all of the analysis he could do. He knew he would be at the mercy of the farmers—to a point. All he wanted was food.
"As soon as I tell them that I will not harm them, they will feed me. The others have. At least those that were alive when we found them." He tightened the belt of his long leather coat, and patted his side. His saber was still in place, out of sight, and his small dagger in the sheath in the small of his back.
He continued with his head down, focusing on walking. The ground was very smooth and covered with the green of spring grass. So green. It looked like another land to him. As if spring came here early. He shook his head again. Focus. Focus, he told himself. This is risky. But they always stop being afraid as soon as I make them understand . . .
As he neared the farmhouse, the farmer said something to him. Heinrich blinked, shook his head and tried to listen. What language was it? The man said it again. It sounded strange. Heinrich stopped. He could feel the horse drop its head behind him. It sounded like the man was giving him a command. He raised his head slightly. Heinrich tried to no longer look people in the eyes. He had seen too many eyes, blank, white, staring at the sky. All dead. No more eyes. "Please," he said, quietly and sincerely. "Please, I need food. Can you give me a meal?" The farmer straightened. He was a big man, larger than he had first thought.
The man said something again. He could not understand. Heinrich lifted his head, and looked to his side. The house was strange, unusual. Fog again, and he shook his head. Focus. Try again, polite. "Please, sir. All I ask is a meal and a place to sleep tonight. I have companions and we have come far to escape the fighting. Can you help me?"
The man said something, and shook his head sympathetically. In the negative. He held out his hand and repeated his commands, and continued to shake his head no. The young German clenched his fists, and relaxed them. He took a step to the man, and pleaded again. "Please, we have no food. We have not eaten in many days."
The man was still shaking his head no. When Heinrich took another step, entreating, he saw the man change his grip on what looked like a farm tool. He heard a click from the tool, and the end was pointed towards him. It was a tube, like a small arquebus. He paused. Was this a weapon of some kind? Farmers did not have weapons such as this. It was finely made, wood and dark metal, and worn in spots from years of use. He focused on the weapon—tube?—and instinctively loosed the belt on his coat. It was an automatic motion; he made it when he felt threatened.
The farmer sensed this, and raised the—what was this thing—weapon. Yes, it is a weapon. The way he holds it, and the way that he speaks. He does not fear me. Heinrich's blood ran cold. This was not supposed to be dangerous. "Just a meal. Please." He felt himself swaying, lightheaded. The old farmer held out his hand, palm out and facing him. He said something like sounded like "halt." He said it strongly. Heinrich stopped, and looked into the face of the man. He was unbelievably old, and wrinkled, but he stood like a much younger man. The farmer dropped the weapon away from his face slightly, and he was speaking again. He was entreating to him for something. Most farmers simply pleaded for their lives, thinking that they were going to be killed. This old man was pleading something else. The young German listened closely. The language sounded vaguely familiar yet unintelligible. The farmer was shaking his head again. Firmly. No. But the meaning of the old man's words came to him in a flash of understanding.
This farmer was not pleading for his life as he had seen so many do before. This farmer was pleading that he wouldn't have to kill. He saw the farmer's eyes fully for the first time. His eyes were not dead. This farmers eyes were shining and clear. Remarkably clear. Alive. He tried to not look at eyes any longer. So many dead ones, staring at the sky and empty. Heinrich swayed briefly, and raised his hands away from his leather buff coat, now only loosely tied in the front. He stepped back. "Please. I just want something to eat." He once again timidly looked into the eyes of the farmer. He saw two things. Bright and remarkably clear eyes for one so old. And genuine relief. Relief that he would not have to kill.
The old woman came out of the doorway, took three steps to the post that held up the overhang, and leaned against it. She smiled. She asked him a question. He struggled to place the language. It was so familiar. He saw the old man look at her quietly, and say something. It sounded like a question to her, incredulous. He was questioning her actions. She answered in a cheery voice that caught Heinrich off guard. The old man stepped back, and made an almost comical harrumph. He lowered his weapon slightly.
His foggy attention went to her. He searched for her eyes. They too were alive. Unafraid. They were dark. Darker than he had ever seen. There was wisdom there. He just blinked at her. Those eyes were sizing him up. His character. His soul. He felt ashamed and lowered his eyes to the ground. There had been no challenge from her that required him to back down. There was only a desire to understand him. He was afraid she would.
She addressed him directly, and made a motion to her mouth as if eating. Startled, he looked at them each. She said a word that was familiar. Eat. It was an English word. He could feel his face light up. Tears wanted to come over him. He was going to be fed. "Yes, Yes," he said. "Eat, yes, eat." Thank you, thank you.
No tears, he told himself sternly. He swallowed back his raw emotion and buried it. Putting it away in a dark corner. He shook the fog away, and smiled "Yes, eat, yes."
There was another exchange between the man and the woman, and the man looked relieved. ." . . almost killed him . . ." sounded a lot like English. English? Here? Thuringa? Heinrich took a step towards the open door. English? He tried to remember a language he had partially used six years ago when he was in England with his father. He didn't study it. He didn't like England, or the people he encountered there. They were not true Catholics, his father always said. Heretics. He tried to stop at that thought. Heretics. He was so sure back then; everything was simple. There was one true faith. And he was a soldier of that faith. He was going to rid the world of the heretics; convince them of the error of their ways; defeat their armies; and bring them to the church for the glory of God and the Emperor. That's what his father had said, what the priests had said, what everyone had said. For the glory of God and the Emperor. He took another step towards the dwelling.
