"Can you make me look…perhaps, less menacing. And more handsome?"
Daniel nodded, forcibly holding back a smile. "Certainly, Your Grace."
Schwerin Palace, Mecklenburg-Schwerin
December 17
Getting the Neo-Expressionist sketch approved was easier than Daniel had expected. Perhaps Duke Frederick was making a statement with his swift agreement, accepting the first concept submitted ("No mere court painter is going to tell me what styles I should like!"). He wouldn't put it past the duke to behave in that manner. But in truth, Daniel was pleased.
He had put forward a sketch showing a mix of Georg Baselitz (a key member of the so-called Neue Wilden movement of Germany), and Anselm Kiefer, with his dark, brooding, earth-tone imagery. Baselitz was famous for hanging his portraits upside down, so Daniel did a simple sketch of the duke's entire family hanging like fruit from a tree branch, all angles sharp and threatening, with just a touch of red and green interlaced between Kiefer's pitch-black shadows. The duke loved it, and so it was concluded: All four sketches were approved. Time to go home.
But a letter had arrived for him moments ago, and Daniel now sat in his and Benjamin's small room, letting the hastily written words bang around in his mind:
Come to Grabow. I have news of Adolf's whereabouts.
Apparently, word of his and Benjamin's trip to Schwerin Castle has spread quickly. Daniel didn't know whether to find that professionally encouraging (he was important enough to elicit such tracking) or disturbing. The words in the letter certainly filled him with dread. Dread and hope. Hope because of the idea that he might soon reconnect with his son Adolf after so many years. Dread, because the man who had written the letter was no friend.
"What does it say, Papa?" Benjamin asked, craning his neck to read the letter.
Daniel turned the parchment a little to keep his son from seeing what it contained.
"Is it from Mama?"
"No," Daniel said. "From an old friend."
He hated lying to his son, but Benjamin was too young to understand what his father had been like in his youth. The sweet boy didn't know the kind of drunkard he had been and how quickly he had chosen violence over restraint to carry his message to perceived enemies. But the man who had written this letter knew. And perhaps he wants to settle old scores. Perhaps this is a trap.But, the potential reward outweighed the risks.
Daniel folded the letter and tucked it into his vest pocket. "Gather up your things, my boy. And pack up your drawing for Mama carefully. We're going to make a brief detour on our way home."
Grabow, Germany
December 18
Despite warnings of a snowstorm on the horizon, coming in strong from the northeast, Daniel and Benjamin packed their cart, bid the duke, the duchess, and their children a more-or-less fond farewell, then headed toward the town of Grabow. It wasn't very far from the castle, and with any luck, they'd make it there before the snows piled high. Benjamin was happy to be going home; he missed his mother and baby Ursula. But he was still grumpy and whiny the entire trip.
"When are we going to get there?" he asked more than once. "Why did we have to leave today? John George and I were going to play army men. When are we coming back? When…"
On and on and on it went.
Before long, the snows began as a light dusting, then changed to a strong, steady fall by the time they reached the town.
Though he was chilled and damp, and his bones ached from the bumping and swaying of the cart, it was quite beautiful in Daniel's eyes, the world being shrouded in fine white flakes. He thought of Norman Rockwell's Deadman's Hill and Claude Monet's Train in the Snow. Wonderful portrayals of life in winter. Daniel smiled as he took it all in. In spite of his discomfort, he realized that he'd be having quite a pleasant ride, if it weren't for the incessant complaints of the five-year-old by his side.
As they rode into Grabow, Daniel yelled, "Silence!" loud enough to attract the attention of passers-by.
Benjamin was taken by surprise and cringed as if he were bracing for a blow.
That made Daniel even angrier. As he slowed the cart to a halt outside of a likely-looking tavern, he said, "Wait here–and I don't want to hear another word out of you!"
