by Eric Flint
Bowing to the inevitable, North reached under the cot and inventoried his options.
Not bad, really. The histories, of course. Several novels, Adams Smith's Wealth of Nations, a discourse on international relations and a green ledger book which apparently held the Albernian company's fourth quarter books. Even a supply of cigars had been included.
"Damn you Liam Donovan to the seventh concentric ring of hell!" North screamed to all and any who could hear him. "I hate paperwork."
Then, sighing happily, he lit his first cigar in months.
Chief Frost's growling voice rolled down the corridor. "No smoking in the jail."
Just One Of Those Days
By Leonard Hollar
The day had begun badly for Matti. First, as his cavalry troop broke camp, one of the ties that was supposed to hold his bed roll on his saddle broke; and then the spare broke, too! So, by the time he finally got his gear stowed he had to join the rear of the column instead of being at the front in his usual place as a scout. And now, as they were charging up the hill to attack the Croats by that odd-looking building, after working hard to get back to his rightful place near the head of the column, his horse had stepped in a hole, broken its leg and thrown Matti head over heels to the ground. But that didn't seem to be the worst; Matti had just finished putting his horse out of its misery when a bush had risen out of the ground and aimed an arrow at him. An arrow nocked to one of the strangest bows Matti had ever seen. An arrow three of whose companions were protruding from the backs of three dead Croats not far away.
For the first time in his adult life, Matti Antinpoika, of Captain Gars' troop of cavalry, felt like crying.
"A bush," Matti said to himself, "can't aim an arrow at anyone, so this must really be a person... I hope." By this time the bush was making an unmistakable motion for Matti to raise his hands. Not being a fool, hands and arms went as high into the air as he could reach.
Behind him Matti heard his brothers in arms make first contact with the Croats with their cries of, "Gott mit uns! Haakaa päälle!" In front of him he saw that the arrow was no longer aimed at him.
* * *
It was the noise that roused Curtis Maggard from a sound sleep. The whuffing, grunting sound of a hog at the slops trough. Except Curtis and his mother had neither trough nor hog. Curtis lay there for a moment, then, as realization of what he was hearing penetrated, he flew out of his bed with a shout. "Mutti, in unserem Garten war ein Wildschwein!" Curtis got the front door of the house open just in time to see a curly tail disappearing into the woods on the other side of their garden as dawn was breaking over the hilltop.
"Damn and blast! Three months getting that garden up to Mom's standards, and now it's all gone in one night." As he surveyed the damage, Curtis marveled at the amount of damage one boar could do. He also decided there would be a substitute to the menu in the Maggard home for a while. Pork for veggies!
As Curtis put on what he thought of as his tree suit, he considered the irony of life that had returned his mother and himself to the land of their birth. Even if it was almost four hundred years early. He also thought about how much better his mother's state of mind had become now that there were so many people to whom she could talk since, for whatever reason, she had never been able to comprehend the English language and very few people in Grantville could converse with her in German. The Ring of Fire had wrought a great change in Hilda Maggard's life.
Finished with both his rumination and his dressing, Curtis picked up his bow as he headed out the door a few minutes later. The bow, in the Mongol style, was one that he had handcrafted as his masterpiece only two years ago. Quiet, with a draw of well over one hundred pounds, this bow, or its earlier, less well-made kin, had kept the Maggard family in food for the nearly five years since the disappearance of Henry Maggard, Curtis' father.
As Curtis entered the woods in pursuit of the hog, his other talent soon became apparent. He made no sound that would be out of place in the forest. In the woods, Curtis Maggard was a wraith. His stealth in the woods gave Curtis a certain reputation in Grantville and its environs. He always got his deer, or pig, or anything else he hunted. He also had never been caught getting his deer, pig, or whatever, despite having never gone through the formality of licensure or worrying about a potential meal being in season or not.
Ninety minutes after he began tracking the big boar, Curtis came upon the bodies of three men and a woman. The woman had been decapitated. After a quick look around, and determining that a large number of horses had gone by at about the same time as people had been killed, Curtis took off in a long-legged lope toward the nearest phone. At the high school.
It was only a few minutes before the realization came that the mysterious riders and Curtis had the same destination. With knowledge came action, and action was a change of path. After following game trails that paralleled the track of the horsemen Curtis slipped over the top of the ridge above the high school just as the shooting began. He watched with grim satisfaction as he heard five rapid shots and saw five saddles suddenly empty. "Hah," he thought to himself, "Julie must be down there. Let's see if I can't help out just a bit."
In his camouflage clothing it took little time for Curtis to approach to within a hundred yards of the milling riders in the school parking lot. Three times he nocked an arrow and drew his bow, and three times a horsemen fell. He had just nocked his fourth arrow when he heard more horses coming from behind him. It took only the blink of an eye for Curtis to blend in with the bushes around a deadfall and disappear from sight.
Just as he froze in place, the second group of horsemen galloped past his hiding place. Taking his chance, he let go the arrow he had ready and grabbed another from his quiver. This he hurriedly prepared to fire.
