Grantville Gazette, Volume 71

by Bjorn Hasseler

  He was not. She placed the ham and beans and bread on the ground next to the boots, placed the sketchbook and supplies on top of that and covered everything with the coat. She thought to search for him or call out but she did not. After a bit, she withdrew altogether.

  ****

  Van Meer was blessed with a memory that could fail, or perhaps he just refused to recall. So it was that the horrors of his own life were spared him. But things that tormented the souls and spirits of other people were his to see and remember. If every soul you see is a tortured soul are you not in hell? Van Meer had been in such a place, a private hell full of dented, twisted souls, a place that smelled of piss and shit and rotting, still-living bodies. He would draw them, had to draw them, and would always see them. The portraits he created then were nothing like the nature sketches, landscapes, and flower details in his Comfort. Instead of beautiful, soothing pictures the portraits were always true. Sometimes they upset people, made them angry and afraid. And frightened people are dangerous. He could not return to that past world, though his thoughts nagged. Hell needs angels, if any place does. Perhaps the shining woman would return with paper. He retreated into the woods where he waited and watched. She did return but not entirely alone. A man with a crossbow concealed himself nearby.

  Van Meer sat unnaturally still, still as a fawn by the meadow’s edge, still as a rabbit in the shadow of an owl. But his earlier exalted weightless state had extracted a penalty. Heavy lethargy threatened to overwhelm him. He could not succumb. He needed to trip the trap, steal the bait, and find a way to survive. He laughed gently at himself for being afraid of an arrow but his disappointment was profound. He'd been an angel already free of earthly constraints. He tried hard to remember how to fly.

  What does it take to lure an angel from heaven? Nothing more than a little hope. Ella had offered him food, and Van Meer found he desperately wanted to live. So he waited unmoving and invisible, starving, cold, and hidden. With his Comfort clutched tightly to his side he endured. Eventually Ella left, trailed by her bowman protector.

  Van Meer had to quiet his mind to know if anyone was near, to sense their presence as would a wild creature, though his mind was never completely quiet. Background noise pulsated like a crowd in the distance. Every now and again a voice would rise up, and be clearly heard like a gull's cry above the sound of the rushing tide; but not now. He let his senses roam.

  When the woods were empty he approached the little pile Ella left. He used his staff to lift the coat free and behold she had left succor and relief and passion. Virgin paper, untouched, a trove of them together in a book, and pens that were a wonder of clean efficient usefulness, that required no quill, no well, no ink cake, no crushed berries. Again he did not understand. This was more than bait. This was life. He put on the coat and enveloping warmth and separation from the elements occupied him for a time. He found again the hat, the socks, and the food. Bread, real bread, and beans congealed in fat. Cubes of meat. Ham. Tears wet his cheeks. God provides. Ella helps. He dug his fingers in and ate the beans slowly one at a time. He broke off little bits of bread and relished each crumb, eating only a little. He resisted exploring the rest of the objects as long as he could but as soon as his hands touched a pen his compulsion could no longer be held at bay. He licked his fingers clean, sat down with his back to a tree, rested the sketch pad on his knees and began. He forgot about food or comfort or danger. It was too dark to see when he stopped. His feet were warm, and he did not think that had happened in a while. He curled up in his new coat and when the damp of night descended, he was oblivious.

  ****

  Through a wet blanket morning of rising fog and frost on dying grass Ella returned. She’d had a bad night. Bleary-eyed, sore-headed, and stiff beyond belief she let her worry for Van Meer drive her through the damp to the fenceline. Relief and disappointment met her there. The supplies were gone. In their place she found a single piece of paper carefully removed from the sketch book and kept from any stray breeze by a clod of dirt. She picked the paper up and shook off dirt and frost. The ink on the paper was undamaged, a drawing of her; exact and precise and exquisitely rendered by a master hand. Her own image looked out at her and in the eyes she saw the hope of joy and the sorrow of loss. Her heart stumbled and fell and that old, old pain poured out to mingle with fresh injustice. It was some time before she could call herself whole again.