Daniel secured lodging. Though they were crowded with travelers seeking shelter in the storm, it wasn't difficult to secure a room once he told the woman who owned the place who he was and that he'd been commissioned by the duke. Still, he paid twice what a room would normally cost, for what he learned would be the tavern owner's daughter's room. Daniel ignored a nasty look from a woman who was seeking a room as well. Under normal circumstances, he might have stepped back and given her deference. But, not tonight. Tonight, he needed to know that he and Benjamin would be safe from the storm. Tonight, if God were kind, he'd learn of his son Adolf's whereabouts. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with that goal.
They secured their horse and cart in the tavern's stable. Another expense, but an unavoidable one. They unloaded their things and went to the room, which was small but cozy.
An awkward silence fell between them. Benjamin had indeed shut up, but Daniel could tell that he was about to burst into tears. Benjamin wasn't used to his father being harsh; he didn't know how to react. Daniel suddenly felt terrible. He wasn't mad at Benjamin, really. Sure, the boy had been difficult on the trip, but what he was really angry–no, scared–about was the meeting with that man. He looked down at his hand. It was shaking.
Daniel broke the silence first. "We'll have a little dinner, and then I have to go see a man about your half-brother, Adolf."
Benjamin looked up from the bed. He was holding a comic, but too upset to really read it. "Where are you going?"
Daniel pointed to the window. "Just a little ways down the street."
"I want to come with you."
"No! You stay here. You work on your drawing for your mama. You don't have much more to do. I'll only be a little while."
A tear ran down Benjamin's cheek. "I don't want you to go."
Daniel sighed deeply, containing his frustration. "This is important, Benjamin. It's about your brother." He pulled the man's letter from his vest pocket, smoothed it out, and handed it to his son. "The address is on this paper. If you need me for something–something important–you go downstairs and tell the tavern keeper. She will get word to me. Understand?"
Benjamin pushed the paper into his pocket.
Daniel could see that Benjamin understood, but he did not want to agree. Finally, the boy nodded. Daniel smiled and said, "Good. Now come on, let's get something to eat."
Benjamin closed his comic and got up. Daniel offered him his hand. He took it.
"Why are you shaking, Daddy?"
Daniel did not answer.
****
It had been almost an hour already, and Benjamin was afraid. Not just because his father had been gone so long–that was bad enough–but someone was shouting in the next room. He couldn't understand the words, but he understood the anger well enough. And he understood the crash of something slamming into the wall and breaking. He also knew that there was no lock on the door. And perhaps even worse, there was something in the comic book he was reading so dreadful that even the Hulk, he feared, could not survive.
He dropped the comic on the bed and picked up the tube that held his drawing. He wished more than anything that his mother were there with him. She was always so calm–calmer than his father. She made even the loudest, most terrifying storms fade away.
And then he thought about his father once more, and suddenly he was even more afraid. His father had been so secretive and so upset about his trip through the snow. He'd only seen him that upset once–when Benjamin's brother Emanuel had died. Was it possible his father was in danger now?
There was another, even bigger crash in the room next door, and the wall bowed under the pressure. Benjamin let out a squeak in fear, and then grabbed his coat and ran out the door, still clutching the drawing in its tube. He woul
d find his father, and he would not leave his side.
The storm wasn't so bad when Benjamin burst through the tavern's door and onto the street. It was still snowing, but he could see well enough to cross the street and start heading in the direction his father had pointed.
He trudged for some time in that direction–maybe fifteen minutes? He wasn't sure. It was rough going through the deepening drifts, and the wind and snow had picked up again. He looked around, and back the way he came, but wind-blown ice stung his eyes. He could barely see ten feet in front of himself–and then a few moments later, the snow swirled so thickly he was nearly blind.
He gasped, struggling to keep from crying. He had to be brave and calm. He thought of Ursula and how she always urged him to take a deep breath and think before he acted. She was always so strong.
And then he remembered: his father had given him that slip of paper showing the address where he could be found. Benjamin carefully slung his drawing tube over his shoulder using its long leather strap, as he pulled the paper from his pocket. He opened it and–the wind gusted and tore it from his grasp.
He lunged at it, but the wind whisked it away. He ran, stumbling, in the direction he thought it had gone. He had to find it. He had to.
