Terovolas

by Edward M. Erdelac

  There was a plaque bearing Quincey’s name on the stock of the rifle, and faded etchings mentioning a shooting contest with the year 1883. Coleman’s eyes passed with disinterest over this, the pistol, and the knife. He paused briefly when I handed him the parcel. He seemed to weigh it with his hands, and I half expected him to fix me with a wary look and demand to know if Quincey was ‘all there.’

  But when his gaze fell upon the watch, he set aside Quincey with little fanfare and scooped it into his hands eagerly, turning it over with a look of disbelief.

  “I thought this was lost,” he explained, catching my eyes and looking abashed at his display. “It was Daddy’s. He carried it through the War.”

  He opened it, and inside, to my heartache, was a picture of the departed Miss Lucy Westenra.

  “Who’s this?” he asked. “Quincey’s sweetheart?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Though he did love her.”

  “Somebody else’s wife, then?” Coleman remarked astutely.

  “Yes.” Lord Godalming’s, I wanted to say. For all of a day, before she was visited by the vampire in her bed and then...but I did not want to dwell on what we had done to her after that.

  “That’s like Quincey, alright,” Coleman went on, not noticing my distraction. “Never let a little thing like a wedding band stand between him and what he wanted.”

  “You are wrong in this instance,” I said, feeling a twinge of irritation. Although he may well have run from his responsibilities, he was no Lothario. I would not sit by and hear him so named. “Quincey loved this woman, yes. But her husband was his dearest friend, and he did not dishonor himself or her.”

  “That’s a switch.” He snapped the watch shut and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

  “Many things happened in the time between when he left this place and when I came to know him,” I said. “Perhaps he was not the same man. By what you say, he was a rogue – shiftless and reprehensible. And yet the Quincey I knew was a gentleman of grace and infallible loyalty. He was as true a soul to his friends as any I have ever encountered.”

  “Never said he wasn’t loyal to his friends,” Coleman said. “It’s his family he walked out on. Right when he was needed the most. Quincey always took the good of the world and left the rest for the rest of us. He was a fella liked to live it high on the hog. A lot of folks around here loved him for that. But the view of the man’s different when you’re the hog.”

  A thought occurred to me, then.

  “Perhaps,” I ventured, “he did not think he was needed. Perhaps he believed that you were more deserving of your father’s estate than he was. You do seem to have gotten along fine without him...” I stopped myself, and saw him staring at me intently.

  “But, it is only a theory,” I said awkwardly.

  Coleman shook his head, blinking as though to rid himself of some spell. He made an excuse about having to rise early to inspect his cattle. Then he went upstairs to bed.

  The candle in my room is sputtering now, and the sky outside my window is turning blue. I have not slept, for fear of what awaits me behind my eyelids. I have turned again to Baring-Gould , in spite of my apprehension.

  I thought of Mr. Coleman’s simple statement as to the motive behind Harley Crenshaw’s murders. ‘Why would they do anything?’ Mr. Coleman said. In that, does he mean to say that there is no reason for murder?

  Baring-Gould writes of the seven accounts that drive a wolf to devour a man or a child. The first is Hunger; that is, necessity. The second is Savageness.

  ‘Because they are savage,’ he writes. ‘And that is proper.’

  The third, Age. Either they have young needing to be fed (for when the wolves have young, they are more savage than when they have not), or else they are old and feeble, and can no longer pursue the stag, and thus prey upon men and children, who are easier to catch and mash with their brittle teeth.

  The fourth account is Experience. When a wolf tastes human flesh, it will settle for no other. The fifth is ignorance born of Madness, says the Reverend.

  ‘A mad dog will bite its master, not recognizing him – and what is a wolf but a wild, mad dog that knows nothing of sanity and tameness?’

  With the sixth comes the influence of the Devil, who it is said transforms himself into the shape of the wolf and makes himself a scourge of man. And the seventh?

  The seventh is the ordinance of God, who sends the wolves as punishment on the sinful and the infidel.

