Grantville Gazette, Volume 67

by Bjorn Hasseler

  Daniel risked taking a seat at the table. He wiped wet hair from his face, stretched the muscles in the right side of his body. "I'm staying busy, if that's what you want to know. But I didn't come here to discuss my personal activities. Do you or do you not have information about Adolf?"

  Linus chuckled beneath a cough. "I do. In fact, I saw him with mine own eyes."

  "Where is he?"

  Linus shook his head. "You will not get any information until you give me what I want."

  "And what is that?" Daniel asked, his heart catching in his throat.

  Linus set the pistol aside, far out of Daniel's reach. He tapped a thick finger to his nose. "I'm gonna smash that precious sniffer of yours. And then, as the blood pours down your face like it did mine, you're going to apologize."

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Memories of that night years ago rolled through Daniel's mind. Everything Linus said was true.

  That night, he and Linus and a few others were playing cards in a tavern much like the one up the street where Benjamin was waiting. Cards were played. Beers were consumed. Women were poked and prodded, tickled and kissed. Words were exchanged. Threats. The next thing Daniel knew, his honor was being impugned, his profession insulted. "No useless court painter will cheat me at cards and steal my woman!" Fists were introduced, chairs were destroyed, and it all fell apart. Next thing Daniel knew, he was waking up with a sore, puffy face, blood on his knuckles, and a barmaid named Bernadina in his bed. Daniel couldn't help but smile at the memory. At least the night had ended well.

  "There are a lot of things from my youth, Linus," he said, "that I'm not proud of. That is one of those nights. I was a foolish, impertinent boy. I admit that humbly. But I am not that boy anymore, I can promise you. And neither are you, if I may say, judging from your appearance. You are as old as I am, and you are fat, and you are drunk. You have a pistol, yes, but I have speed. If it's money you want, I can't afford much, but I will give you what I can spare. If an apology will sate your anger, you may have that as well. But neither you nor I are walking out of here with broken bones tonight, my old friend. And I will not–"

  A hard, rapid knock came at the door. A woman's voice cried out. "Herr von Block! Herr von Block!"

  Daniel went to the door quickly, shoving past Linus. He ripped it open and got a gust of cold, wet snow.

  It was the lady tavern keeper. "Herr von Block. Your son, is he here?"

  "What? No. I thought–he's not at the tavern?"

  She shook her head and groaned. "You must come quickly." She shivered. "Someone saw Benjamin run out over an hour ago. When we realized it, we looked for him, but we could not find him in this ghastly blizzard."

  Scheisse!

  Daniel shook his head, his heart once again catching in his throat. He turned back to Linus. He took a few coins from the bag of money the duke had given him and tossed them onto the table. "Here, this should cover any debt I still owe you. And I apologize–for everything. But I must go. . . I must–"

  He didn't say another word, nor did he wait for Linus to tell him what he had come there to find out. None of it mattered now.

  He followed the woman out into the blizzard.

  ****

  "Benjamin!" Daniel bellowed over the roar of the snowy wind. "Benjamin!"

  The tavern keeper and some of her other patrons had come out to help in the search. But so far, nothing. It was hard to know where to start, where to look. The wind gusts were so strong, the snow piling so deep, who could say where a child Benjamin's age would have gone? Daniel figured not very far, though it seemed the opposite. He had shouted and shouted his son's name until his throat was sore. Where are you, boy? Where?

  He stumbled to his knees, and the lantern he was carrying almost fell into the snowbank. He saved it at the last moment, grateful for good reflexes, but he felt spent. His face was numb from the cold, his fingers bone-white and stiff. He closed his eyes and tried to let tears come, but he was shivering too strongly, the frigid air drying his eyes, making his chest hurt.

  I'm in no shape to be out here, he thought, selfishly thinking of himself at this moment. But that had always been the problem with him, hadn't it? From the moment he could hold a brush, from the moment he realized that he had the talent to take paint and shape it into majestic landscapes, into inspiring Biblical scenes, into bright, beautiful faces for kings and queens to adore, it had always been about him. Him!