Benjamin continued for some time to struggle and jump through snow that kept piling higher, determined to keep going–for Ursula, for his mother, for his father. For Superman. For the injured Hulk, whom he so admired. But at last, he creaked to a halt in deep snow, exhausted. He was wet from sweat, which he knew was dangerous–and lost. Hopelessly lost. He waited, chilled, hoping–praying–for the wind to ease and show him where he was. But even when the wind did slow down, he could barely see anything but snow.
Finally, in an all-too-brief lull, Benjamin saw an odd shape ahead, through a small patch of trees. It was square, squat, and leaning, like maybe a broken-down old shed. He started moving toward it, terrified he would lose sight of it. He couldn't let that happen.
After a few steps, he stumbled into a tree branch–not very hard, luckily, but enough to make him wary of the rest. He moved a little slower after that, holding his hands forward so he could feel his way through branches that tried to claw at his arms and his neck.
After an unbearably long, slow slog, with leaden, nearly-numb arms and legs, and feet he could no longer feel, he got to the odd shape, burrowed down through the snow, found a door, and pushed his way into the small shelter.
He collapsed onto a dirt floor littered with leaves, sticks, and broken bits of equipment: a bucket with a hole in it, some boards, rotten lengths of rope, some harness long past use. And–he gasped as he saw it–a ratty blanket with holes and stains. It would do.
He closed the door he had entered through, allowing only a faint light into the cramped space, and quickly stripped off his shoes and wet socks, wrapping his legs and feet in the blanket. It was wool–it would warm him, though slowly. He hoped.
And in the meantime…he knew his father would come looking for him. Sooner or later–and hopefully sooner. His papa would rescue him. He smiled and sank back, exhausted. He relaxed, snug in his frozen cave, his breath puffing clouds of steam into the air. His eyes began to close, and his breathing deepened.
And then he sat up with a gasp. "No, no," he said. "I must not. I must not sleep."
He had heard the tales–from his mother and father, from Ursula and her brother Melchior, and even from Gustavus Adolphus himself. Everyone knew of someone who had died in the snow–trapped, lost, and exhausted. Someone who just stopped to rest for a moment. He must not allow himself to sleep.
And now that he thought about it–how on earth would his father find him? He'd barely found the shelter himself. His father would have no way of knowing where he was.
He dug about in the shelter, looking for something he could use to make a signal. A pole, perhaps, or…something. But there was almost nothing, and what was there was so old and crumbling. He groaned.
"What can I do? What can I do?" he whispered to himself, shivering. He took a small clump of snow and stuck it in his mouth. He knew it would only make him colder, but his mouth was dry. He winced as he felt stabs of pain in his feet, but realized with relief that it meant they were warming up.
If only, he thought, plucking at the blanket over his legs and feet. It might make a good enough banner to catch someone's attention–but he needed it. Desperately.
He shifted, and the tube at his back clunked against his elbow. His drawing.
He pulled it around and looked at the case. By itself, he knew, it looked much like a tree branch. By itself, it would be no use. But with the drawing...
He groaned again, louder. Not his drawing. Not the drawing that he had spent so many months on–planning, sketching, coloring. It was a masterpiece–even the Duke had said so. And his mother would love it.
He thought about it for a minute and sighed. Yes, she would have loved it. She would have cried at the sight of it, and she would have treasured it forever.
Benjamin opened the case, pulled out his drawing, and studied it for a moment. He remembered folding paper to make fans with Ursula once, and the paper had been so strong when it had been folded.
He got started, making the same sort of folds. And as he worked, tears gathered in his eyes, and dripped down on his work of art, his work of love, causing the ink to run. But it didn't matter, not anymore. He knew his mother would cry far more and far longer if his father returned home without him. His father would, too. Being found was all that mattered now.
****
Daniel had stopped at another tavern–this one far seedier than the one he and Benjamin were lodging at–on the way to his appointment. He needed a little something to steady his nerves. But only one, he promised himself. Only one, on a night like this.
