I was the first to arrive. The rain was coming down steady, but I missed the worst of it. The old Judson place has a quiet look to it. The big house is as close to a castle as you can get on the Texas plains. Two stories, and sturdy as a fort with a real stone foundation and chimney. I think all the rock in the county must have gone into that house. The old storm cellar can be seen behind the place; it looks as though Skoll has fixed it up some. No trees as far as the eye can see, but plenty of old stumps left by Judson and his sons. The cattle were roaming around as though they owned the place. You would’ve thought they’d been rounded up, it being the season. The horses in the corral were big. They’re not any kind of Texas horse I’d ever seen. It was like they’d been specially built for the men who rode them. I spied a couple of crows shuffling around under the eaves. There was probably a nest in there somewhere.
I wouldn’t say I’m any sort of judge of decor, but the queer assortment of foofaraw Skoll has in his house is a sight to see. He has the whole place decked out in Viking junk, of all things. There are bright round shields, horned helmets, paintings, and the odd woodcarving. Quite a collection.
Mrs. Skoll was still upstairs getting painted up when I showed, and one of Skoll’s men, a blonde Goliath that has got to be well over six and a half feet and solid as a roll of double eagles, got me a big glass of gold beer (which I had to lay aside when I had the chance, though it was supremely tempting). This tall one’s name I forget exactly (something like Rolf or Holf), but Skoll told me around the place they all called him Walker, on account of there wasn’t a horse they had big enough to carry him (which I found hard to believe having seen the size of the horses out in the corral). As he handed it to me, he made a kind of half-sign of the cross over it, and mumbled something in his own language.
Skoll is a charming fellow once he gets to know you, and he can talk English enough for you to understand it without having to sift through his accent.
Seeing an odd expression on my face after the tall fellow’s benediction over my beer, he chuckled and said to me;
“Walker was raised in the country. It’s an old folk blessing. ‘Odin bring inspiration to this drink.’”
“Who’s Odin?” I asked.
“A god,” he said. Then he smiled. “Of wisdom.”
“Well now that’s a rare thing...a god that approves of libations,” I mused. “Wise indeed, if you ask me.”
“Alcohol excites the senses, and moves the mind in new directions. Even Christ drank wine at Canaan, Mr. Crooker.”
“Hm. Leave it up to the Christians to misinterpret.”
“They usually do, don’t they?” Skoll said, and laughed.
I smiled back.
He was pointing out a weathered looking rowing oar hanging on a wall and telling me a family legend about how it had come from an actual Viking ship some ancestor of his had captained, when Shetland arrived with the Judge and his wife.
Shetland had gotten the buggy stuck in the ditch right by the turnoff to the ranch, and they’d all gotten soaked as Injuns in a whiskey barrel unhitching the horse and running for the house. Mrs. Krumholtz was nigh on hysterical, and the Judge himself kept giving Rufus a look like Pharaohs must’ve given Moses after all the damned frogs. I knew it wouldn’t be long before old Krum discovered that home brewed beer and took to it like a calf to the teat.
I was left on my own for a while as Skoll made arrangements for the Judge (he was already asking if there was anything to drink in the place, so he could ‘get warm’) and his wife and Shetland to get some dry clothes, so I wandered about the big house, peering at the ugly faces on the figurines and wood carvings. There were weapons on one of the walls - iron headed spears, old green bladed swords, that kind of thing, but no sign anywhere of a gun. I finally found a case situated in a corner. The few shotguns inside were hard to see through the dust. I guess Mrs. Skoll has an aversion to guns.
Others started to arrive, and Skoll greeted each one like they were the guest of honor. He forgot about me, so I chewed the rag with Shetland, who had hustled up an oversized coat and shirt, but had kept his muddy trousers as though in penance for having ditched the Judge’s buggy. Rufus has always been just about as interesting as a bowl of headcheese, though, and I was glad when Van Helsing showed up with Cole and four of his boys.
