by John Dalmas
Again the major paused, his gaze intent. "Tell me, Captain Macurdy, what particular skills do you have to offer, which we might build upon?"
Macurdy scowled a dark, ugly scowl at the major. "I can see and read auras," he answered. "The halos people have around them. Tells me all sorts of things about them. And I see better at night than most. Give me a knife, and I can go around in the dark and kill people without anyone the wiser, till they come across the body. And I can keep warm in the cold; I can go naked all day, in weather you couldn't stand in winter uniform." He seemed to sneer, then raised his exceptionally large hands in front of him, opening, then clenching them. "I can take a horseshoe in either hand and squeeze it shut. I can light fire without matches. I can go a week easy without eating, but I need water every day." He stopped as if done, then added: "And I can shoot fireballs out of my hand. Blow a man's head off without hardly a sound."
Without realizing it, the major had leaned back, away from the man across the desk. Now he looked long and carefully at him. "Thank you, Captain Macurdy," he said carefully. "That was an interesting and informative list of talents. Return to your quarters. You'll be notified of our decision."
* * *
While limping down the long corridor, Macurdy whistled so cheerfully, people he passed turned and looked back at him.
3 Making Adjustments
Curtis's next arrival home was on June 25. He had a medical discharge, based on his old injuries, and was on thirty-day terminal leave. He'd draw his captain's pay till July 23. As before, Mary met him at the depot. They went to her little apartment—theirs now—and made love. Afterward he dressed in civvies, clothes he'd left behind in '42.
"This week," he said, "I'll talk to Fritzi about getting my old job back. If it's going to make any trouble, I'll settle for sergeant on an undersheriff's pay. And if that's not possible ... I'll worry about that when the time comes.
"Or maybe," he added, watching her intently, "maybe it's time for you and me to go somewhere else." They'd talked about that eventuality even before they were married, but she'd lived in Nehtaka all her life. It wouldn't be easy for her.
"Somewhere we're not known," he went on, "where people won't realize I don't age. Back before I enlisted, maybe four years ago, people already commented on it. Axel Severtson asked me if I'd been drinking from the Fountain of Youth—that I didn't look any older than when I'd worked for him. And Lute Halvoy said I better hurry up and start showing my years, or people would call me a draft dodger.
"And tight as manpower's got to be, with so many off in the military, we can go just about anywhere and find good jobs.
"Think about it. We'll have to do it sooner or later, and in a couple years, when the war's over and all the guys start coming home, jobs might get hard to find. Might even be another depression."
* * *
That night they had supper at Fritzi's again. "When do you want to come back to work?" Fritzi asked.
"How does next week sound? I'd like to lay around a few days." Curtis paused. "Is Harvey Chellgren still the undersheriff?"
"Ja, and he is a good officer. Maybe a little too political. He likes a little too much to please people. You will be better. And he knows you got the job coming to you, by law and by right. I told him if you take it, I will ask the county to approve a raise for him, to what he's getting now, and we will call him senior deputy. He's got so many friends in the county, the board will probably do it.
"Besides, I'm going to retire in '48, when my term is up. I've already told him I might. He will probably run for sheriff then. You should too. You'd make a better one than him. Then whoever loses can be undersheriff. You two always got along good."
* * *
The first thing bad that happened to Curtis was the next day, when he went to see Roy Klaplanahoo's wife and children. Roy, she told him, had been killed in Germany, in Bloody Hürtgen. With the war in Europe almost over, and having survived Sicily, Italy, France and Belgium.
It was almost predictable, but Curtis was crushed. He went home and wept before his dismayed wife. Afterward he told her of the battle of Ternass, in Yuulith. Of the thousands killed, all of them his responsibility, his guilt. How many Roy Klaplanahoos had died there? But Roy had been his friend. There'd been a bond, begun in the hobo jungle outside Miles City, Montana, carrying forward to Severtson's logging camp, and renewed in North Africa.
He told her of other things that had happened in Yuulith, too, things he'd never mentioned before. They'd seemed irrelevant, there'd been no need for her to know, and they'd have stretched her credulity.
"Do you believe me—Mary?" He'd almost called her Spear Maiden! Despite the two being so unlike.
"I believe you, darling," she answered. "I know you too well to doubt your honesty or your sanity. And I see auras too, you know. I even saw some of your mental pictures when you talked." She paused. "I want you to tell me more about Yuulith. Sometime soon. Share it with me. I won't be jealous of your other wives, I promise. I want to know more about them. They must have been good people."
He kissed her gently, and minutes later they went to bed.
* * *
That night he awoke from a dream. Of the spear maiden, Melody; he hadn't dreamt of her in years. But the setting was different than in earlier Melody dreams. This one was on the battlefield at Ternass. They lay side by side on the grass, talking. Then someone—Varia, he thought—blew a trumpet, and all the dead got up and brushed themselves off. Roy Klaplanahoo was with them, and the tall voitik corporal, Trosza, whose killing had laid heavily on his conscience. They all mingled, talking and laughing. Then one of them came up to him—Lord Quaie, still with the steaming hole in his belly. And he was not hostile. He was gesturing, his mouth working earnestly, but no words came out.