  1. Esuriem - Hunger.

  2. Rabiem - Savageness.

  3. Senectutem - Old Age.

  4. Experientiam - Experience.

  5. Insanieum - Madness.

  6. Diabolum - The Devil.

  7. Deum - God.

  I wonder how true these accounts ring when applied to man. Which account is to blame for my own murderous impulses, and Crenshaw’s...or whomever perpetrated the murders of Sheriff Turlough and Early Searls? It is very late. Or rather early. I will think no more on these things.

  CHAPTER 7

  Letter from Mr. Ivar Vulmere to Mr. Coleman Morris

  dated August 24th, 1891.

  Mr. C. Morris,

  It is with cordiality that you are invited to attend a reception at the ranch of Mr. Sigmund S. Skoll, Callahan County, Texas, this Saturday, 26th of August, to celebrate the occasion of his matrimony to Madame Callisto Terovolas. Please extend the welcome of Mr. Skoll towards those of your men who would be of a mind to accompany you.

  With Deference,

  I. Vulmere

  R.S.V.P.

  * * *

  Skoll to Celebrate Nuptials – by A.N. Crooker (Sorefoot Picayune, August 24th, 1891 Edition)

  Local rancher and hero Sigmund Skoll has married.

  Sources advise that the new Mrs. Skoll arrived in Dension from St. Louis four days ago and proceeded unannounced to the Skoll Ranch. The ceremony was held in private on their property on the 21st. Details on who the officiator was, are unknown at this time. This reporter had the opportunity to interview Mr. Skoll on the occasion of his latest foray into Sorefoot for supplies (his last was interrupted yesterday by the pursuit of a certain notorious murderer whose name is not worth mentioning here), and he spoke about his new bride, his career thus far, and the trials and tribulations of being the only Nordic landowner of note in this county.

  Skoll is of old Norse stock. His family has long been in the import shipping business overseas. When asked what decided him on trying his hand at Texas cattle, he replied that he had been keen to see the American West after having sat in at a Wild West show while on a trip with his father to London as a boy. He learned of the auctioning of the Judson spread after having spent a great deal of time observing the market from Austin, where he has lived for the past year, awaiting just such a chance to put both feet into a stock raising venture.

  The gentlemen who work for Mr. Skoll are all of Scandinavian origin, and not exclusively Norwegian as has been erroneously assumed by most of the community. Many of them are the children of the same men who worked for years for his father’s company, the Stavanger Shipping Corporation. The Scandinavians are a very familial group, and thus, says Skoll, their working relationship is both affable and productive, being that even the least among them sees himself as working towards the betterment of the collective and thus the improvement of his own standing as well.

  But, he wishes to assure the readers of this paper and his neighbors, he is not running any sort of crackpot utopian cult. If they seem secretive, he believes it is the barrier of language which walls them in and he assures that if there have been confrontations in the past, they have almost always stemmed from these Babellian misunderstandings.

  The strained relations between his men and his neighbors is a condition which Mr. Skoll hopes to change this Saturday with a fandango at his ranch, to which all citizens of Sorefoot and the folks of the surrounding ranches and farms are invited to attend.

  Of Mr. Skoll’s new bride, the fresh-faced groom spoke with
passionate eloquence and love-born regard. He describes her as a Greek woman of surpassing beauty and grace, whom he met and courted during his initial tour of the American continent, she being the daughter of an olive oil merchant. He says she is an educated woman of culture and refinement, whose wit is the match of any man’s. She is also of the most industrious sort, and besides purging the main house of dust and grime (all the product of his own masculine disregard for domestic chores, he freely admits), she has approached him with the idea of teaching his men how to speak English. Now if only Mrs. Skoll would hold classes for some of the less articulate of this community!

  The celebration is scheduled to begin at twelve noon this Saturday the 26th, rain or shine. The editor of this paper wholeheartedly encourages our loyal readership to attend and judge for themselves the inborn cordiality of Mr. Skoll as this writer has come to know it.