When the round of introductions was made, I saw that if Cole had been strong-armed into coming, he was putting on a rare grin for the boys at least. He thanked Skoll for the invitation.
“Ah,” said Skoll, “and thank you for accepting. Welcome, to you and your men. I should like to speak to you Mr. Morris.”
“Oh? What about?” muttered Cole, as though the two of them had never had anything to do with one another (and who knows? Maybe in Cole’s way of thinking, they hadn’t—not directly, anyway).
“Business matters,” said Skoll. “We have much to discuss. But later.”
I figured straight off that there was a ceasefire in the works.
Van Helsing introduced himself to Skoll, but the old man’s eyes were roving about the room. Whether he was taking in the artifacts as I had, or keeping an eye out for Mrs. Skoll, I couldn’t tell.
Then Skoll said something to the Dutchman that could’ve passed for German in my ears. I figured it must be his native tongue (or else Van Helsing’s). The Professor replied in kind, and they went on for a little while. The rest of us all just sort of stood around until Van Helsing seemed to notice us, and said;
“Your command of Dutch is admirable, sir. But I think we are alienating the others.”
Skoll laughed.
“You must forgive us. My wife told me you gave her much pleasure in speaking to her in Greek. I only wished to return the favor. And now, please allow me to introduce you to my men.”
There were a passel of tall fellows in starched shirts and coats hanging around that none of us had taken much notice of, and Skoll called them over. They were his ranch hands and cook, a little more than a dozen in all, and every one of them as big as a bull ox. I was relieved as a turkey on the last Friday in November when the Q&M boys shook hands. There was some hesitation when a little later, the lawyer walked up.
This was Vulmere, the man Early had dusted his knuckles on and gone to the calaboose for. He is a redhead and not particularly likable. The swelling in his mashed nose has gone down a bit, but it stares at you like a great yellow potato, and has left him with two dark purple rings under his angry eyes. He speaks good English, but with his snout packed full of cotton, comes off sounding nasal and irritating.
He shook hands with Cole first, and expressed (I think) his condolences. Cole took it in stride, but I saw the hackles rise on the Q&M boys, and I wished they’d refused their beers.
Then Skoll turned and glanced up the stair, as though he had heard something, or it was a cue. A minute later Mrs. Skoll appeared on the landing.
To say that she is a beautiful creature would be an understatement. I don’t think a prettier woman has ever set foot in this county. Out here a man gets used to the sort of raw skinned female with tough hands and body that are fashioned by the hard plains, wind and sun. Texas weather and Texas life will carve a woman just like it will sweep the rocks on the Llano and comb the grass in tangled waves. If you don’t want that, then you’ve got to go elsewhere, or pay for it, and the ones you have to pay for are somehow never as good as the ones you don’t. That’s not to say Texas women aren’t good looking. I’ve known a great deal that were and still are, though they are all spoken for, like plots of land with their own water.
She’s like something woven out of that black silk that gets stretched across the sky at night. They left two stars in her eyes when they made her, and filled her corners out with that stuff that twists a man’s insides into triple knots. Her skin is buttermilk and crushed strawberries, and she breezes along like one of those naked angels you sometimes see on the wall behind bars, lounging on a fancy pillow, or a cloud.
In the time it took her to come
down those stairs, I think everybody’s respect for Sig Skoll doubled. She was dressed in a fine tailored dress the hue of an April thunderhead, with handsome gray gloves to match.
I expected her to hold out her hand like some queen, but instead she went right to Van Helsing and kissed his cheek, smiling in a way that made you want to shoot the old Dutchman a few times. She said something in a language unlike the Dutch that Skoll and the Professor had used, and Van Helsing answered right back, smiling. The old fellow speaks more languages than the Apostles.
Skoll kissed her cheek and introduced her to the rest of us.
“My wife, Callisto.”
“Hello,” she said. She could have said ‘damn all your eyes’ and it would’ve sounded just as sweet.