The man raised the weapon again, this time very quickly. It was still pointed at him. The man gave him a command; holding his hand out again and saying something that sounded once again like "halt." This time the young German stopped immediately, but he was confused. He looked to the farmer for an explanation. The old lady glanced at the farmer quizzically too, he noticed.
Heinrich looked back to the farmer, who made a motion for him to open his coat. He complied, slowly, with his hands up near the collar, so that there would be no mistake. He was almost embarrassed when they saw his cavalry sword hanging from his side. The farmer made a motion for him to put onto the floor. Carefully, he removed it from his scabbard, using only the tips of his fingers, and placed it on the wooden floor. As he stood up, he felt dizzy and off balance, and he grabbed the wooden post that supported the roof to steady himself. He still had his dagger. He had used it before; he could use it again if necessary. Somehow, he didn't think it was necessary.
He paused before entering the home to look at the door. Strange, delicate construction; it would keep nobody out who wanted in. The glass in the door was very clear. Once inside, the room was opulent, with a padded couch and a massive padded chair, rugs on the floor, and mysterious, highly accurate paintings on the wall of people's faces. More paintings of carriages like the large one outside. The detail was amazing. He shook his head; trying to process the things he saw, define them in the range of his experiences. These people must be very rich. The old lady was saying something to him, and clearly wanted him to move forward towards the open archway.
Heinrich approached the archway, but stopped. There was a shelf on the wall. The shelf was covered with small figurines, no bigger than his fist. When he saw them, he stopped and stared. They looked like a representations of small children. Some had puppies and other pets, some were shy, and some seemed playful. But they all had large eyes. Mournfully peering at him. Eyes. Eyes of innocent children. He tried to break his stare off the objects, but he could not. Their eyes held him. He was far away. He heard the old lady speaking, something about "Precious Moments."
She touched him on the arm, and he came back to the present, weak, hungry and confused. He looked down at her. She looked back up to him and smiled. That smile drew him to the next room where the smells hit him like a hammer in the stomach. The smell of the rich food, made his stomach cramp, and he grabbed his sides to quell the pain. He couldn't identify the smell, but it was far too exotic to be simple peasant food. He was desperately hungry. He felt dizzy.
"Please," he said to her. She led him to a padded chair with a very smooth red and white table, and placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of him. She called it "beeeen zoup." He briefly glanced at it, picked up the bowl and drank the broth down. It had small beans in it that barely needed chewing. The lady made an exclamation that sounded like "jeepers," and went to the counter, returning with several pieces of thin sweet bread that was white and soft. It was almost like eating air, it was so light. He sopped up the bowl with one of the pieces.
The old lady went to a large metal cabinet (when she opened it did a light emit from inside? He wasn't sure.) and pulled out an expensive looking glass pitcher, full of crystal clear water. The old lady put the glass of water in front of him. He stopped and looked at the water in the glass. And it was a glass, not a mug. The water was cleaner than he had seen in a long time. Crystal clean. He sniffed it. Only a faint odor. He felt the cold glass in his hands, and drank quickly, so quickly that he got a pain in his head from the cold liquid. He quaffed it all the way down, in spite of the pain. He was full. His stomach had shrunk so much. He shook his head to clear it of the fog of hunger, and sat still, staring out the window in front of the table. He was beginning to register where he was. He willed his stomach to be still. He had eaten much too fast. His breathing was shallow. He sat there, clenching his jaws together, stifling a retch. His head and stomach both subsided, and he began to breathe normally. His hands started to shake. He was so tired. He started to feel sleepy, and suddenly he remembered. The children. In the trees. He sat bolt upright and looked at his hosts.
The old man had come into the kitchen and he now moved towards him. The old lady sat next to him. She asked him a question, obvious concern on her face. She looked puzzled. The old man came next to him on the other side, now with no weapon at all. It was hanging on the wall outside the kitchen door where he had placed it. He, too, looked concerned.
"Please, the children, they need food, water. Please, can they be fed? We will not harm you. Please, the children."
The old man said something to the old lady. They both turned towards him. He heard some spots of English, and his word for "children" repeated back to him. The old man faced him and was counting on his fingers. The young German held up three fingers. The old man nodded, this time with an emphatic yes. He walked out the door and bid the German to follow. The old man pointed to the stand of trees with a question on his face. Heinrich nodded. The old man nodded, and the old lady nodded from her window in the kitchen. The old man again nodded to him, and he began to call. "Come down, it is all right. There is wonderful food here. Water. Come down, come down." He waved his hands in the air
A first cautious head looked out from the small stand of trees. Then a second, and finally a third one. Heinrich watched as they started to cross the large open area with no cover. Slowly at first, cautiously. Finally they began to run. The littlest one couldn't keep up. The girl was the oldest, maybe ten or eleven. Then the two boys, one seven or eight, another one maybe a year or two younger. The older children waited as the little one caught up.
They came closer. Heinrich looked at them. They were thin, but still able to move across the open area at a trot. They paused part way through, feeling exposed. He called to them again, and they began running again. As they began to draw up to Heinrich and the old man, they slowed to a walk, looking at Heinrich and then at the old man, from one to the other. Looking for assurance from Heinrich. He kept nodding to them. Finally they stopped a few feet from the old man and Heinrich.
"These are good people, they have a wonderful home and food. You do not have to be afraid." They looked at him, and back to the large and fierce looking ancient man.
