Grantville Gazette Volume 93

by Bjorn Hasseler

  "I didn't ask, dearie," she said brightly. "You're holding that glass like you expect to see salvation at the bottom."

  ~What interest is it of yours?

  "Nothing. I'm something of an amateur 'social worker.' " She used two fingers of each hand, crooked, wiggling them with the two words.

  Nicholas raised an eyebrow, unsure what she meant.

  "I'm a whore." She chuckled. “My name is Lillian.”

  ~I thought prostitutes were frowned upon in Grantville?

  The whore laughed, her voice tinkling through the octaves.

  "Oh, they are, but I don't make a big deal, and they don't ask questions." She shrugged. "The Americans here don't really care about what happens between two adults. If money changes hands, it's their business."

  ~I'm married. Nicholas wrote.

  "Well, at least you didn't denounce me as a Jezebel," Lillian said. "Tell you what, I could use a break tonight. You pay my fee, and we can sit and let you talk."

  ~I don't understand.

  "It's easy to lay with a man, camp whores do it all the time. But a successful courtesan will nurture a loyal client base. To do that, you have to be more than a quick romp in the sheets. You do that by spending time, either before or after, actually listening. Sometimes, you offer some advice, but men just like to vent their frustration or worries. Sex may release the body, talk releases the spirit."

  A barmaid brought another glass and a fresh pitcher of beer. She gave the courtesan something of a knowing smile and moved to the other tables. Lillian took a drink and set her glass down.

  “I’m kidding,” she smiled. “About the price. Reverend Green asked me to talk to you about election from my perspective.”

  ~ I don’t understand.

  "Don't look so surprised," she said. "He is a sharp man. He thought a different perspective would shake you out of your moodiness.

  "I believe he said, 'Sometimes you need a train to drive something through a Puritan's head, especially when it comes to morality. Girl, you are about the best train that I can think of.'

  "I don't know how much I enjoy being called a 'train,' but the point's the same. You need some perspective on this. Perhaps hearing a similar message from a different perspective might help."

  Nicholas grabbed his ale and tried to take a quick swallow. He forgot his throat muscles weren't up to the task that they used to be, and he found himself choking as ale started leaking into the wrong pipe.

  "There, there." She gave his back a few solid whacks to help clear out the alcohol. “Surprised that I go to church?" she asked.

  Nicholas could only nod.

  "You should see how religious a whore gets when she thinks she's pregnant." Again, that tinkling laugh. "Reverend Green and the rest of the congregation naturally don't approve of my lifestyle. They accept that is who I am, and my soul is mine to explain to God. They certainly try to change me, but I'd be disappointed if they didn't. It means they care."

  ~I apologize for my rudeness

  Her hand waved the apology away. "No reason to be sorry. I know the stigma that goes along with my line of work. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

  He paused for a few moments, gathering his thoughts.

  ~When I left my home, I was concerned that France was now in control of my home and my people.

  ~I needed to know what His plan was and where we fit into it.

  "And you've found that the world isn't as simple as that."

  Nicholas nodded.

  "What did you expect to find?"

  ~I don't know what I expected.

  "As the up-timers love to say, that's bullshit," she said. "You were hoping to find out that you were right about something. I'd guess that you were hoping for something that would prove you were still English, Nicholas."

  Nicholas paused with his chalk hovering above his slate. Was she right? When looked at in the way she described it, Nicholas could see the logic. There was a reluctance to change in all things. He hadn't thought his connection to England that strong. The Puritans had been persecuted enough to migrate to the New World. When King Charles sold New England to the French, that should have killed any remaining loyalty that Nicholas' heart might have harbored. Strangely, it hadn't. Nicholas and those he knew were still English. It was their identity.

  “What you found instead,” Lillian said, “was that the world is far bigger and more complex than you thought it was. That faith isn’t quite the guiding light you hoped it to be.”

  ~ Yes, if faith can be used as a weapon, can it be good?