  Truly made whole, for she was baptized in the waters of catharsis. She stopped trying to betray her husband by letting his memory ebb and her sorrow ease. Instead she clutched the pain to her heart and embraced it as a treasure, the price paid for precious memories, for memories are all you ever make. John said that. She laughed, dried her eyes, and looked again at the paper. On the reverse side was another drawing. A mischievous imp peered out from a hidden place in the woods. He was holding a crossbow, and the likeness was absolutely spot on.

  Ella went home renewed. She placed the paper in a safe place with other things she loved and did not look at it again. She never mentioned it to Fritz. Despite her arthritic hips she took to walking in the woods in the morning. Sometimes she would leave things there.

  Chapter Two

  "Going back in time to change the past is a comic book concept." –John Roberts

  Fall granted summer a reprieve. A chill night yielded to a windless day and a warming sun. Butter yellow light gilded the trees, and deep purple shadows pooled beneath. An infinite blue sky graced the day like a benediction. Van Meer dug rocks from a shallow stream. He’d gleaned a meal from a nearby field and reasonably believed other creatures would do the same. A few deadfalls along the field's edge seemed a good idea.

  Eventually his pants got soaked, and he took them off to clean them of filth and grime. He spent a deal of time at this chore, long enough to lose himself thoroughly. Next he knew it was mid-afternoon, and he was following his nose, walking barefoot and bare-assed through the woods. The cuffs of his coat were wet, but at least he still had a coat. He took it off and tied it around his waist to warm his behind. He hoped his pants and boots were safe. He did carry the oilskin pouch holding his Comfort though he did not remember picking it up. It would help a lot, he thought, if God would inform me of His plans ahead of time. After a while he realized his nose was tracking the scent of hot sausage.

  He came through thick woods to a scrub-choked fenceline. Beyond, a manicured field of dying grass held a sparse scattering of people with numbers on their backs. Across the field tiered benches held a crowd. More people stood along the field's edge. A striped canvas pavilion shaded tables of food. The smell of sausage was intoxicating; he could almost see the breeze carry it to him. Van Meer stopped cold. So many. Even from across the field the energy of all those people shredded his nerves. But there was no denying. Whether he was driven by God or his stomach did not matter. Maybe there was no difference. Because he still had some dignity, he removed all his clothes. He carefully hid his coat and shirt and settled his pouch back over his shoulder. Naked as a day-old crow, he circled the field to get behind his quarry.

  Something happened on the field to arrest everyone's attention. The crowd roared. Van Meer recognized God's impeccable timing. He cleared his mind and with head up and shoulders back strolled across an open stretch of ground and in under the canopy where he found a long table holding an embarrassment of wealth: sausages and cornbread, corn on the cob, pickles, bread, biscuits, pretzel twists, and plates, cups, bottles, and pitchers of beer. A beer keg on a wooden rack stood by the table. Two people on Van Meer’s side of the table and five on the far all had their backs to him and their attention on the game. None turned his way. If he was not invisible he was at least unnoticed; that was often the same thing.

  He stepped up beside a large man with a white apron tied around waist and stopped nearly elbow to elbow, Van Meer's eyes level with his biceps. Just like everyone else the man’s attention was riveted on the game. Van Meer picked up four sausages, placed them in the half-filled pitcher
the man was distracted from filling, took it from beneath his hand, put a page from his Comfort down in payment, whispered "Thank you," up at his ear, and turned away feeling invisible to all the world. Behind him he heard a vacant voice say "Yeah, sure," and another roar went up from the crowd.

  Halfway back to his clothes and hidden by the trees when he began to think again Van Meer trembled. Later, he knew, he would mourn the loss of his sketch page. It was a sacrifice he had not wished to make. He had taken a damp freshly washed sock along hoping it would do but had not been given a choice. Really, a sock didn't feel right to him either. He had hoped.

  He was giddy with elation and beer when he made the far corner of the field and started along the back line to his coat and boots. There he stopped still as cold mutton. He remained unmoving for several minutes while the sweat on his back and thighs cooled in the light breeze. Three men crouched in the fence row and watched the field. Van Meer couldn’t see them but he knew they were there. Eventually one of them spoke softly and Van Meer backed up, planning to disappear altogether, but his compulsion stopped him. He took out pen and pad, moved up behind them and began to draw, sure and quick. He knew they would not look about.