The old lady yelled at the old man when she saw the children. She said something about "scrubbing in the barn." The old man didn't look around. Perhaps he didn't hear her. Heinrich tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to the window. She repeated her command. This time the old man nodded.
Heinrich saw that the children were not too sure of the situation. He turned to the old man, and quietly tried to get him to reassure the children. He spoke low, and with simple words and hoped the old man would understand his meaning. The old man told him to "speak up, louder" and put his finger to his ear. Then a high-pitched squealing emanated from the old man's head. The children scattered; the two boys disappeared around the shed, and the girl went the other way towards the barn, stopping near the corner. Heinrich took a step back, astounded that a sound like that could come from a man. The old man began cursing and talking about "something not fitting." Then he mumbled to himself. He put his finger to his ear again.
Another squeal, and the girl disappeared behind the barn in a flash of dirty linen. When he straightened up, Heinrich was looking at him a little wide eyed, and the kids were nowhere to be seen. The old man looked surprised. He said much too loudly something about "a hearing aid." Heinrich continued to look at him. "A hearing aid." The old man kept repeating. "It helps me to hear. You know, hear."
Heinrich burped long and loud at him.
An hour or so later, John sat back and watched as three damp, scrubbed and rosy-cheeked children sat eating at their kitchen table, pushing in food as fast as they were allowed. He had scrubbed them to within an inch of their lives with soap and a stream of very cold water. They were wrapped in towels while the tattered clothes they had were put though the wash. The German also watched them closely, and stopped them when they began to eat too fast. Their empty stomachs had to acclimate to the food.
The young man had placed the horse in the shade of the barn with water and some feed. Things were calming down. Millie was resting on the couch, looking spent. John was in the kitchen with the refugees.
That's what he decided to call them. Refugees. He thought back to when he had been ten or eleven years old, and his mother would give a meal to a traveling man out the back porch when they came asking. They always asked to perform whatever services they could, and she usually had something to do around the farm. Especially after his father had died. They would then move on, and a few days later another would show up. Those were hard times. But people looked out for each other back then; they were all in the same predicament. The men who came to the back porch to look for food could easily be a neighbor or a relation. "There but for the Grace of God, go I," his mother used to tell him. "There but for the Grace of God, go I."
John examined the four, and tried to figure out the relationship between them. The girl and the littlest one looked as if they were brother and sister. Both had stick straight blonde hair and round faces with bright blue eyes. The middle boy didn't look anything like the two of them. He had a darker complexion and was short and big boned. If he had any meat on him, thought John, he could grow up to be a defensive guard for a pro football team.
The senior German who had shepherded them looked altogether different. He was cleaner now, and he looked to be no more than twenty years old. Tall and lanky, with dark hair and dark green eyes, he carried himself with a youthful authority that showed a sense of command. He too, continued to nibble as he watched the children eat. All of the children would look at him, and then at John as if expecting them to suddenly make them stop eating. When he didn't, they would smile and nod, "Danke, Danke" they said, with much deference.
John looked at the German who had brought them, then stood up and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around rather abruptly and faced John. He was nearly as tall as John. They examined each other for a moment. John watched as the German looked at him, knowing he saw wrinkles and clear eyes. John examined the German's prominent nose and thin mouth. He looked even more like a teenager than before.
"I'm John," he said. "John Trapanese. The lady on the couch over there is Millie, and she is my wife. What is your name?" John spoke slowly and loudly, in hopes that his meaning would be clear. He tapped himself on the chest again. "John."
The German straightened up, and made a small bowing motion with his head. "Heinrich. Heinrich V . . ." He hesitated, and then started over. "Heinrich Busse." He glanced back at the children at the table, who were watching him intently. "Heinrich Busse," he said again, while looking at them.
"Pleased to meet you, Heinrich, pleased to meet you. You don't speak any English do you? Spraken ze English?" John's war movie German was coming back to him.
Heinrich eyes narrowed. "English?" He seemed to John to go far away, as if remembering. "I speak, ummm, a small—little" he finally replied.
"Hey, Millie, he speaks English! Come here, woman. He speaks English. Hot damn, this is a lot better." John's questions bubbled to the surface with a rush of words. "Where are you from, who are the kids, are they your bothers and sisters, how long has it been since you ate? How long have you been wandering around? As you can see, we're not from around here originally, we just moved here. Well, we were moved here, we didn't have a lot of say in the matter. Have you ever heard of America? That's where we're from. The great state of West Virginia."
Millie had by now gotten up to the archway that divided the kitchen from the living room, and was met by many dazed eyes, including Heinrich's. The eyes went to her, and then back to John, and back to her again
"I think you might want to slow down a little bit there, John. I get the feeling that he doesn't speak English all that good."
Heinrich slowly nodded, and finally blinked. As did the children, who went back to their slowly disappearing meal.
"Sorry," murmured John.
"Heinrich, my name is Millie. Millie Trapanese. Glad to meet you." She extended her hand, and he once again bowed and took it in his. He avoided her eyes by looking down at the ground.
"Umm und umm happy is to meet to you, ya" he replied uncertainly.
The drier buzzed from the utility room. The children looked startled at the electronic buzzer, and looked to Heinrich for direction.
"Did you hear the dryer, John?" Millie asked.
"What?"
"Did you hear the dryer?"
"What about a fire?"
"The dryer," Millie shouted, and pointed down the hall. "The clothes are done."