  “Absolutely.” Lillian’s voice was adamant. “There’s faith and then there’s bigotry. One gains its surety from understanding that you have no control. The other gains its surety from being convinced that you ARE in control.

  “Sit back and let me tell you of myself. Perhaps that will help with what I’m saying and the point that Reverend Green is trying to make.

  “I’m from France, just outside of Paris. I grew up in an impoverished home and was left to my own because there were far too many other mouths to feed. Once I became old enough, my mother packed me one last meal and she and my father sent me on my way.

  Even in my maidenhood, I was attractive to the gentlemen I encountered. I moved to Paris and was able to set up as a courtesan on my looks alone.” She looked down at her hands. “In many ways, I was very lucky. Most women in my place would have resorted to being camp whores or plain city prostitutes. I was able to convince a madame of a higher class brothel to take me in and show me the trade.

  “This was all before the Ring of Fire brought these Americans here.” She waved a shapely hand around the room. “I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy my life. I did. I was well treated, and the men I entertained were lavish in their appreciation. It was a good life. If it weren’t for a particularly jealous wife, I would still be in Paris, entertaining men.

  “But, the Lord had other plans for me, it appears. I fled Paris and heard about this Grantville that had arrived not too long before. I decided that the Germanies were a good place to hide for a while until the trouble in Paris had died down.

  “But, I grew to love this town and all of its quirky freedoms.” She smiled. “While they are rather prudish about sex, they are even more loath to delve into another’s personal life unless they are invited in. As I said earlier, I’m pretty sure they know my trade. But, as long as I keep it quiet, they won’t take notice.

  “About a year after I arrived, I was passing by the Mountain Top Baptist Bible Institute when something tugged at my soul. I can’t explain it any more clearly than that. I had this sudden and overwhelming urge to enter the building. It was a Sunday morning, and Brother Green was preaching. I decided then and there that I needed to change where I was going

  “I’m not ashamed of what my profession is, but it’s the only one I know. I can’t continue the path, and I plan on becoming an actual social worker, helping other prostitutes leave and establish themselves outside of the bedroom

  “The church has offered to support me so that I can give up whoring immediately.” Lillian chuckled. “But I’m too stubborn and prideful. I refuse to rely upon the charity of others. Once I finish my studies, I’ll stop whoring.

  “But, there is a less religious side of what I want to do,” Lillian said. “I want to prove to those ladies that they are worth far more than a bed and a quickie. Grantville has shown me this. How can I do any less than by showing other whores that they have options?

  “But, the point is, I don’t know if I’m one of the elect,” Lillian said. “I may be, and I hope that I am. But, I have a lot of sin riding around me.

  “But, I could also be a tool.” She sat forward, both hands on the table. “I could be one of the ways that one of the elect use to get their lives straightened out. It could be both. I don’t know. But I have a duty to myself, to the other whores, and to God Himself to try. It’s really as simple as that, love.”

  Something popped inside of Nicholas. His
world righted itself. It made sense now. Not just his questions, but what path he should take. Lillian was right. It wasn’t completely about his own soul. Sure, he was responsible for it, but his actions and his faith affected those around him. He didn’t exist independently of others. His job in this world was to create an environment that helped others come to God.

  For the first time in far too long, Nicholas felt his foundation solidify beneath him. If it tilted a little, who cared? He was finally at peace with himself and the Lord.

  ****

  Bobby sat in his favorite chair and picked a random magazine off the pile. It was amazing how many magazines that Kraut was able to find when he cleaned up this house. He hadn't read any of them. The only reason he ordered them was because he was hoping for the million-dollar prize. That hadn't happened, and he had just thrown the magazines into a corner and forgotten them.

  There was a knock on the front door and Bobby glanced up as Kraut walked to the door to see who was there. It had been an adjustment, having Ziegler around. The house had never been more clean, true, but the man nagged. True, it was generally good advice, but damn it, Bobby had spent four decades doing as he pleased, and it was difficult to return to being directed.

  Ziegler opened the door and spoke with the person outside, a man from the sound of the voice. After a short discussion, Kraut stood aside and waved the man in.