  Even after he had gotten older, married Sophia, had a new son, had travelled to Grantville and decided to turn his life around, still it was always about him. And now, nearly a year later, he was crouched in a snowbank, one son dead from gunshot wounds, one son perhaps hopelessly out of touch, and his other son missing in a blizzard. How had it come to this? Perhaps it would be best to just lay here and let the snow cover him and be lost in the quiet desolation of winter.

  He knelt there for a few minutes more, before realizing that the wind was dying down. The buildings–that had been all but invisible moments before–stood out clearly in the dim light reflecting off the snow. With renewed hope, he shook his head, stood up, blinked the snow from his eyes, raised his lantern, and looked at the landscape around him.

  Peppered with shops and homes, trees and fences, small hillocks, and all of it covered in a fresh, quiet blanket of white. A warm sensation touched his heart, as he imagined it all a blank canvas. Oh and what he could do with a blank canvas, what wonders he could work if given time and imagination.

  In the distance, he could hear the patrons of the bar calling for his son, and their chorus of voices sounded like wind chimes, echoing through the woods.

  There was another sound on the wind. Faint, distant, an intermittent flapping, like a tarpaulin striking a hard surface. He adjusted his coat and brushed the snow from his face and hair. The wind shifted again, and this time, he heard the flapping more prominently, coming from the woods, from the direction of the wind.

  He began walking in that direction, down a bank of snow, into a speck of narrow woods that lay wedged between rows of houses. On the canvas in his mind, he drew in trees and rocks, and all the things that one might find in a sliver of wood like the one he was entering. It made sense to have a fence here, a gate here, a small barn just there. It was a mundane, simple sketch, a calm pastoral image unmarked by the harshness of winter. Without the snow, he could see the landscape, could see the path that a young boy like Benjamin might follow. He stopped halfway through the grove, leaned against a tree, and listened.

  The flapping sounded again. Daniel tried looking through the darkness, covering his eyes from the wind blowing them dry once more. It was not a skill that he had mastered–listening–but it was one that he needed to draw on now. He waited, letting the wind shift from his face to his back, face to back, until he pinpointed the direction of the sound.

  Perhaps this flapping sound would be nothing, but in his mind, he imaged it to be banners of a great army, all accoutered in their finest wargear, facing insurmountable odds across a field of fire. He imagined those banners waving in wind as strong as that in his face, and he penciled in scores of them on great polearms. And then his mind shifted to something more practical, something easier to imagine in terms of his son. That is why I am out here, isn't it? To save my son, to think of him, and only him.

  And so he did, and those war banners turned to capes of red and green and white, just like those superheroes he had seen on dozens of comic books they had gotten in Grantville. They were long and silken, and flapped behind Superman and Batman and Thor, and scores of others. The flapping became stronger, and Daniel picked up his pace, now stumbling through the snow at a trot, gripping his lantern tightly, and letting the stark branches of the trees he passed scratch his face and arms.

  Then he saw it, faint and dull through the distance. A banner–no, a canvas. No…a piece of paper with bright colors, thick and pleated to make it stand up to the wind, waving valiantly from the top of a dark shape through the trees. H
e moved toward the shape, toward the paper. He squinted again, and finally saw the full extent of the object.

  It was Benjamin's drawing. There was no doubt. The red of Sophia's dress, the gold of baby Ursula's cape, waving there in the wind, all tattered and torn.

  Daniel's heart leapt into his throat. "Benjamin!" he screamed, stumbled forward, picked himself up, then reached the tiny shed where the drawing waved. He tore it down, and Benjamin's carrying tube fell with it, along with a rock that had held it tight against the rickety roof. "Benjamin!"

  He ripped open the rotting door, and there he lay: his son, pale and shaking beneath a ratty blanket.

  "Papa!" Benjamin said, his body shaking violently.