"Oh, the dryer. Is it done? I'll get the kids clothing out. Heinrich, tell them I'm giving them their clothes back. C'mon there, kinders, let's get you dressed."
John got up, and waved for the kids to follow. He gave them their tattered but now clean and magically warm clothing fresh from the dryer. He smiled as the girl danced with her ragged dress to her face, spinning around and smelling the familiar cloth. Her face was beaming.
They were all clean, and contented for the moment. John watched as the littlest one fell fast asleep on the living room couch. The others curled up next to the first. Then Heinrich looked up.
"Sounds." He motioned toward the outside. "Sounds." John got up to look. A familiar car was approaching the house.
"Hallo, the house. John, Millie, are you all right in there?" It was Officer Onofrio again. "John? Millie? Are you in there?"
"You sit tight there, young man. Folks is mighty nervous around here." His tone was friendly, but firm. He made a stay gesture to Heinrich, like he would to a dog. Heinrich understood. He turned to the children and gave them a short command. They grew silent. The littlest one woke up, groggy with a touch of fear in his eyes.
John turned to the door and called, "Hello yourself. What can I do for you Officer?" He pushed the screen door out and looked at the cruiser in front of the porch. Onofrio was out of the car and had put the car between him and the house. He had the twelve gauge out. Maureen was also out of the car with her sidearm drawn, held in a combat stance, but pointing towards the ground.
"You okay, John?" asked Onofrio.
"Hell, yes. I got me some refugees, I think. Do any of you speak any German?"
"I've been picking up quite a bit," said Maureen. "Lots of refugees, lots of children especially. Lets give it a shot."
"C'mon out here, Heinrich. Some folks I would like you to meet. Heinrich speaks a little English, we've discovered."
They still hadn't completely put their guns away by the time Heinrich came out into the sunshine, squinting into the sun. John watched as Maureen holstered her .380, dusted off her hands on her jeans, and then put on her smile. Onofrio lowered the shotgun, but he didn't put it entirely away. His eyes were scanning the tree line as they began to speak.
"Heinrich," John said, "this is Officer Onofrio and Maureen Grady. They're part of the police force around here."
"Guten Nachmittag," said Heinrich, addressing Maureen first and then turning to Onofrio with a slight bow. "Guten Nachmittag ." He turned to Onofrio with a questioning look. Heinrich looked confused, as if he was wondering how they unhitched the horses so fast, and where they put them. John watched as he curled up his nose at the strange smell. He imagined it smelled vaguely like a blacksmiths shop and warm metal to Heinrich. Heinrich looked even more confused when Maureen began speaking.
"Guten Tag. Mein Name Ist Maureen. Was Ist Sie Haben Gerufen Bitte?"
Heinrich stared at her. The woman was addressing him, not the man in the dark clothes. He replied slowly, "I am called, umm, Heinrich."
"Sie sind Heinrich, ja?" confirmed Maureen in her newly minted German. Heinrich nodded in reply. At that point the youngest, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and the one who looked like his sister timidly stuck their heads out the door to see what was up. They were shortly followed by the stocky one, all peering out around Millie and Heinrich.
"Und wer sind diese Kinder?" Maureen said with her smile firmly planted. She beamed at the kids. They shrank away. John chuckled.
Heinrich spoke quietly to the children, and motioned to them that it was safe.
John watched as Maureen leaned forward with her hands on her knees and smiled again. "Von wo sind Sie?" The children looked at Heinrich for the answer. He simply nodded. "Magdeburg," they said. Everyone stiffened. There was a dark gap in the conversation, and the sun even seemed to go away for a moment. John looked at the children and the young man, silently. Maureen recovered first.
"Magdeburg?" she said. "Were you there for the battle with Tilley's men?" Tilley's men had sacked the city, and murdered nearly everyone there. Thousands. There were few survivors. "Sie haben gelebt dort?"
Heinrich looked at the children gathered around his legs on the porch, and they looked up at him, waiting for the answer. He turned to Maureen, and answered in halting English, "I lived in the town, yes. These children not have mother und pater . . . We go to my family so that we can live. The children are my Verantwortung, um, my family." He wasn't sure of the last word, so he had resorted to German. The children continued to look up at him from around his legs, almost expressionless.
"Are they orphans?" asked Maureen.
Heinrich paused. "They are my, how do you say, Verantwortung, charges?"
"Are you related to them in some way?"
"Nein, not relative. I am Beschützer zu den Kindern. I, umm, help . . . protect them."
The children all nodded, a little wide-eyed.
Maureen continued to smile. John figured that she'd heard these stories from so many people in the last month, all of them were cautious in the telling. But her next question surprised him. She looked square at Heinrich. "Sind sie ein Soldat, Heinrich?"
John watched as Heinrich turned and looked at the children, and back to Maureen, then to Millie next to him. She too was looking at him with questions in her eyes. John sensed that Onofrio tensed a little, he had noticed the sword on the porch.
"Nein, I am not Soldat, umm, soldier." He looked at the children again; they looked back.
"That's too bad, Heinrich. We're hiring many soldiers here. We need to defend ourselves, and we're working to do that. Since you speak some English, you'd be very valuable. Are you sure you have no military experience?"
"Nein." He said forcefully. "Nein. Not Soldat." The children were still staring at him, not moving a muscle. Maureen looked at him, and then back at the children.
"If you are not a soldier, then you must be willing to work with us. You should report to the refugee center. They will feed you there, and arrange for a place to stay. I assume that you will want to stay here in Grantville. It's safe, at least for right now. We can protect you."