  "This is Baird Culloden, Milord." Ziegler introduced the Scotsman. "He says that he has an opportunity for you if you wish."

  "Stop calling me milord." Bobby ground out, but his heart wasn't in it.

  "Of course, Milord." Ziegler gave a small bow. It was a constant struggle with the man. He seemed hellbent on giving Bobby airs that Bobby didn't want. When he was told to stop it, Ziegler simply ignored it and did what he thought was in Bobby's best interests. He acted as though he was Bobby's valet, though Bobby denied needing, or wanting, one. It was a wonder to Bobby why he didn't kick the Kraut out. But, the house had never been cleaner, nor the meals quite as good, so there was something to their relationship.

  He waved the Scotsman to the couch beside him and dropped the magazine on the table.

  "What do you want?" Bobby asked with his usual bluntness. Ziegler grimaced but said nothing.

  "A pleasure to meet you as well" The Scot grinned. "I've come to introduce myself to you and your Kraut friend here."

  Bobby immediately bristled and felt his face begin to flush in anger. His fists clenched, and he started to rise to his feet. Ziegler was a friend, no matter how annoying, and nobody, nobody was going to talk to Ziegler like that.

  "Easy, friend." After a moment, the Scot held up a placating hand. "I wanted to see something."

  "See what?" Bobby grated, his temper barely leashed.

  "If you were the racist everybody says you are."

  That broke it. This Scottish bastard had taken a swipe at him personally, not only at a friend, but at Bobby himself. Racist indeed! He lunged at Baird.

  Bobby was never a fighter. He far preferred to leave everybody alone and to be left alone. He walked away from fights when he could. But the two fights that he couldn't, Bobby had won because he became the meanest, dirtiest, mindless mass of swinging fists, kicking feet, and gnashing teeth. There was no skill in Bobby's fighting style, just mindless fury and a desire to put his opponent down as quickly as he could. His father had told him that if it came to fighting, fight like you were the third monkey at Noah’s Ark. And it was starting to rain.

  That didn't help Bobby here. The Scotsman merely leaned sharply to the side, waited until Bobby had lunged almost past him, then grabbed his rear belt loops and yanked. Bobby's momentum was magnified by that pull, and he went over the back of the couch and sprawled on the floor. The Scotsman merely stood up and turned around to watch while the middle-aged sack of up-time rage got himself sorted out.

  A part of Bobby's mind tried to scream caution through the red haze, but he was in no mood to listen. The sound of his thundering pulse in his ears drowned out the pleading of the inner voice. Bobby rolled to one side and stood quickly. His feet weren't quite ready beneath him which meant that the following lunge was off-balance and, once again, the Scotsman simply avoided Bobby. This time, however, Bobby felt the man's arm clamp around his neck in a chokehold.

  "Calm yourself, Mr. Jones," Baird crooned quietly into his ears. "We're going to finish this one of two ways. You can either tap out and we handle this like gentlemen or I can wait until you pass out and drag your sleeping ass to your chair and tie you up. It's your choice."

  Imminent asphyxiation, combined with more than a little chagrin, was far more effective at clearing the rage in Bobby's mind. He quickly tapped Baird on the forearm three times in quick succession and gasped air when the grip was released. He groaned a little as abused knees and back protested his attempts to stand up straight. Baird, for his part, didn't seem winded, as though he had just calmly walked across the living room, not wrestled with Bobby.

  "Gotta get more exercise," Bobby groused to himself. He made his way to his chair and flopped into it. He glared at the Scotsman, but Baird only returned a lazy, almost challenging, grin. It was a grin that said, 'I can do this all day.'

  "My apologies, Mr. Jones. I needed to know if the gossip was true," Baird said.

  "Call me Bobby," he said. "I get enough 'mister' and 'milord' from this skinny bastard here."

  Ziegler only grinned as he handed Bobby a beer and then one to Baird before taking his own seat and beer.

  For his part, Baird couldn't resist a grin. He could sense the bond between the unlikely pair. It was a bond that let either insult the other without offense, much like the bond that he and Nicholas shared, if not so crude.