At that point Curtis wakened. It took awhile to get back to sleep.
* * *
He returned as undersheriff the next week, and enjoyed the work again. Loggers, many of them new to him, continued to flood the taverns and dance halls on Saturday evenings. But his reputation had preceded him. The Nehtaka Weekly Sentinel had given a brief summary of his military record—primarily assignments, actions, and military honors—provided by the Army's Office of Public Information. This inspired men who knew him from before to retell and exaggerate his prewar exploits in Nehtaka County, both as a law officer and a logger.
None of them knew of his exploits in Yuulith, of course.
* * *
Two years after Curtis's return, Fritzi had a stroke. In the hospital, slurring from one side of his mouth, he announced first his appointment of Curtis as acting sheriff, then his own retirement, to take effect at the end of June. In the hospital, and afterward at his home, Curtis sat daily by the bed, healing Fritzi by hand and gaze, sometimes with a silent Margaret looking on coldly. It was obvious to Curtis that she distrusted him.
Ten days later, Fritzi was up and walking, unimpaired. Doc Wesley told Curtis the recovery was a lot quicker and more complete than he'd expected. "I don't know what it is you do, young man," he said, "but I wish I could do it."
Afterward Macurdy imagined Wesley in Oz, apprenticing under Arbel, then returning to Oregon with his new skills. But even if the doctor could be talked into it, it wouldn't be possible. He might survive the transit through the gate—might even retain his sanity—but he'd never make it back.
4 Exposure
For the 1948 Memorial Day celebration in Nehtaka's Veterans' Park, Macurdy and a number of other wounded veterans, of two wars, were asked to participate in a "remembrance" ceremony. Curtis agreed to introduce the other Purple Heart recipients, and to read the list of those who'd died from enemy action.
He took the duty seriously, and practiced the names to avoid grossly mispronouncing any.
As master of ceremonies, Mayor Louie Severtson introduced Curtis: "Here," he said, "is a young man who really ain't so young. I've known him since '33—that's fifteen years ago!—when he was new around here. He was twenty-fi
ve then, and didn't hardly look it. He went to war in '42. In '43 he won the Distinguished Service Cross for exceptional heroism in combat, and later served as an OSS spy in Nazi Germany, earning a silver star for gallantry. And after all that, at age forty, he still looks like a twenty-five-year-old."
He turned to Curtis, grinning. "How do you do that, Macurdy?"
It seemed to Curtis his heart had stopped. "It runs in the family," he said. "And clean living helps."
He got through his own presentation, and sat down with a sense of foreboding.
* * *
He and Mary had been invited to supper at Fritzi's that evening. Margaret had little to say before and during the meal, but it was obvious she had something on her mind. After pie, they sat over coffee.
"You mentioned your family," Margaret said. "The sheriff says they farm, back in Indiana."
"They did. My dad's retired now."
"How old does he look?"
Curtis frowned, but his voice was casual. "About seventy-five, the last time I saw him. He was born in 1872, which makes him seventy-six now. Worked hard all his life."
"Who else in your family looked as young as you do at age forty?"
Curtis's lips had thinned at her question. "My double-great grampa, I'm told. And a great uncle. Actually I lied when I took the deputy job in '33. I was older. And I lied about my age in the army in '42, afraid they wouldn't put a man my actual age in a combat unit. I'm forty-four now."
Fritzi stared uncomfortably at his wife. "Margaret..." he began.
She cut him short with a gesture, and another question for Curtis. "I've also heard you were married before."
"Twice."
That stopped her, but only for a moment. "The sheriff told me something about you. About you and Mary, before you were married. When he overheard you talking on the front porch. It was almost like witchcraft, he said, the effect it had on Mary. After that she was changed. She'd always said she'd never marry. She hadn't even gone out with boys."
Curtis's face had turned stony, and his eyes smoldered. "I learned that from my first wife," he said. "She was a witch. From another world. Does that satisfy you?"
Margaret paled, more from his look than his words, but her eyes did not soften. "He is kidding you," Fritzi broke in. His mild accent had thickened, as usual when something upset him. "You had no right to ask him such questions, like a prosecutor. He was right to feel insulted. Now apologize to him!"
She stared pinch-lipped at her husband, then turned back to Macurdy. It was hatred he saw now, in her aura and eyes, and when she spoke, she bit the words out. "If I have wronged you, I apologize."
"You did wrong me," Curtis answered. "Frankly, none of it was your business. I've been part of this community for fifteen years, counting my service time, and I've never wronged anyone here. Not once! I risk my life as a lawman, and risked it a lot more as a soldier, for my country. I met Mary because I risked my life, killing the armed man who'd just shot Fritzi and two other men. I've always had better things to do than to pry in other peoples' private lives."
