by Eric Flint
"Yes, Gerbald."
"When I heal I will begin looking for him if the Grantville police don't find him first. I will finish today's work before he can make more harm."
Pam nodded, accepting this unsavory necessity. "All right, Gerbald, I get it. But be careful, you're just way too much fun to have around."
"Yes, today was fun, don't you think? A real ass-kicking good time, a right fine shivaree!"
"Don't push your luck, Ivanhoe."
* * *
They were fortunate to find a ride when they hit the pavement, a mineworker with an official truck hauling something that was apparently valuable under a canvas tarp. It was a good thing, too, as the injured Gerbald was putting more of his weight on Pam as he grew weaker, and she was about done for herself. The driver was a down-timer and didn't ask many questions. He drove them directly to the hospital where Gerbald grinned at being pushed along in a wheelchair to the surgery.
Doc Nichols gave them both an appraising look as he cleaned and stitched the deep cut.
"And you about knocked this thug's head off with your grandma's walking stick you say?"
"Yeah, he was making a grab for me so I let him have it. Broke his jaw for sure. Gerbald killed the other two while defending me." There was pride in Pam's voice. The doctor's eyebrows were raised high as he slowly shook his head.
"Ms. Miller, you sure don't look like the type, but wow! Remind me to stay on your good side!" They shared a grin, the fact that the esteemed doctor had been an inner city brawler in his youth had become well known. "Crazy times, crazy times." he mumbled as he stitched. While he finished Pam borrowed the phone to make the call to the Grantville police. They'd come out to the house later to hear their full reports.
With Gerbald patched up and with strict orders to take it easy for a few days they were given a ride in a hospital car back to Pam's house. As the two of them limped up the walk Dore stood in the doorway, fixing them both with a fearsome scowl. Pam noticed her rucksack had been washed and was hung to dry on the clothes tree. The woman is a saint. The tirade began when they arrived at the porch.
"Well, well, the great heroes return. And in how many pieces? They nearly cut off that leg I see, it is a shame they did not aim a little higher and to the center! And you, foolish young woman, you look like a fox after the hunt, you have run yourself half to death, and are filthy! All for this buffoon of a man, this old soldier who does not know when to let the proper authorities do the work while he should be staying home looking after the helpless women folk in his charge!"
Pam almost lost it when she heard that one. Dore? Helpless? Pam recalled that not an hour ago she had taken down a professional soldier with her grandma's walking stick. No, not so helpless are we! Dore's pitch went up as she shifted her scolding into high gear. Pam took a moment to appreciate that Dore's command of English had improved greatly over the year.
"How dare you go off like that knowing that dear Pam would follow you? She is new to these times and doesn't know the dangers. You are an idiot, a blockhead, a dimwit, an oaf!" Running out of English expletives she launched into a barrage of German and possibly Italian ones. The woman was shaking with anger but Pam knew that it was her way of showing how much she cared.
Gerbald nodded, reconciled to his fate. "Yes my dove. You are right in all things, as always. Is there perhaps dinner? Let's eat before the coppers get here." Using the oak walking stick he made his way onto the porch, ducking past Dore's raised fist. Pam followed, receiving a brief, hard squeeze on the arm from Dore. Pam smiled at the older woman, her very dear friend who had spent some very worried hours waiting for them. Gerbald had gone into the kitchen to sit at the table. Pam saw that no sign of duckling presence remained in her living room, everything was where it should be and sparkling with post Dore cleanliness. As she entered the kitchen Dore bellowed at Gerbald:
"And take off that DAMNED FOOL HAT!"
Ahhh, home. Pam sighed happily.
* * *
A few days later Pam and Gerbald walked at a gentle pace over to Willie Ray's farm. Gerbald still limped and had taken quite a shine to grandma's walking stick upon which he had bequeathed the title "Headbanger." When he wasn't using it for support he sometimes playfully reenacted Pam's lethal swing. As they strolled Pam saw that nearly every fence post, power pole, and unmovable structure sported a brightly painted bird and beseeching phrases like "Protect me!", "Give us a chance!", "Let us live, too!" in both German and English. It looked like every kid in Grantville had made a poster, maybe twenty. The entire town was wrapped in the things. Willie Ray's open front gate boasted the Baltimore oriole proclaiming "Don't shoot! I'm an American!" Pam laughed with pleasure as they headed to the farmhouse.
Mrs. Antoni and her sixth graders were there as planned. Pam thanked them all again for the wonderful job on the posters and for all the work they had done plastering the town.
"Do you think there are enough, Ms. Miller? Do you think people will do as we asked?" the students asked her.
"I can't really say for sure kids, but I do know we've made a good start. You should all be proud of what you've accomplished. Our birds are worth saving and you have sure let people know it!"