* * *
It was then that Curtis realized he had missed his fourth target as he watched the horse that had lunged in the way of his arrow spill its rider and drop to the ground. There also came the realization that he now had an opportunity to take a prisoner. With his bow partially drawn and aimed at the man on the ground Curtis made a small up and down motion. That was all it took; the cavalryman's hands and arms went straight up to the sky.
As Curtis approached his prisoner he heard the new arrivals begin yelling, "Gott mit uns! Haakaa päälle!" and saw them begin to assault the rear of the people attacking the school. Trusting in the old saying that the enemy of his enemy was his friend, Curtis lowered his bow and asked, "Do you speak English?" At the look of confusion on the prisoner's face Curtis tried a different question. "Sprechen Sie Deutch?"
* * *
Matti stood there with his hands in the air awaiting his fate. Expecting momentarily to feel the pain of an arrow piercing his heart he was surprised when the bowman released the tension on the string and let the point drift from being aimed at his chest. The bush spoke: "Gobbledy gook?" His confusion must have transmitted itself to his captor for the next words were, "Do you speak German?"
"Yes! Yes, I do!" said a very relieved soldier. "Are you from Grantville?"
"Right now, I'll ask the questions, if you please," replied the bush. "Who are you people and who are those people who attacked the school?"
Keeping in mind the status of his commander, Matti was careful in his reply. "I am Matti Antinpoika, and we are a troop of Gustav Adolphus' Västgöta under the command of Captain Gars. Those other people are Croats. We picked up their trail two days ago and followed as rapidly as we could. Captain Gars did not..."
The bush interupted. "So, then, you really are the good guys."
"Why, yes, I suppose we are."
"Good, that means you won't stab me in the back while I take care of a little business." With that, the bush turned its back—yes, it was indeed a man, that was now obvious—went to his knees and began heaving the contents of his stomach. After progressing to dry heaves he stood back up, turned around and found Matti holding a flask out to him.
"Here, my young friend, drink some of this."
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Finally rinsing the taste of bile from his mouth the man told Matti, "Thanks, I've hunted for the pot for years, but I never dreamt I would ever have to kill a man, much less three. It kind of got to me."
"Well, my young friend, you have nothing... By the way, just what is your name? I can't go around just calling you my 'young friend' now, can I?"
"Curtis Maggard, at your service and most pleased to meet you. I just hope you don't mind if I call you Matti, because I don't think I can get my tongue around that last name of yours.
"I have another question for you, if I may," Curtis continued, "Why is it that when every one else in that bunch of yours seemed to be coming down the hill in an orderly manner, you were off to this side galloping like a bat out of hell?"
"Because I was trying to catch up. Today has not been one of the best in my life." Matti's hangdog expression as he replied caused Curtis to stifle a laugh. "I was assigned as one of the group to stay near Captain Gars because our good captain gets sometimes too enthusiastic in what he does. Unfortunately, I had some problems with my equipment and, of course, since neither the Croats nor Captain Gars waited for me, I was left to trail along behind. When we topped the hill up there and I saw that we had caught the Croats I tried my very best to catch up so I could carry out my duty to my captain. But then my horse stumbled and a bush, you, took me prisoner. All in all, not such a good day. Now, will you come and help me get my gear from my horse? Perhaps I can catch up one of those left by a less fortunate Croat, hah!"
As the two men approached the horse to retreive Matti's gear, they both saw that the horse had not stumbled in a hole after all. For there, protruding from where it had shattered the cannon bone in the horse's right front leg, was the fourth arrow Curtis had loosed.
Matti began to first giggle and then laugh hysterically.
As the laughter began to subside Matti turned to Curtis, pointed and said, "You! You did this. Why did you shoot my horse? Did some devil put you up to this to finish the work he began this morning?"
* * *
As he stood there, not knowing whether to join in the laughter or run like hell, Curtis's thoughts went back to his actions during the fight and the charge of the Västgöta. As the scene unfolded in his mind, realization dawned as to what had really occurred here.
"Matti, which one was Captain Gars?"
"What? What does that have to do with my horse?"
"Please, Matti, humor me. Was he the real big guy with no helmet on?"
Matti, at this point, became completely serious when he answered, "Why, yes. He has a bullet in his neck or back and can't wear a helmet. And you ask this why?"
"Why? Because that's who I aimed that arrow at, Matti! You did your duty. You saved Captain Gars' life."
The next words out of Curtis' mouth were even louder, "MEDIC, MEDIC!!!!"
For the first time in his life, Matti Antinpoika had fainted.
God's Gifts
By Gorg Huff
In the pages below I will try to relate my slow and torturous route to what I pray is a better understanding of God's will. My name is Steffan Schultheiss. I am not, and never have been, a particularly handsome nor, save from the pulpit, an imposing man. There, God's grace fills me, and all modesty aside, I speak with power and conviction. I am the senior pastor of the St. Nicholas' Church in Badenburg. This is primarily because of the political astuteness and connections of my wife Margreth. She is the youngest daughter of a former mayor of Badenburg, and was raised to the politics of her situation.