Abruptly he stood. "Fritzi, I apologize for the upset. You're a good man, one of the best I know. I lived nine happy years in this house with your mother and daughter. I helped heal your gunshot wound. Helped heal Klara after she got hit by that car. To me you're more like a second father than a father-in-law.
"I hope this—clash here tonight, doesn't hurt things between you and your wife. But I will not sit down in this house with her again."
He turned to Mary, who looked distressed. "We'd better go now."
She nodded and got up. "I'm sorry, Papa," she said. "I love you very much. You are welcome in our home any time." She turned to Margaret. "And so are you, if you care to come. But we will not come here. This was my home for more than twenty-five years. My happy home. You have made it dark for me."
Margaret did not get up, but her words and face were as hard as Curtis's had been. "It is not I who brought darkness to this home. I advise you to rid yourself of that person"—she pointed at Curtis—"before it is too late."
Curtis and Mary left, Curtis grimly pleased with himself, and at the same time sick with anger. He and Mary spoke almost not at all as they walked the mile to the small house they'd bought. He did, however, stop at a liquor store for a pint of bourbon. He wanted something to ease his agitation, and was out of practice at meditating. When they got home, he set the bottle on the living room table, where they often read in the evening.
"Curtis," Mary said, "I agree with you that Margaret was completely out of line. She showed me a side of herself I hadn't wanted to recognize before. Now it's in the open. But right now I don't want to talk about it, or about anything. I just want to have a drink of that whiskey, read awhile, then go to sleep. And wake up in the morning to a new day."
Curtis's eyebrows rose. He'd never known Mary to drink, and wondered if she had while he was overseas. He nodded without speaking. Opening the bottle, he poured about two ounces in a tumbler, and put it on the table in front of her. She raised her glass and took a swallow. Her eyes and mouth opened in shock, and she gasped. "So that's what it's like," she said blinking, and shuddered. Then she sat down at the table and opened the Reader's Digest. He poured half a glass for himself, took a sip, then sat down with the latest issue of Blue Book.
After a couple of pages and several sips, he looked at her glass. The level was down a bit; apparently she was determined. After reading a short story, he left the room, changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth. By the time he'd returned to the dining room, Mary had finished the two ounces and poured another.
A few minutes later she got up and hurried to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The next minute or so she spent vomiting and groaning. Curtis went into the kitchen, put the pint on the counter, lit a burner on the stove and put the tea kettle on it. Then he put bread in the toaster, and two tea bags into cups. Finally he spread butter on the toast.
While he waited for the water to get hot, he went into the hall and listened at the bathroom door. She was gargling; a good sign. He went back to the kitchen. While he was pouring water onto their tea bags, she came in looking weak and abashed.
"I made tea," he told her. "And buttered some toast; something easy to take."
"Thanks," she said huskily, and sank onto a chair. Cautiously she tasted the toast, then sipped some tea and took another bite. Curtis sat down and tasted his own, then examined her somewhat diminished aura. "How do you feel?"
She didn't answer at once, as if examining herself. "Actually not too bad," she said. "Weak. Embarrassed. Wiser. But not nauseous or anything. I'll be all right."
"No need to be embarrassed. It's happened to millions. Billions, probably."
She finished her bread. "I don't think I was cut out to drink liquor."
"Lots of people wish they could say that." He stood, and took the bottle off the counter. "Let me show you my magical trick," he said, and poured the contents into the sink. "There. It's gone."
He went to her, and bending, kissed her. She was about to tell him this was not a good night to get amorous, then changed her mind. It is, she told herself, a very good night to get amorous, and standing, kissed him back passionately. In the way her Aunt Hilmi had suggested for healing misunderstandings. It seemed to her it might work for other traumas. After a moment he began unbuttoning her blouse.
5 Sunday Service
In June 1948, Harvey Chellgren announced his candidacy for Nehtaka County Sheriff. A naturally social and political creature, he was a son of a large, considerably branched family, a member of the Swedish lodge (from his mother's side) and the Sons of Norway (from his father's). He was also a past master of the local Masonic Lodge, and treasurer of the Moose. Within a month, all four lodges declared their support for him. The local chapters of the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars, on the other hand, came out for Macurdy. The Sentinel published what it knew about both men, and forecast a close race.
&nb
sp; The editorial closed with a personality summary. "Harvey," it said, "is bright, outgoing, and friendly. He always tries to handle things with a minimum of bad feelings, but is tough when he has to be.... Curtis is mild-mannered, but he has presence. Even if you don't know his military and police record, you tend to do what he tells you. Whichever of these two men is elected, we can expect to have a good sheriff."
* * *
In earlier years, Fritzi had attended church irregularly, his attitude reflecting that of his mother. Basically, Klara had been somewhat religious, but as a young woman had become alienated by the state Lutheranism of Prussia. She was acutely skeptical of churches and preachers, and at any rate, in Nehtaka there were no services in German, the only language she knew. So she'd gone twice a year, at Christmas and Easter.