  * * *

  From the Journal of Professor Van Helsing

  24th August

  Today I was awakened not by the shining sun, but by Pepperbelly, who told me in broken English there was un hombre alto, ‘a tall man,’ at the door asking for either Mr. Coleman or myself. Coleman had arisen before dawn and rode out with his employees ostensibly to survey the lands and round up stock. Really he has set about the task of finding among his men a new foreman to replace his friend Mr. Searls.

  I rose quickly and came downstairs. There was an immense man waiting in the foyer, whom I knew by his fair hair and grim countenance could only be one of the Scandinavians in the employ of Mr. Skoll. The tall man introduced himself tersely in a thick accent as Hrolf, and thrust a pair of sealed envelopes into my hands. One was addressed to Mr. Coleman, and the other to myself.

  It was an invitation to the Skoll ranch this Saturday. Apparently a party is to be held commemorating the wedding of Skoll to Mdme. Terovolas. The invitation was written in the broad masculine hand of Ivar Vulmere, the attorney whose off-color comment and subsequent broken nose placed Early Searls in the last jail cell he would ever inhabit. Beneath, in a small feminine hand, I found this inscription in Greek:

  Do say you will attend. I should like to have someone to talk to—C.

  I blushed as I read this, for I had no doubt it was written personally by Mdme. Terovolas. Had she written this independently, or had Vulmere seen? The man Hrolf stood before me, eyes dull and expressionless like a great ox waiting to bear back my reply. I procured a stub of a pencil and a sheet of paper from Mr. Coleman’s writing desk and scrawled a reply saying that I would be present at the party. I hesitated, then added that although Mr. Coleman was unable to reply as of yet, I was certain he would accompany me. I folded the note and handed it to the giant, nonchalantly slipping the invitation into my shirt pocket.

  Hrolf seemed to take neither notice nor care. He bobbed his chin and was out the door and rumbling down the road in a surrey without further pause.

  Like a boy, I have read and reread the letter with its personal note. What a fool I am! I am wondering what I should wear already. Perhaps a trip to town is warranted. I have asked Pepperbelly if he will take me, and he has agreed, providing I lend him drinking money. I intend to be back before nightfall, hopefully in time to meet with Mr. Coleman and discuss the matter of the party with him.

  * * *

  Aurelius Firebaugh’s Journal

  August 24th

  Horses were spooky last night. Think that damned lion has found his way over. Found tracks over by the creek, north of where Cole said he and Early looked. Damn thing has found its way up to my place. Probably down in Misstep. Tracks funny. Big. Not like a cat’s. Claws are on the outside. Pads...all wrong. Might ride over to Buckner’s and see what’s what, if he has heard or seen anything. Haven’t seen him or that Picker around.

  Came back from the creek, found invitation to Skoll’s fandango. That’ll be the day. Colt is coming. Maybe today or tonight - will have to sit with that mare and see. Head to Buckner’s tomorrow or Saturday.

  * * *

  From the Pen of Alvin Crooker

  24th Aug

  Van Helsing’s acting strange.

  Saw him at the dry goods store fishing for a clean white shirt of all things. It seems he was personally invited to Skoll’s on Saturday, though the two of them have never met, so far as I know. Come to find out there is more to the Professor than it seems.

  I bought the man breakfast at Gridley’s and wrung out of him that he met the new Mrs. Skoll on the train from St. Louis and apparently hit it off fairly well.

  But I said:

  “How could you have met her on the train? Skoll told me she arrived four days ago, and you only got here three days ago.”

  Van Helsing only shrugged and offered, “Perhaps the excitement of the past few days has made him muddled. A man does not often go from the town pariah to its most respected citizen in so short a time.”

  But can a man get the date of his own wedding wrong before the first year is up?

  Van Helsing had the gall to chide me on the editorials I’d been writing about Mr. Skoll. Do they really read so worshipful? Shetland and Doc Ravell both took me to town on it as well on separate occasions. I just think that after all the man has done for this town in ridding it of that murdering son of a bitch Crenshaw, we could all stand to blow a little smoke up his ass.