Every man there stumbled over their fellows to introduce themselves, including myself. All but Cole and Van Helsing. When she was hit with all of us talking at once, she giggled, and the sound was like a silver bell ringing.
Skoll made introductions one at a time (he let Cole present his boys himself), and when it was my turn, I took her hand and kissed it, thinking it was what she was used to. She gave me a polite smile for my trouble. I found that her glove was not material, but a kind of fur, slightly coarse. When I came away, there was a bit of it tickling my lips. I tried not to make a show of it, but the sensation was intolerable, and I found myself brushing at my lips with a knuckle.
I excused myself, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. It’s your gloves, Mrs. Skoll. The...fur.” I licked my lips, blowing slightly. This sent some of it up my left blowhole, and in a minute I was snuffling.
Beside her, Skoll smirked .
“They’re antiques, Mr. Crooker,” she answered, swapping an amused glance with her husband. “A gift from my husband’s family.”
“Mink?” I asked, wishing I had a pocket handkerchief and eyeing one of the cowboy’s bandannas with envy.
“Ah no...,” Skoll said. “Cat.”
Everyone had a good long chuckle at that one.
It turns out I am as allergic to cat skin gloves as I am to cats.
Judge Krumholtz was showing no sign of slowing down, though his wife Ettie was whispering to him that he ought to. He put on a dignified air for Mrs. Skoll when the lady introduced herself, but the second she was gone to greet Doc Ravell and his wife Sarah, he was signaling Walker for another glass.
I found myself standing next to Van Helsing, who was pretending to look at a big woodcarving on one wall, while his eyes kept going to Mrs. Skoll across the room.
I decided to have some fun with him.
“You’re old enough to be her grandpappy, Professor,” I whispered in his ear.
He sipped his glass of beer while he thought of a reply and his eyes flashed on me.
“I don’t know of what you are speaking,” he said thickly.
“Sure,” I said. “She’s quite a sight, though.”
“Your article yesterday,” Van Helsing said, staring down at his beer glass and changing the subject quick as you please.
“Which one?”
“The one with your interview of Mr. Skoll.”
“Like it?”
“It had a few errors.”
I was getting plumb tired of him pointing out ‘errors.’
“Besides the discrepancy in dates? I thought we had that worked out.”
“What means ‘Babellian?’” said Van Helsing.
“Of or pertaining to the Tower Of Babel,” I replied. “A journalist is permitted certain flourishments of the language now and then, Professor.”
“Flourishments?”
“You teach science, right? Not English.”
Van Helsing raised his eyebrows.
“Words interest me. Especially their regional evolution. And spellings.”
I shook my head.
“I won’t be blamed for any spelling errors. It’s the typesetter’s fault.”
The old man smiled.
“I see. And who, please, is your typesetter?”
I just swirled my beer a bit, and watched the bubbles a little longingly.
There was a sudden smell of lilacs in bloom. I looked into the two most bewitching eyes any man has ever looked into. I’d previously wondered before why Skoll had sent all the way to Greece for a wife when he could’ve just picked up any big blonde Danish gal he wanted off his back porch. I didn’t wonder anymore.
“You’re not drinking, Mr. Crook?” Mrs. Skoll asked.
Standing there with the lilacs in bloom, I would’ve almost been Mr. Crook for her. Almost.
“Crooker, ma’am.”
“Forgive me,” she said. I would have forgiven her the crucifixion. “The beer is not to your liking? Our man Hrolf brews it himself.”
I was very tempted to take a drink, just to have a taste of what a man like Hrolf might call beer, but I excused myself, and said I didn’t drink.
“Oh, I see,” she said. Then she tactfully glanced at the woodcarving we’d been standing in front of. “You have found my favorite piece.”
“Tyr and Fenris, is it not?” Van Helsing commented.
She seemed delighted.
“Yes, that is what I was told...is there nothing you haven’t studied, Abraham?”
Abraham! My name is Alvin, I wanted to say.