  "Very well, Bobby," Baird said and took a deep drink. "I have a need for somebody of your skills, and I won't take somebody who can't abide with others of his own race."

  Bobby choked as beer shot from his nose across the table. Even Ziegler seemed a bit amused.

  "HA!" Bobby said while wiping his face. "My skills!"

  "Yes, your skills," Baird said calmly. "We are looking at starting something new and an up-timer would be valuable. Especially a handyman, such as yourself."

  "Who's 'we'?"

  "Myself, some of my kin, and a group of Puritans who are trying to find a new place."

  "Puritans . . ." Bobby racked his brains. It was familiar to him, but he wasn't making the connection. "Puritans . . . You mean Pilgrims?"

  Baird shook his head. "No, the Puritans aren't Pilgrims. They live in the same area of New England, but they aren't the same."

  "New England?! And why are they trying to find a new place? Isn't the one they have now just fine?"

  Baird sighed inwardly. Apparently, Bobby didn't keep track of the news. Either that or he did keep track but hadn't quite made the connection.

  "It's not New England anymore, Bobby. France bought them out from Charles in England and the Puritans aren't too keen on being French."

  “So, they are going back to where they came from?" Bobby asked.

  "No, England won't take them back. We're going to have to go help them find a place in the New World."

  “NEW WORLD!?" Bobby started out of his seat, his heart pounding. Not out of excitement, but from the wild, crazy, stupid, and reckless idea of leaving everything he knew and was able to hold on to so that he could brave a raving wilderness like North America. The fear that raced through him dwarfed anything caused by the Ring of Fire.

  "No," he said when he was able to control himself.

  "Pardon?" Baird asked.

  "I said no." Bobby's mouth took a hard, stubborn line. "I ain't got no business going into that land of savages. I prefer to keep my scalp on my head, thank you very much."

  "You have nothing tying yourself here, Bobby."

  "That's not the point," Bobby said. How to explain it to this Scotsman and not sound like a sniveling child. "It's not going to happen."

  "I see," Baird sa
id. "We'll be here for another few days if you change your mind." Baird stood to leave.

  "Don't hold your breath." Bobby chuckled and pointed to the cover of the magazine he had dropped on the table. "That man will be President before I'll go with you."

  ****

  Nicholas looked up from his notes as Baird nudged him in the side. With his chin, Baird pointed to a man approaching the table they were sitting at.

  This must be Mathew Woodruff. Nicholas thought to himself. Aside from the thick satchel draped over his shoulder, the man carried himself with a confident fatalism that only a Puritan could pull off with such élan.

  The man Woodruff caught sight of Nicholas and paused as though unsure what his next move should be. By now, Nicholas was used to the instinctive repugnant reaction his scarred face elicited. It was truly horrific. Alafair's cream was improving it, but Nicholas' mouth was still a mass of bright pink lines and gnarled scars that would never heal.

  What was missing was the sympathy that normally followed in others. Nicholas could see none of that in Woodruff. Instead, he saw the expectation of any Puritan to accept what had been given him and thank God you were still alive. As he had learned an up-timer put it, 'You ain't dead. Rub some dirt in it and get up."

  Woodruff's hesitation was shorter than most, hardly a heartbeat between eye contact and resuming his approach. If Nicholas hadn't been expecting it, he would have missed it.

  "Mr. Knapp, I assume?" Woodruff said.

  ~Yes, and you must be Mr. Mathew Woodruff.

  "Aye, Sir." Woodruff bowed slightly at the waist, little more than a bob, before pulling out a chair across the table from Nicholas and sitting.

  "I have to say," he continued, "that your father was most kind to allow me to stay over at your house on my way to Grantville."

  Nicholas blinked. That was . . . convenient. One of life's little ways of reminding you just how closely your world touched others.

  ~ I'm glad to hear of it. How is he?

  "Well enough considering his illness," Woodruff said. "He speaks warmly of you and is quite proud that you made the journey he could not make."