  He finished with a final flourish, withdrew into the woods, and settled down on his back to study his drawing. He had not seen their faces but there was a familiar malevolence in their tense backs and hunched shoulders. A shudder of fear took Van Meer’s breath away. He knew these men, had seen them on the killing field where he’d lain like a corpse until they’d gone and the crows had gathered, brutal desperate men avoiding mortal fate by feeding Death the souls of innocents. They slipped away from the field back into the forest. One had a war axe on his belt. Van Meer sat up and sipped a little beer, trembling. It was a miracle they had not smelled the sausage. He stood up and brushed leaves and tiny sticks from his bare hide. That was when he saw the bowman climbing over the fence. He didn't have his crossbow. Van Meer could have wished otherwise.

  ****

  There had to be a dozen set of lips between Ella and the source of the story she had just heard. She hurried to the beer tent to see for herself. The 'tender, Sam, told her how the beer pitcher in his hand had turned into "this" and showed her the paper. "I swear. I was filling a pitcher just when Harry got caught between third and home and I heard the crowd and I turned to see and when I turned back to the keg I had this paper in my hand. I tried to fill it with beer. It was like magic and you know me, I don't believe in magic. But I had the pitcher and then I had this!" He was ready to say it all again. "Look! It's got scratchy little pictures all over it. Flowers and little birds and what is that? Is that ink or blood? Here, take it," he said, handing the ten-by-ten-inch piece of stiff paper to Ella. "Keep it. It's probably some kind of witchery if you ask me. Don't be surprised if it turns into a beer or something when the moon is full." It was half-soaked with beer now. Where it was wet the ink began to run.

  Ella recognized it right away from her earlier encounter with the broken man. She chided herself for referring to him in that manner even to herself. He's been damaged somehow. No need to insult him. She hurried back to Bru and Fritz muttering to herself and berating her hips for having the nerve to be anything other than healthy. Don't know why I was worried. He seems to be doing quite well for himself, as far as I can tell. He didn't steal that beer, either, he paid for it! But she was worried. Van Meer needed help, of that she was sure. She hurried on, wishing she'd brought her staff, or at least a cane. A cane! Oh Lord. "Fritz!" she called into the stands, "Could I bother you for a minute?"

  ****

  Fritz saw her coming. She was walking that "Could you do something for me" walk. Fritz had been acting as Ella's foreman for two years. That something had come up did not surprise him and he was proud to be her 'go to' man. He'd do anything for that old lady despite his irreverent attitude. Anyway, baseball was okay, but what he really enjoyed was mugging for the crowd. He’d become an unofficial team mascot. There was even talk of making him a costume. He walked down the benches to Ella. "No beer?" he signed.

  Ella gave him a half smile. "No. But I'll buy you a gallon if you do this right, and you can go off and get rip-roaring. Remember Van Meer, the starving man I was telling you about?" She had never shown Fritz the drawings she’d found. Van Meer had caught more than just Fritz's likeness. He had caught Fritz's personality and spirit, too. Ella did not know why she hid it away.

  "You mean the wild man you found?" Fritz signed, "I never saw him. But I'll probably recognize him. He'll be wearing my coat!" He rolled his eyes in exaggeration. Signing involved a lot of exaggeration and pantomime, which seemed to suit Fritz just fine. He didn't miss his tongue. Much.

  "Apparently he walked into the beer tent from the back, purchased a beer, and left the same way." Ella waved the paper about. "He paid with this!"

  "Was he wearing my coat?" Fritz was relentless in pursuit of a laugh.

  "Nobody even saw him. Fritz, do you think you can find him? He needs help. He may be autistic. He probably doesn't have a place to stay, and it's going to be a hard winter."

  "Find him? How? Which way do they think he went? Are you sure he needs help? At least he's got beer!" Ella slapped his shoulder, smiling through her concern.