Heinrich turned and spoke to the children. "Wir werden sicher hier sein. Wir werden bleiben." The children all broke into smiles. He turned to Maureen. "Where is refugee center?"
Maureen smiled again. "Just follow this road down to the bottom of the hill, and turn left. You will find a very good road. Follow that down the hill, you will see some men there. They will tell you what to do and where to go."
The expression on Heinrich's face was hard to classify. He seemed happy, relieved and sad all at the same time. As the various emotions flooded across his face, Millie stepped forward.
"Maureen," she said. "If they need somewhere to live, they can live with us. We have room in the shed and the barn, and there's a room here in the house."
John coughed and his finger instinctively went to his hearing aid. "What did you say, Millie?"
"I said they can stay with us if they like. We can use the help." He looked at her, and she returned his gaze with "The Look." "The Look" said "Just shut up for now, I know what I'm doing, just go along."
John said the only thing he could say after "The Look" had been put into play. "Yes, dear."
"Well, thank you," said Maureen. "That's very kind of you. Are you sure you can handle this?" John looked a Millie with a questioning look on his face.
"When this young man came to our door this afternoon, John here almost shot him. Just cause he was askin' for food. He speaks English, sorta. He can talk to any others that wander in. You said that most all of them have been pretty harmless since Dan was shot. We could use a boarder to help around the house and farm. "Besides," she added. We're not leaving. Did you come out here to ask us that again?"
"Can we go back inside and talk?" asked Maureen. "Where we can discuss this." There was a awkward pause. The children looked anxious. "Please?" Maureen asked once again, putting her work smile back on. "We've brought you a few things we thought you might need. But we don't know how often we'll be able to come out here like this." Maureen looked straight at Millie.
"Thank you, young lady. But there was no need for you to come out here with anything. We have plenty of canned vegetables. I've a very full root cellar from the last couple of years in the garden. And the rhubarb is almost ready for pies. Flour, sugar too. Plenty to eat. Reminds me of when I was a girl. And now we got some help now, too."
"Can we please come in?" asked Maureen again.
"John, why don't you get them settled in the barn for now?" Millie said. "We'll work out the details later." She gave him a little softer version of "the look."
The children saw "The Look" this time, and they took a collective step back.
John grinned. Children are perceptive. This old lady was used to being listened to. He waved a hand and Heinrich and the children followed him to the barn.
In the kitchen, Maureen and Millie unpacked the things that Maureen had brought with her. Millie noticed that there was some applesauce that had been put up by someone last fall, the Mason jar had the hand written date on the top. Then Maureen pulled out a white sack with several plastic bottles of medications inside. "Doc Adams said I should give you these."
"I can't afford those," said Millie. "How can I pay for them? I don't want any charity, young lady. I've never taken charity, and I am not going to start now."
"These didn't cost anything, Millie. They were prescribed for someone else, and they weren't inside the ring when it hit. We found them, and Doc Adams thought you should have them." Millie was peering at the bottles. She reached for a pair of glasses on the windowsill above the sink. She wobbled a bit, unsteady on her feet. Maureen came to her side. "Millie," she began, "are you sure that this is what you want to do?"
"Yes. I am sure of it, Maureen. Very sure."
"Millie, three weeks ago I would have called social services to see what they could do for you. Take you in the hospital, or something, but that was before the Ring of Fire. Before we were cut off from civilization. Or we became civilization. That's kind of scary to think about. Our little backwater West Virginia town becomes the core of scientific learning in the world overnight. I overhead some people in a meeting yesterday talk about the number of books we have and what it represents. Everything is priceless. There's only one of everything in this world, and once it's gone, it's gone. Forever."
Millie looked out the window at John, Heinrich and the three children "It has always been that way young lady," said Millie. "You just never realized it before."
After a few weeks, things settled down. John was happy that Heinrich was learning to communicate reasonably well. Men had come to the house one day from the town and they had bought the gasoline and the refrigerant out of the car. They had paid very well for the precious fluids, but John knew what it meant. The end of his mobility.
John had started the car a week ago and taken Heinrich for a short ride around the property. They went down the hill to the point where their gravel road intersected Route 250 at the bottom. From there, all that could be seen was the old West Virginia landscape. Germany was no longer visible. John stopped the car at the bottom of the hill and paused. He turned right to head away from town. Towards the border of the Ring of Fire. It was a very short ride, and after a couple of turns following the creek they came to the wall of dirt that was seventeenth-century Germany. John stopped the car, and turned it off. It was nosed up to the now crumbling dirt. The dirt of another age and time.
"What is wrong, Johan?" asked Heinrich. "Are you, um, okay?"
John was staring straight ahead. In his minds eye, he could see every turn and tar strip in the road as it wound its way towards Wheeling. He could see the long downhill section, the chemical plants that had been there since before he was born, and the stoplight by his daughter's house. It was so close, yet so far away. He slowly got out of the car and shuffled to the embankment, staring straight ahead, his old eyes boring through the dirt, trying to move it away with his force of his will. In his imagination, it parted, and he drove the road briskly, smoothly. Not so fast as to alarm Millie, but fast enough that he was tested ever so slightly. This late June day, he would have had the windows down, as he cruised through the West Virginia Mountains.
"Is dirt wall," said Heinrich, who was now beside him. Heinrich looked at the old man, and sensed the pain that was in him. He remained quiet.
After a moments pause, John said, "Ya know what, Heinrich?"