I was born the son of a shoemaker in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and seventy-four. I did well in school, and was given scholarships that led me to Jena, where I did very well in rhetoric and theology. From Jena I returned to Badenburg and became the most junior of pastors. Then Margreth picked me. For which kindness I thank God regularly. Over the ensuing years she has taught me much of the workings of politics in Badenburg. In the year sixteen hundred and twenty-five I was given the post of senior pastor of the largest congregation in Badenburg.
Badenburg is a Lutheran town. St. Nicholas was the more conservative of the two main congregations. Each of which had some smaller churches as part of our congregations. St. John's was only slightly smaller in size and I felt somewhat loose in its interpretation of the Bible and Martin Luther's teachings.
When the Ring of Fire happened, I was at my desk writing yet another sermon on patience and praying for God's help. The last several years I had had a lot of practice preaching patience and praying for God's help. The war hurt Badenburg in a number of direct and indirect ways. The most recent and severe problem had been the extortion of a group of mercenaries, which the council had been convinced, at the point of a knife, to hire to protect the town.
God's gifts, to me, had always been the little things: the flowers, a baby born safe and healthy. The big things discussed in the Bible—parting the Red Sea, destroying towns that displeased The Lord—were all, I knew, in the distant past. Christ was more subtle, feeding the masses with a few loaves and fishes, turning water into wine. After Christ there was no more need for any big miracles. I rather preferred the smaller gentler miracles, anyway. After all, I had no desire at all to have my hometown added to a list that included such places as Sodom, Gomorrah, and Babel. Besides, I had been taught that all that was needed to understand the will of God was written down in the Bible. Still, I prayed, a bit of help in keeping my home town alive would not go amiss.
So I worked on Sunday's sermon, and prayed for God's aid. When the miracle happened, I didn't see it. When Margreth told me about it, I, like doubting Thomas, didn't believe. I had to see the miracle and more, before I believed.
As Margreth told it to me, she had been in the market and faced toward the east gate. As she looked down Market Street, she saw a dome of light a bit to the south and well beyond the city wall. She only saw about the upper third of it and buildings in the way blocked part of that. From what she said the phenomena was a perfect hemisphere miles across. She told me of wondering if Rudolstadt was still there. After the dome of light there came thunder as it follows lightning, but this was not lightning.
Enough people had witnessed the event, whatever it was, that she judged shopping was no longer so important and rushed home to inform me so that I would be prepared to deal with the fear it would cause.
It was a noble thought, and I rewarded it with ill-concealed scorn. It was a distant storm or an optical illusion. Irritated and grumpy with the interruption of my work, I accompanied my good wife to the east wall. I should have listened with more care and less scorn. Crowds were gathering along our route. Questions about the nature of the event were asked of me. I had no answers.
I was ushered up into the gate tower from which I could see some distance. Rudolstadt was still there—I could see the higher buildings. A bit to the south, I could see the results of the event of which Margreth had spoken. One of the mercenaries pointed out the changes. The land had been altered. I knew it wasn't a miracle, for God was sending no more prophets or miracles. Paul had said so in his letters. People would think of it as a miracle, though. How else was one to think of it?
I urged caution in dealing with the event. I continued to urge caution over the following weeks and months, slowly changing the specifics of my comments and sermons as we learned more of what had happened.
* * *
I first met Americans in the council house. They were disappointing in that they were simply people, not angels or demons. They told a story which was unbelievable, yet mostly believed. They said they were from the future—nearly four centuries in the future—from a place called West Virginia, in the Americas.
I began to really believe what they had told me about their origins. Everything was too consistent for a fabrication. I visited the Ring of Fire several times over the weeks following its appearance. There was a Catholic Church next door to a Protestant Church. There were lots of churches, each independent of the others. The books matched the s
tory. All the evidence fit together, each piece supporting every other.
God had chosen to take a hand in the sort of hard material way that he hadn't since Old Testament times. However, the Protestant doctrine of sola scriptura said that didn't happen anymore. One of the strongest tenets of the Reformation had been thrown out, not by the overweening Church of Rome, but by God Himself.
I prayed for understanding but it eluded me. The people there were not saints and angels, nor were they demons and devils. Not all the people there were good Christians. The good were not necessarily the Christian, and the Christian not necessarily the good. I was treated well by people who professed Christian beliefs, and badly by others professing the same. I had met kind and caring people who professed to not believe in God at all, and others who were rude in their arrogant certainty that there was no God, even when faced with the clear evidence of the Ring of Fire. There was no pattern I could get a grip on.
I continued to urge caution on my congregation in dealing with the Americans. Still the Ring of Fire drew me like a moth to a flame.
God had done something special here. I could look at the cliffs God had made and feel His presence. There was a peace and confidence which I had felt before, but never so strongly as I felt it here. This could not be explained away. Whatever it meant, this was a miracle no one could deny. The Ring of Fire and the land within it was holy ground beyond all doubt.
I found it distressing that the up-timers failed to see it. They had from the day they arrived felt free to change things, to modify God's work.
* * *
I saw much of the Battle of Badenburg from the city walls. Badenburg would not challenge the New United States in any major way. The one-sidedness of the battle made that clear. The up-timers could, if they would, force us to their will. Why they hadn't done so was less clear. That they hadn't, was reason to hope.