  Partially to change the subject, I asked the Professor how things were progressing with Coleman, and if he had told him all that had happened to Quincey yet. I have had to hold off on his obituary until I can learn the right date and circumstances.

  “No,” he said, around his red steak, “but I shall not leave Sorefoot until I have.”

  Thinking I could weasel the news out of him, I remarked that Quincey must have made quite an end to impress upon him such a sense of loyalty.

  But that slick old badger just smiled at me faintly and said;

  “Your obituary will have to wait, my friend. But I promise you, it will be a worthy story indeed, if you have courage enough to print it.”

  All through breakfast he kept putting his hand in his coat pocket…

  * * *

  From the Journal of Professor Van Helsing

  24th August (Later)

  Never again will I allow Pepperbelly to so take advantage of me. After my meal with Alvin, the Spaniard was nowhere to be found. I at last discovered him at the edge of town where he was passed out in a house of ill repute, fleeced of the sum I lent him for drink. I had to bodily carry the man back to the wagon and drive back to the ranch myself. He is most intemperate, and I had to stop the journey home twice to allow for his sickness.

  Of course when we reached the ranch, Mr. Coleman had already retired early. I do not know if he saw his invitation or not. It is gone from the bureau. Some of his men were still awake and speaking in front of the row of quarters (called the ‘bunkhouse’) to the side of the main house, where they sleep. I decided to visit with them.

  The ‘top hand,’ or, the most able bodied man, is a handsome young fellow called Ranny Brogan, not more than nineteen years old. He has a pleasant manner, and there is a competent ease about him which the other cattlemen seem to respect. Some of the older men knew who I was by word of mouth, and had known Quincey. They tried to encourage me to speak of his end, but again I demurred.

  I asked them if they had heard about the party being given by Mr. Skoll on Saturday. I had brought the daily edition of the Picyaune, and showed them the article Alvin had written about it.

  Several of them were noticeably agitated, and I pressed them to learn the source of their ill feeling towards Skoll and his men. They repeated what I had heard from Alvin, that there had been a good many altercations over their constant trespasses and other minor violations of range etiquette. There is a general distrust of the ‘Norgies’ by the Texans.

  Ranny at least was reasonable, and suggested that perhaps in inviting everyone to meet his bride, Skoll was in effect promoting better relations. To support him, I mentioned Skoll’s own theory
that a good deal of their troubles stemmed from their inability to communicate. With Ranny’s help, I managed to convince some of the men to attend, if Coleman would allow it.

  I like this young man immensely.

  I retire early tonight, exhausted from my travails with Pepperbelly. I will not even pick up Baring-Gould . I will see Mdme. Terovolas again soon. I wonder if she is happy in her new home.

  It will be good to see her.

  Will it be good to see her?

  Still the mystery of the object I recovered from Early Searl’s chest cavity haunts me. Several times I have checked my coat pocket today to assure myself of its reality. When my fingers close on it, I am more afraid then if it had been all some phantasm in my mind.

  * * *

  Letter to S. Skoll from Coleman Morris

  dated August 25th

  Skoll,

  I accept your invitation, and will bring along some of my men. -C. Morris

  CHAPTER 8

  From the Pen of Alvin Crooker

  26th Aug

  Well, the chips were certainly stacked against poor Mr. Skoll. Not only did the weather prove a miserable deterrent to his proposed fandango, some of his guests that did show up made utter jackasses of themselves. Of course I’m speaking of Cole and his boys, but Van Helsing too. What has gotten into that old man?

  Temperamental Mother Nature and her fickle sister Lady Luck whipped up a frogchoker of a storm, which lasted the whole day. This kept a good deal of people from attending, but I wasn’t one of them, even though the weather had put a deep-down ache in my arm. Van Helsing somehow badgered Cole into making the trek along with some of his cowboys, including Ranny Brogan, whom I expect Cole will make foreman when he’s tried him out on the idea a little. Doc Ravell and Cashman and their wives showed, as did that whey-bellied misfit Rufus Shetland, who drove Judge Krumholtz and his wife in their buggy.