"What, Johan?"
"This stinks. This really stinks to high heaven." He paused. "It stinks." His voice trailed off.
"It smells like good earth to me, Johan. Gute Erde"
John turned and looked at Heinrich. His deeply wrinkled face, which was a moment ago a weathered picture of despair, was now looking at Heinrich with shining eyes and a smile. "Yup, Heinrich. Good earth, Gute Erde." He turned back to the dirt wall and sighed. He stared at it for another few minutes, then finally turned and got back in the car. Heinrich followed.
John traded some old scrap, angle iron and a chunk of aluminum for a few good car batteries and set to work. He disappeared into the shed for a few days, and wouldn't tell Millie what he was up to. A week later, he pushed a new electric cart out of the shop. He had used the garden cart as a template, and built one with two seats and a small windshield made out of clear plastic. The tires were the hard part, but he had a pair of ten inch boat trailer wheels and tires stashed away that worked very well for the front, and a pair of wheelbarrow pneumatic tires for the rear. Speed control and gearing was going to be tricky, so he approached it mechanically with a v-belt drive. An old knife switch served as the on-off switch. The cabling was welding cable that had been at the bottom of a pile, and the motor was off a larger trolling motor for which he had traded three boxes of nails. It looked like a cross between a horse cart and a naked golf cart. He ran it around the lawn once or twice. It was a rough ride over the gravel, but once they were on the main road it would be fine. They had their mobility back.
Heinrich smiled as he watched John run it around the front of the house. John dropped it down to low gear and the cart came to a crawl, but it was a speed that would allow them to inch up the steeper transplanted West Virginia hills.
"How do you stop it?" Heinrich yelled across the front lawn.
"I'll show ya," replied John. He increased speed and started heading for Heinrich. As he approached Heinrich, who looked as if he were deciding which way to run to avoid getting flattened, John reached down and pulled a long lever on his left. As he pulled back, the cart slowed quickly, and came to a gentle halt a few feet in front of Heinrich. "Ever been to San Francisco, Heinrich?"
"It's a Spain saint, no?" Heinrich wasn't certain if he was being asked seriously or as a joke. Frustrating language, English.
"Nope, a whole city. And in that city they had a public transportation system sort of like wagons, which were pulled along by cables just under the street. I used the same kind of brakes they did. A block of wood! Ha!" John laughed triumphantly. The wood block was levered against the axle. The harder he pulled on the lever, the more pressure he put on the wood, slowing the cart.
"Ist like wagon," Heinrich said, "but we put it on wheel." He was speaking very loudly, as the hearing aid batteries had run out.
"Same idea, son, same idea," replied John. Turning to the house, he yelled. "Hey, Millie. Come out here, I want to show you what I been working on. Millie. C'mon out here, woman. We're going to town!"
A few days later, John proudly drove them into town. John and Millie were astounded at the change since the Ring of Fire. The town was absolutely buzzing with activity and energy. And people. People everywhere. Storefronts long since shuttered, were open and businesses were beginning to occupy them. There were people in the streets. And children. More than they had ever seen before. The energy was contagious. John felt his sprit soar with the life around him. This town was alive once again.
They stopped at Doc Adams place, and he welcomed them into his office. He was able to give Millie some suggestions on herbs to use when the medicines ran out. He told them it would help, but not at the same levels as before.
John had stopped by one of the machine shops in town, to see if he could swap out some more of his scrap, including the old "wagon wheel" pulleys. He did pretty well, as he had another large chunk of aluminum.
The days passed by, and summer came to the hilltop. The town had planted the remaining flat areas, and there had been some interchange of seeds from Millie's stock. The garden flourished, as did the surrounding crops. John sold a lot of his scrap metal, old bearings and parts of machinery for income. Millie managed her meds as best she could and took aspirin for a blood thinner. Her weight dropped off, and her already dark skin grew darker with the summer sun. It was a curious sun, bright but without a lot of warmth. She was used to the heat of West Virginia, and her native Greece. This sun was just not as warming as she remembered it.
Heinrich and the children had become part of the flow of the summer, and they all were living in the house. Soon the children were to start school, and they were excited. They picked up some English and Millie and John picked up some German.
They had a pleasant dinner of the last of the ground beef. Heinrich was astounded at the chest freezer in the back of the barn. It stayed a freezing temperature all year round it the large white box. Food could be kept there indefinitely it seemed, but it required the mysterious "electricity" to make it work. As near as Heinrich could tell, electricity was some sort of ether that was transferred through wires and suspended on poles. All very mysterious and metaphysical.
The town had helped the Trapaneses bring in the harvest, including their own garden. They spent hours putting up the vegetables in what mason jars and good lids they had available, and carefully storing the rest in the basement of the house. It would be cool and dry down there all winter long, a perfect root cellar. It had been after all, what it was designed for when the house was first built in the 1920's.
For John and Millie, their main concern was the winter. They had both spoken of it during the long quiet summer evenings, sitting on their porch. They knew that they could heat the house with the natural gas that was already provided to them from a nearby well. They wouldn't have to cut massive amounts of wood to heat the place.