“I read a good deal of the old sagas for a discourse I did on Northern European folklore,” Van Helsing said.
I looked at the carving for the first time. A dwarfish, ill-proportioned looking character with bug eyes and a beard had his hand jammed in the mouth of some nasty looking man-sized critter with rows of sharp teeth and a chain linked around its neck.
“Biting the hand that feeds him?” I wondered aloud.
“He is not feeding him intentionally.”
This came from Skoll, who walked up and put his hands on his wife’s shoulders.
“No,” agreed Van Helsing.
“So which one’s Tear and which one’s Fen...fen...” I struggled to remember the pronunciation.
“Fenris,” said Skoll. He pointed to that nasty looking creature. “That one. Son of Loki the god of mischief, and Angrboda, the giantess.”
“Does he have his father’s looks, or his mother’s?” I quipped.
No one smiled except Van Helsing, and him only faintly.
“When Fenris was born, he was taken by Odin, the chief of the gods, to Asgard. Odin hoped to befriend the wolf,” said Van Helsing. “But Fenris grew.”
I peered at the carving.
“That’s a wolf?” I remarked.
“He became so large the gods grew uneasy,” said Van Helsing.
“Ain’t hard to see why,” I said. “What in blazes were they feedin’ him?”
Van Helsing went on;
“They decided it best to bind the wolf lest he turn on them. They forged two magic chains to fix about his neck, but he broke each one.”
Skoll smiled and took up the story.
“And then the master smiths of the dwarves created Gleipnir. A rope as fine and thin as silk, made from the spittle of birds, the footsteps of cats, the whispers of fish, and the anguish of bears—woven with the hair of a dwarf maiden’s beard and threaded with the roots of a mountain.”
I grinned and opened my mouth to speak, but Van Helsing cut me off;
“Gleipnir would not break, but only grow stronger the more the wolf struggled.”
Then Mrs. Skoll said: “But the wolf was smarter.”
Van Helsing looked at her, his eyes all of a sudden strange.
“Yes. Fenris would not allow the rope to be put upon him, unless Tyr agreed to place his hand into the wolf’s mouth.”
I chuckled, a little out of nervousness. This talk had suddenly taken a peculiar turn, but for the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on what was so odd.
“Poor old Tear,” I said.
“You pity him, Mr. Crooker?” Skoll asked.
“Sure. I pity fools.”
“Pity Odin, then. He was t
he greater fool,” Van Helsing said.
Skoll turned to Van Helsing, and I could swear he had puffed up a little like a game rooster.
“What do you mean?”
“He already had many wolf companions,” said Van Helsing. “He didn’t need to bring Fenris to Asgard. For his folly, he lost his life. Fenris devoured him too in the end. Tyr only lost a hand. That is a small price to pay for wisdom.”
“Why do you think he brought the wolf home, Abraham?” Mrs. Skoll asked.
Van Helsing shrugged.
“Perhaps he thought he had found something he could use, but then it grew too large.”
“And what would you have done, Professor Van Helsing?” Skoll asked, his voice low.
I was bored of this odd talk. Without thinking, I said;
“He shoulda drowned it when it was a pup.”
The Skolls were looking at me strangely. At my side, Van Helsing nodded his agreement.
“Precisely.”
This seemed to put a damper on the conversation if it was ever very lively, which for my taste it was not.
“You are well versed in the old stories, Professor,” said Skoll, after they all had sipped their beers in quiet, listening to the low talk around the house and the patter of the rain outside.
“I like the way you tell them better, husband,” Mrs. Skoll said, resting a hand lightly on Sig’s shoulder.
Van Helsing looked stung.
“If I have given some offence...”
“Of course not,” Skoll said. “What offence can there be in old stories? We must talk of these things again sometime before you return to Amsterdam. Please excuse us.”
And they went off across the room to mix with the Ravells.
“What in hell was all that about?” I asked, when they were both gone, arm in arm.
But Van Helsing had nothing else to say. He just stared at that woodcarving.
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