Willie Ray came around the side of the house, fresh shaven and brimming with easy country graciousness. "Hey everyone, let's go have a look at that old duck pond."
As they entered the barnyard fowl's enclosure Willie Ray stood back, letting the kids wander among the tame flocks. He caught Pam and Gerbald's eye, then led them over to the pond's edge. Pam saw Matilda and her adopted children serenely feeding in the shallows under the willow tree. The ducklings had grown already, how could it happen so fast?
"They look good, Willie Ray. Thank you so much for giving them a home and looking after them for me!"
"Well, it's a pleasure. I'm not the only one who has taken an interest in our little fellows, though. Look up in that tree."
Pam put her hand on her forehead to make shade from the afternoon glare. She and Gerbald scanned the tree, four sharp eyes, birdwatcher eyes. They found it perched in the lower branches, an unusual type of bird to see in a tree, a peculiar trait of this species. An emerald sheened head enhanced by striking white markings was held erect above a russet breast with highlights of rich purple and spotted by bright specks of white. The dramatic swoops of white on its face framed ruby eyes which now regarded its observers with interest. A sleek pointed crest with a jaunty white streak was combed back from the top of its bill, falling stylishly down its neck. The bill was marked with flame orange and black, coming to a point sharper than most ducks. It looked more like a fancifully carved and painted imagining of a duck than a real animal. It was in fact a male wood duck, a spectacularly plumed drake and quite probably the father of the ducklings below.
Pam gasped with delight while Gerbald looked on appreciatively, pleased to see that its presence made Pam happy. Willie Ray grinned so widely as to nearly split his head open.
"He's been here a couple days, Pam. He mostly stays in the tree and keeps an eye on things. I figure those little fellows are well looked after."
"I'd say they are. It's a good feeling . . ." She looked to Gerbald who allowed himself a satisfied smile in the shade of his ridiculous hat. ". . . being a protected species."
* * *
A Tinker's Progress
Written by Terry Howard
Jack Jones made his way into the sleepy little town of Elstow, about a mile south of Bedford in Bedfordshire, home to perhaps five hundred souls—give or take half a hundred. There was a notable stone cross in the center of town where he stopped to survey for a tinker's shop. "A bloody tinker!" he muttered. "I'm carrying mail for a tinker? What next, a milk maid? A bar wench? At least he's one of the better sort with a forge and a settled station." In a bit, when it was not obvious where he should go, he headed to the parish house next to the church of Saints Mary and Helen and approached to knock on the door. By chance the vicar himself answered.
Jack
asked, in a slow voice, watching his word choice carefully to be better understood, knowing that his accent was often something of a bother, "Good marrow, good sir. Could you be directing me to the shop of one Thomas the son of Thomas, a tinker?"
"And you are?" the vicar asked.
"Jack Jones, dispatch rider, at your service. I'm up from London with a letter for Goodman Thomas, the tinker."
"A letter you say?" The vicar looked skeptical. "And just whom in London would be writing a letter to Thomas?"
"It was given me by the office of one Isaac Abrabanel just east of Temple Bar."
"Don't tell me Thomas has gone and borrowed money from a London Jew that he can't pay back?" The vicar let out a deep sigh. "That man will end in debtor's prison and his wife will be asking for charity. I knew it. I told her father not to let Margaret marry beneath herself. This is what comes of marrying for love."
"I wouldn't know anything about that, Vicar. I just have a letter to be delivered. Could you please tell me where I can find him?"
"Go to the cross. Face east. Take the middle of the three streets. When it forks, go left and the shop will be on your right. There is a shingle of a mended pot hanging over the door." The vicar started to close the door.
"One more question, of your grace, please. Would you know if Thomas has his letters or do I need to take a reader with me?"
"No, he does not. But his wife, poor woman, does." And with that the vicar did indeed close the door.
* * *
Jack led his horse through the town. When he entered the front door of the tinker's shop he was promptly addressed.
"What can I do for you?"
"Are you Thomas the Tinker?"
"No. Thomas is my brother. We share the shop. What can we do for you?"
"Does Thomas have a son named John? The lad would be not yet seven years of age."
"That's right. What is this about?"
"Could I have a few words with his wife, Margaret?"
"You could . . . if I have a mind to call her from the kitchen, which I am not about to do until you tell me what this is all about!" By this time the tinker had put down his tools and stood up from the bench, quietly picking up the heaviest of his hammers.
Jack decided he'd better answer quickly. "I have a letter for your brother. I suppose it will be all right if I give it to his wife, seeing as Thomas hasn't his letters and she will have to be the one reading it, anyway."
"A letter, you say?"
Jack lifted the flap on the pouch over his shoulder and brought forth a folded parchment, sewn with a string, set with wax and sealed with a stamp.
"Maggie?" the tinker called out.