Heinrich and John had shot and dressed several whitetail deer, along with two boars that had been foraging near the house one night. The boars made that mistake as John and Heinrich were on the front porch, watching the evening sky darken. The first time Heinrich had seen the shotgun fire was at one of the boars. He didn't like guns, he said. He had told John that they were cumbersome and slow. But this one was able to fire as soon as it came to bear on the animal. It dropped in its tracks. The second boar turned to charge at the porch, and Heinrich began to pull his blade from the scabbard. He stood between the old man and the charging animal. Behind him, he heard a metallic cycling sound and to his utter astonishment, the weapon fired again. The second boar dropped before it could make the first step of the porch. Heinrich turned to face John, and watched him smile as he cycled the mechanism through again, ejecting the spent shell to the floor of the porch to meet the first one.
"This thing will hold five, but I still haven't taken the old plug out that the fish and game people make you keep in them. I may need more than three shots in the future" said John, still smiling.
"F-F-Five?" gasped Heinrich, his ears ringing.
"Yup." John smiled with a face that was a crinkly bundle of mischievous lines. "Five."
Heinrich looked at the saber in his hand. He then looked back to John, and to the old shotgun in his hands. And then back to the saber. He sighed. "I have always preferred my saber to firearms. They always work, and are always at the ready. No matches or cumbersome locks." He held up the blade in the light of the mercury vapor barnyard lamp. "I am going to have to rethink the time that I have spent learning to be proficient with a blade."
The winter was a cold one. Cold to the bones. Especially, Millie thought, old bones from the south. The home was sheltered from the wind by the barn, tree line and the ridge, but it didn't stop the cold. The dryness was something that they were not used to. In the cold weather, the humidity was low, and that in turn made any moisture on the skin evaporate even faster. It made the cold colder. John compensated for it by putting a pot on the stove to simmer as much as possible. The temperature even dipped to zero and below for a time, and the incoming water pipe froze. After that, he kept it running with a small drip to keep it from freezing.
Heinrich found a job to help support the family, working in town. Briefly he worked for a man making something called microwave ovens, which didn't work out. But John had helped Heinrich find a job at a machine shop in town. He seemed to enjoy the work, and Millie was glad that it gave Heinrich and John something more in common. She watched as Heinrich learned of the many technologies and wonders the town of Grantville had. Curiously, she noticed, he avoided all churches.
The television had returned via a local cable channel brought back to life by students at the high school studio, and the old movies were fun. They passed the time watching the old films, playing records and cassettes, and just sitting, looking out the front window.
It was the night that they watched a film about the Alamo, and the brave stand of Americans against a massive army that seemed to be Spanish. John explained that it was Mexico, a land in North America. The heroes were brave, but they eventually were overwhelmed.
There was a deep quiet snow that night. As John slept that night, the quiet was broken by the noises of a child's nightmares. It woke Millie.
After tending to the child, Millie went into the kitchen for some water. Heinrich sat at the table in the darkness. She looked at him for a moment, and made a decision. She sat across from him. He avoided her eyes.
"You were a soldier, weren't you Heinrich?" It wasn't really a question.
He didn't speak for a long while. Millie waited. She was patient. He finally answered. "Yes, Millie, I was a soldier. Do you wonder why I disappear every time Father Mazzare comes to visit?"
"I think I might know why," she said quietly.
He looked at her and shook his head. "Nein. Not possible." He paused again. "My real name is Heinrich von Fremd. My father is of the nobility in Ferdinand's court. I was brought up as a Catholic, a follower of the true faith. My father raised me, along with my older brothers. I was the youngest son of four. My mother died in giving birth to me. I was going to go into the priesthood one day, and my studies were directed that way. Then the war. It was such a simple and noble thing. Defeat the armies of the heretics and save the souls of the people. It was so simple. There is one true faith," he said mockingly. "And I was a soldier of that faith." He snorted before continuing. "We were going to rid the world of the heretics, convince them of the error of their ways, defeat their armies, and bring them to the church for the glory of God and the Emperor. That is what my father had said, what the priests had said, what everyone had said. For the glory of God and the Emperor." He stopped and considered before continuing.
"You are Catholic. I've seen the crucifix and the bibles. I've seen the Father Mazzare come to visit and bring you comfort. But you tolerate the . . . others . . . the Protestants."
"It's our way," she said quietly. "We're sometimes taught tolerance. It doesn't always work, but we try. The church of my time is not the church of this time."
"To tolerate is not how I was taught." He turned to her. "I was with the army for only a short time. Because of my standing, I was made an officer, an aide to a general.
"The only things that mattered were killing, and keeping fed. It was like being a part of a horde of locusts, swept along and devouring everything in your path. That is how I saw myself. A giant locust. An insect. And I was one of them, swept along. So many bodies, so many burning homes, cottages. Why? Why do we do this? Why did I do this? Oh yes, I did these things. I had no idea that there could be that much evil in men. I was able to keep some control of myself, and some of the men, but after Magdeburg, after that, I was lost."
"What happened there?" she asked after a pause.
"They opened the gates for us. I had heard that they had paid a ransom. It was a Protestant town, and punishing them by taking their money to fund our army had a justice to it that was correct to me. Until the fires started. I do not know who, or when they started, but . . . I was assigned to a general under Tilly. The old man had tried to stop them, but they were out of control. They were killing, and raping, and burning and . . . and . . . Mein Gott . . ." He choked down a small sob as he lowered his head back again to the table. Millie reached out to brush his hair back. It reminded her of the same motion she used when her daughter was little and crying from some slight.
"I saw the parents of those children killed in front of their eyes. I saw the entrails of their parents smeared across the ground. They were wet with blood, and the burning buildings were reflected in the dirty gore. The middle one had a sister, maybe fifteen years old. She, I couldn't save."