  Daniel set the lantern aside, fell to his knees, and scooped him up, hugging him closely. "Thank God, you are safe. Are you hurt? Injured?"

  Benjamin shook his head. "No, P-papa. I am okay. But I'm c-c-old."

  Daniel nodded, but his inclination was to scream, to shout at his son, Why did you go out into the snow? I told you to stay inside! But his relief at finding Benjamin alive overwhelmed him. "You are safe now. We will get you out of here and somewhere warm."

  Daniel pulled him from the shelter.

  Benjamin saw his drawing, long rips along its length, snow smearing the paint. "It's ruined. My drawing is ruined. I have nothing for Mama now."

  Daniel hugged him even closer. "Don't you worry about that, young man. Your mama will love it more than anything else in the world. And you will make a new and even better one, and I will help you do so. Okay?"

  Through his shivering and sobbing, Benjamin nodded, and held his father tightly.

  Daniel carried Benjamin through the wood, up to the road, and back to the tavern where they were staying, calling out to the other searchers as he went. They all joined him in front of the tavern's hearth, with their hearty congratulations, where Daniel set Benjamin to get warm and dry, and bought him a drink: this time, fresh cider.

  Daniel was ecstatic–and both pleased and wary when Linus joined him by the fire.

  "You found him," Linus said, with no emotion.

  Daniel nodded, wrapping a clean, warm blanket around Benjamin. "I did."

  Linus grunted. "Very well. Here," he said, holding out his hand.

  Daniel put his hand out, and Linus dropped coins and a small piece of paper in it. "Here, take back your damned money. I guess you've suffered enough tonight." He shoved past Daniel, then turned and said finally, "And I suppose I've been a fool for bearing a grudge so long. I'll let you off this time, Herr Block, but I swear to you and God above, if I ever see you again, all bets are off."

  Daniel watched Linus leave the tavern. He pocketed the coins and opened the paper. On it was the name of his other son and the street address of a town in a country hundreds of miles away.

  "What is it, Papa?"

  Daniel folded the paper and smiled. "It's our next project after we finish in the spring with the Duke. We have another trip to take, my boy."

  "Where?"

  "Southeast," Daniel said, imagining the moment when he could introduce his two sons to each other and make his family whole again, with a deeper sense of joy than any work of art had ever brought him. "To Hungary."

  ****

  Etude, Part 1 by David Carrico

  Wechmar

  December, 1634

  To Christoph Bach

  In Wechmar

  Brother, word has come to me that Mama has died. Since Papa died of the plague eight years ago, that leaves me the head of the family. I have moved from Suhl to Magdeburg to pursue greater opportunities here. You must come to me immediately. Bring young Heinrich with you. I have a commission here to build an organ, and I need your help. With good fortune this will lead to other positions for all of us.

  Christoph stopped reading and looked at his younger brother Heinrich. "Johann is starting to sound pretty high and mighty now that Mama is gone."

  Heinrich sniffed. "Are you surprised? He is the eldest brother. He's always been the eldest brother. He has never let us forget it, and probably never will." The youngest of the three Bach children gave an evil grin. "Of course, Papa usually gave him the first lick whenever anything happened."

  "Aye, and usually you had something to do with that 'anything' happening, didn't you?" Christoph grinned back. He agreed that their brother Johann, who was nine years older than Christoph, had a tendency to think that his chamber pot contents didn't stink, and he had more than once played second violin to his younger brother's lead when opportunities arose to puncture Johann's pomposity. Nonetheless, he had genuinely missed his big brother since he left for Suhl.

  "Hmm," Christoph re-read the first paragraph to himself. "Something big must have happened."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know how Mama would go on and on about how Johann was so lucky to have his position in Suhl, how he would be able to become a Joshua to Stadtpfeifer Hoffmann's Moses, and how it was understood that he would marry the Stadtpfeifer's daughter."

  Heinrich made as if to spit. "Ja, Mama was so looking forward to having that Barbara as her daughter-in-law. Nasty Scheinheilige, she is."