  Fritz figured downwind was the most likely place to start looking, opposite from where Van Meer had entered the scene. At least that's what he would do, and directly across the field was the quickest way to get there. He waited only a few minutes and crossed the playing field during the seventh inning stretch. As he climbed over the far fence and pushed through the overgrowth he didn't think his chances were good, but he spotted Ella’s broken man only moments later.

  No wonder she was worried. Van Meer was naked, incredibly hairy and the skinniest man Fritz had ever seen. A pouch on a strap across his chest hid nothing. He clutched a pen in one hand. If a sparrow, an underfed baby of a sparrow should happen to blunder into him it would likely knock him down. Fritz looked at him and grinned. Where the hell is my coat?

  Van Meer’s eyes went wide. He looked abruptly away and did not look up again but stretched out an arm to give Fritz a sheet of paper. As Fritz moved to take the offered paper he heard Van Meer whisper, "You are the Bright Lady's man." Fritz made an inarticulate grunt. If the man wouldn't look at him, he couldn’t even nod his head. How do I get into these messes?

  The paper held an astonishingly detailed drawing of three men in hiding watching the baseball game. Fritz recognized the players on the field. The three foreground figures crouching along the fence exuded menace even though he could only see their backs. Fritz was suddenly very nervous. His hand went to the knife at his waist too late. Cold steel shifted and glinted in the dappled light and three men with wicked bright blades closed on them. To try escaping through the choked fence row meant sure death. Shouting would be pointless. They were trapped. Fritz backed between two small tree trunks for their meager protection. Ella, he thought inanely, isn't going to like this.

  The bandits surrounded them. The one nearest Van Meer lowered his sword, laughing. "What’s this? Where are your clothes, hairy man? Were you expecting someone?" He reached out with his free hand to grab Van Meer by the elbow, expecting no resistance. To expect resistance from such obvious frailness was to expect danger from a celery stalk. The man couldn't even look at him.

  It was a stupid mistake. The moment the swordsman touched him Van Meer shrieked and turned, swinging his fist in a wide arc. He drove his pen deep into the bandit’s right eye. The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees screaming, groping at his face. Van Meer scrunched his eyes closed and put his hands over his ears.

  When Fritz’s opponent turned his head in reaction to the shrieks, Fritz took a short step and kicked forward in precisely the way his instructor had made him practice the past eighteen months. He crushed the bandit’s testicles and broke his jaw with a second savage kick as he went down.

  It was now two against one, a fact the lone standing man see
med to understand. He turned and ran but didn't make thirty feet before Fritz caught up with him. He turned at the last second and took Fritz's knife low in his ribs. He swung his sword about in a high sweep and Fritz's left arm, ignoring anything sensible Fritz might have suggested, came up and forearmed the flat of the sword. In a killing rage Fritz plunged his knife in again and again and did not stop until the body fell.

  His arm felt as if someone had walloped him with a bat and followed up with a white-hot poker. A flap of skin and muscle made his hands tremble when he pressed it back into place. He threw up, waited till his shakes diminished, picked up the dead man's sword and retraced his steps, panting with adrenaline and fear. This was his need, his desperate fantasy, his anger unleashed. How many times had he wished he could go back and change things? If only he had kept his big mouth shut. If only he had run away. If only his brother Michael had not come to his rescue. Fritz would still have a tongue and Michael would still be alive. These were not the same men but the same kind of men, and Fritz in his murderous frenzy just did not give a damn. He killed the man with the broken jaw without remorse. The other swordsman was curled up, already dead. Van Meer’s pen must have penetrated through the eyeball into the brain. Fritz wondered if Van Meer knew. He had completely disappeared, which given the circumstances seemed entirely reasonable. What's he done with my coat? Missus is going to be pissed.

  He gathered up the weapons and the blood-spattered drawing and returned to the baseball field carrying the swords of his foes. In hindsight, he should have gone around. He pushed through the fence scrub and climbed back over the fence, throwing the blades over ahead of him along with an axe. The clash of metal on metal drew the attention of the middle fielder, who was nearly brained by a long fly ball.