Heinrich sat up, pleading. "I tried to stop it, I tried. Lieber Gott in Himmel, der er weiß, dass ich versucht habe." He gasped for air and began sobbing. "I killed. I killed those men, and tried to kill more. I killed a captain . . . what kind of a God does these things, Millie? What kind of a God allows such pain and agony in his name?" He sank down again.
"You have the children," said Millie. "You have lead them to safety. And you have helped us." The winter silence was long, and his quiet weeping slowed to a stop. Finally, she spoke. "I lived through a world war. It was devastating. Millions died in death camps, in combat, and of disease. You know Hamburg?" He nodded. "In Hamburg our aircraft killed forty thousand people in one night. The Germans did much the same and worse to the other side."
Heinrich was now looking at her. "God love him, I met John in that war, and I still have him. You are one man, Heinrich, one man who did what he could. This war has made you. Just like mine made me. For what it's worth, I think you are on the right track. Those kids need someone. They see you as a father."
She stood up slowly. "Thanks for coming onto my front porch, Heinrich von Fremd. I'm glad my goof ball husband didn't shoot you. Find what faith you have, young man. It's in there, hiding. Search for it. I know it's there. Mine was buried a long time ago, when I was very young, just a girl. It was the war. John rescued me. He is very gentle for all of his bluster and calluses. He found me and rescued me.
"Did you ever wonder why I asked you to stay with us that day when we first met?" she asked.
"You said you needed help with the farm?" He said very tentatively.
"No," said Millie. "It's something I saw in you. It reminded me of myself, many years ago. Until a dashing young American entered my life, I was you."
The heavy snow made some visits to town impossible. When it was cold the battery life was very low in the "town cart" as they named it. John had taken the West Virginia plate off the Buick and put it in the back of the cart in a moment of whimsy. Millie had been too weak to go out in the cart to town in January, so she stayed home.
The food was monotonous, but healthy enough. The diet helped Millie, but she continued to lose weight throughout the season. She grew weaker. By the time spring came, the medications were just about all gone, including some of the improvised herbs and medicines that Doc Adams had prepared for her. They were down to cutting pills into quarters.
As the days lengthened and the sun began to warm the earth, Millie felt better. The garden called to her from inside the house. It was a strong call for her, and one that kept her focused on spring. She wanted to plant. As soon as she was able, the garden would be revived. She would be revived with it.
She did as much of it as she could. John helped. But Heinrich and the children were the most help. Whenever Heinrich was not working, he was with Millie. Their late December night had created a special bond, and he took it upon himself to be her arms and legs, digging in the dirt as he had never done before. Millie could tell that he felt it satisfying, comforting to be in the garden. Millie sat next to him guiding his tasks. The initial plantings went well, and things were beginning to take shape. The spring and summer routine began to take over. Mornings in the garden, afternoon resting, enjoying the sun and the quiet.
John watched Millie closely as the summer began. He made a point of pulling Heinrich to the side to ask him something, away from Millie. They both disappeared into the back garden for the afternoon while Millie rested.
The next day, Millie went back to the garden in the morning, and saw what they had done. It was a beautiful spot, back near the fence, under the shade of an old tree. She immediately began to transplant some flowers, and arrange some plants in a new configuration that she knew would be pleasing, in time. That task, for which she refused all help, drained her. There was a week where she couldn't get out into the garden, she was too worn out.
The following week, however she rose, feeling some strength return. "I want to work in the garden," she declared. "It's a nice day by the looks of it so far." In the days before they would listen to the radio station and get the weather to plan their days. The small Japanese AM radio still sat at the end of the kitchen table, quiet. Next to it was the white basket. A nearly empty white basket. "Don't know how long I'll be able to do that."
"Do you need help with the cart?" John asked.
"No, I think I can make it to the side of the house." She smiled at him.
John nodded in the affirmative. They looked at each other across the table for a bit, and when the time seemed right, they both got up. The morning was glorious, birds were chirping, some of them she'd never heard before. There were sounds of the children running and screaming at each other from down the road. Bees had found the flowers in the front, she was glad of that. Sunny, beautiful. The smells of the damp earth and plants reminded her of her days on the family farm, and her mother, father, slew of brothers. They were all gone now, some to war, some to disease, some to accidents. It was a nice morning.
That day was the last for Millie in her garden. When she parked the cart on its little ramp at midday, she couldn't get up. They went back to full pills, and ran out of nearly all of them in a couple of days. Millie lapsed into a coma and died three days later. Quietly and peacefully in her own bed. John made her as comfortable as possible, and when the end came John held her hand, and it was calm and painless. She looked at peace, sharp shining dark eyes finally closed.
He cared for her as he remembered his mother caring for his father when he passed. It was when he was fourteen or fifteen, and his mother had cleared off the dining room table to wash his fathers' body. He had lost a lot of weight before he died, and John never forgot the emaciated body, pale and naked on the dining room table, his mother carefully washing it, and then wrapping it in a shroud. He did the same for Millie.
He had finished the pine coffin a day earlier. He had been working on it for a week prior. Heinrich, Maureen, the children and Father Mazzare helped to carry her out to the garden in the pine box. She'd planted the flowers around the grave, and had arranged the plants in a small circular pattern, with the grave in the middle. She'd even made some jokes about planting her own flowers over her grave. They had both laughed at the time. The flowers she'd planted were colorful and blooming. The spring was ending and summer arrived to this part of the world, in this strange time.
Summer still arrived.