The place looked better and larger on the inside than he'd expected. After a pause to look around, Daniel headed to the bar and asked for a pint. He was surprised to see the proprietor wearing a Grantville High School T-shirt.
"You are from there?" Daniel asked, pointing at the shirt.
"You bet!" the man said. "The name's Emmett Rawls, but most folks call me Swooser. Don't ask why." He laughed at that. "My wife Ida finally talked me into moving out here. She had family in Grabow, way back. On her mother's side, I think. And you know, I've always wanted to run a bar, and we got this one for a song. Kind of tired of just being a handyman around Grantville."
At that moment, an old man slumped at the end of the bar slid off his stool and crashed to the floor.
"Psshh," Swooser said. "Barflies! They're the bane of my existence."
A younger man came through a door into the main room, and Swooser waved at him to toss the drunk outside.
"Ah, sir," the young German said, "it'll be the death of him if I do."
Swooser groaned. "Of course, of course." He shook his head. "This weather…Toss him into an empty stall in the barn. Leave him a bucket, and throw a horse blanket over him."
"Yes sir."
Once the door was closed on the two men, Swooser leaned his elbows on the bar and asked Daniel if he'd ever traveled to Grantville.
The men spent the next hour sharing stories and discovering all the people they knew in common. Daniel's "only one beer" turned into two, and nearly three, but Swooser saw him hesitate.
"Need to stop?" Swooser asked.
"Ja, ja," Daniel said, wincing.
Swooser set a glass of water in front of him instead, along with some crackers. "Those'll dry you right up, and the water will give you your energy back. Just like magic," he chuckled.
They chatted for a few more minutes, until Daniel knew it was time to go to the meeting he both longed for and dreaded.
He and Swooser shook hands warmly and promised to stay in touch, and Daniel headed out into the now-even-nastier snowstorm.
Daniel found the house easily enough, and his old "friend" welcomed him with apparent pleasure. But that pleasure quickly turned to rage.
/> Daniel ducked the first blow, but was not prepared for the next. The knuckles of the large man calling himself Linus found his kidney, and Daniel fell to the floor, wincing in pain. The man stood over him, breathing deeply, his foul breath stinking of bad meat and stale beer.
"I should have killed you that night," Linus said, all disheveled and looking like he was about to strike again. "You broke my nose."
Daniel huffed. "An improvement overall, I would say, in your looks."
Before Linus could strike again, Daniel lurched to his knees, driving his fist into the man's crotch, doubling him over. Daniel scuttled back to let the man drop to the floor.
Daniel tried getting up, but Linus's fat hand swung out and grabbed Daniel's boot, taking him down again. Daniel kicked out, got free from the man's grasp, and found his footing on the other side of the table.
"Enough of this," he said, trying to catch his breath. "We are both too old for this kind of foolishness anymore. I did not come here to fight."
Linus rose slowly. The grimace on his face made it clear to Daniel that he was struggling to keep from vomiting. The flintlock in his hand made it clear that he meant business.
Daniel put up his hands. "Don't be a fool, Linus. You've always been a son of a bitch, but you've never been stupid."
"Yes, yes," Linus said, wavering on weak legs. "I should have killed you that night. You stole my money, my woman. You broke my nose. Why should I not kill you now?"
Daniel thought of his son Benjamin, and his wife and baby girl. He forced the fear out of his voice and said coolly, "Many people know where I am, and with whom. Did you really think I'd come here without protection? You would be hunted down and killed if you harmed me. As you no doubt know, the emperor is a friend of mine. He would see you dead for it."
Keeping the pistol trained on Daniel's head, Linus said, "I hope you brought money with you."
Daniel nodded. "Yes. I have some."
"Of course. You are Duke Frederick's whore now, aren't you?" Linus lowered the pistol, stumbled back into a chair at the table, and plopped down with all his weight. The chair groaned beneath his girth. "A lot of talk about you on the wind, Herr von Block. A king's whore. A duke's whore. You've spread yourself thin these days, eh? But still making that money."
Grantville Gazette, Volume 67 Page 10