"Yes?" The answer came from the back of the house.
"Can you come out to the shop, please?"
Margaret pushed open the door that separated the shop from the living area. She was drying her hands on her apron as she did.
"This fellow says he has a letter for your husband."
"How very odd," she replied. "Are you sure?"
"The letter is for one Thomas, the son of Thomas, a tinker in Elstow, who has a son named John," Jack said.
"That would indeed be my Thomas. But why, in the name of all that is holy, would anyone be sending Thomas a letter?"
"Goodwife, could you tell me your father's family name?"
"What an odd thing to ask."
"True enough. I've never been instructed to asked the likes of it before but—" Jack put the letter back in the shoulder pouch and lifted a small bag of coins. He tossed it up and down in his hand, causing it to clink with the distinct sound of large silver coins. "I was told to ask and if I didn't get the right answer, the letter and the money are to go back to London."
The tinker promptly answered. "Bentley. The family name is Bentley."
Jack set the bag down and dug a stoppered inkwell out of his shoulder pouch along with a quill and a bit of paper. "Goodwife, would you please assure yourself that the seal on the coin bag is unbroken and then sign a receipt?"
"What is the money for? What is all this about?"
"Now, how would the likes of Jack Jones be knowing that?"
"Perhaps I had better read the letter before I sign anything."
Jack shrugged and handed her the missive.
* * *
As she read it, her lips moving silently as if in prayer, her face became increasingly contorted by puzzlement. The tinker's face held ever more curiosity until it erupted like a spit melon seed. "Well? What does it say?"
"The money is to pay Thomas' expenses to go to London to discuss a business matter with one Isaac Abrabanel. Thomas is to see him three doors east of Temple Bar."
"A London Jew? What business does Thomas have with the likes of that?"
"You would know better than I, as tight lipped as the two of you are about money matters."
"You and Rose don't need to be worrying about how much is on hand and what is coming in."
"No. We're just supposed to figure out how to feed the lot of us when there isn't anything left to buy food with."
"Times are hard, woman. Thomas and I are doing the best we can. If you are so all fired concerned, we could save the cost of sending John to get his lettering."
"For sure, and then he could go through his life at the mercy of who ever it is that is reading to him. If he doesn't go now, he'll not go later when he's old enough to be of some use."
Jack was growing more and more uncomfortable. These were family matters that should not be discussed in front of a stranger.
The tinker opened his mouth and shut it. Jack suspected that he wanted to say "it never hurt me any," as many men would have. But Jack could well imagine many disputes—had even had some himself—that would not have happened if people had written the agreement down to begin with. It was a common enough problem in life.
Jack cleared his throat, "Gentle folk, if you could, I need a signed receipt. Then I can be getting on my way."
"What can you tell us about this?" the tinker demanded.
"I'm naught but a dispatch rider. I just need you to sign the bloody paper."
"Well, I'm nothing but a tinker and I don't give a damn what you need. She isn't signing anything until you tell us all you know."
Jack reached for the money but the tinker was faster. He held the bag out of reach. "All I know is what I've told you already."
"Well, tell us about this Abrabanel man."
"I never set eyes on him. I talked to a clerk in the front room of a fancy office with a big brass handle on the front door and an even bigger glass window. Now, either sign the bloody paper or give me the money and the letter to take back to London!"
"Sign it," the tinker told his sister-in-law.
* * *
Later that day Thomas came back from making the rounds. He walked through the door and before he could put the new lot of pots to be mended down he was hit by a question. "Brother, what business do you have in London?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Why does a man in London, and a Jew at that, want to see you in his office at 'your earliest convenience'?"
"Have you lost your head?" Thomas asked. "You know I don't know any Jew in London or anywhere else."
"Margaret, bring that letter out here and read it to your husband."
"Letter? What letter?" Thomas was puzzled.
"The one that came from London today while you were out. The one that came with more money than we've had at one time in years. Enough for you to take a coach to London and dine in fancy inns along the way."
* * *
Margaret pushed open the door. The total puzzlement on her husband's face told her all she needed to know. He obviously didn't know one iota more about what was going on than she did. She held up the letter for him to see, then she began to read it aloud.
Thomas listened to the end without saying a word. "So all I've got to do for this money is go down to London and talk to this man?"
"I read you the letter, Thom
as. You can ferret out the meaning as easily as I can."
"I know, but it doesn't make any sense. What does he want with me? They've got tinkers aplenty in London."
"Well, brother, I guess you'll just have to go down there and find out."
"You say there's enough money to take a coach?"
"Don't go getting any fancy ideas, brother of mine. There was enough. After I pay off what we owe the tin man—and pay for the next round up front to get the discount we never have been able to afford—then there's enough left to take care of you, there and back. As long as you start out with a cheese and a loaf and don't dally along the way."