  "Yes, well…" Christoph found himself in grudging agreement with his brother, although he might not have worded his opinion so strongly. ". . . hypocrite though she may be, it would appear from this…" he waved the letter ". . . that our Johann has come to his senses."

  "Ja." Heinrich's eyes grew dreamy, and he smiled the smile he wore when he watched girls walk down the street. "Magdeburg. The Emperor's new capital…where fortunes and reputations can be made." His gaze sharpened and focused on Christoph's face. "When do we leave?"

  Christoph scanned through the rest of the letter. "He says to give Papa's clavier to Uncle Andreas, store as much of the furniture as we can in his barn, and sell the rest. So, maybe a week, maybe two."

  "Good! Let's get started."

  "Not so fast," Christoph said. "Listen to the rest of what he has to say."

  "He would," Heinrich muttered. "More eldest brother talk…" His voice trailed off.

  "Shh. Listen."

  When you come, wend your way through Grantville. You know by now the town really exists, and the location of it. You will be surprised at much of the town, and some of it will make you wonder why there has been such a clamor about the place. The people seem odd at first, but by their lights they are a decent folk.

  "Idiot," Heinrich said. "Of course we know about Grantville."

  "Shh. You said it yourself; he's just being the eldest brother."

  When you get there, have someone direct you to the High School. There seek out Masters Marcus Wendell and Atwood Cochran, lecturers and musicians. They will play for you music from the future such as you have never heard. And some of it is by a man named Bach. Go; hear it, then come to me in Magdeburg. The three of us will have much to talk about.

  Johann Bach

  Magdeburg

  Christoph lowered the paper. The two brothers Bach stared at each other, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, all complaints and gripes and slurs forgotten. Music from the future—by a Bach.

  ****

  Magdeburg

  February, 1635

  Franz entered the bedroom and closed the door to keep the warmth from the small stove in the room. He looked to where Marla sat on the stool before her dressing table, combing her long black hair in the candlelight. She looked up at him and smiled, which sent a flood of warmth through him. Even after almost a year of marriage, he still marveled that she, who doubtless could have had her pick of the available up-time men, had seen something inside a crippled and bitter down-timer; something that drew her to him. Or perhaps, something that drew him to her, as a moth circled a flame…the attraction to her was that strong, that natural, that intense. Almost it was enough to make him a Calvinist, for to his mind it would have required the sovereign hand of God to bring her to love him. Of a certainty, he found nothing in himself that deserved her.

  "Wh
at are you thinking, love?"

  Marla's voice drew him from his reverie. "How much I love you," he responded, then warmed again as her smile flashed wider. He walked over to her, bent to kiss her upraised lips, then reached to pick up the hairbrush from the dressing table. She sat up straight as he began to draw the brush through her thick mane with long slow strokes.

  This had become one of their little rituals, something that they did for themselves. Marla's hair was long enough and thick enough that it was hard for her to tend to all of it, and Franz had early on taken over the brushing of it. He loved the silken feel of her hair, and from the expression on Marla's face in the mirror on the wall that she had brought from Grantville, she was undoubtedly enjoying it as well.

  They didn't talk for some time, just enjoying the intimacy of the moment. Franz paused for a moment, lifting a tress of the liquid ebony before him. Half-crippled his left hand might be, but the nerves still worked, and the feeling of the hair sliding across his fingers and palm left them tingling. He bent to deeply inhale the fragrance of it.

  When he straightened, Marla had opened her eyes and was watching him from the mirror with an expression that reminded him of the portrait the up-timers called the Mona Lisa. He smiled back and resumed brushing.

  "So why were you late getting home tonight?" Marla asked.

  Franz chuckled. "Johann Bach asked if he could talk to me after the orchestra rehearsal. We went to the Green Horse."

  "I thought I smelled beer on you when you came in." Her smile turned impish.

  Franz raised his right hand. "Oath to Heaven's throne, I only had one, and I did not finish it."