Written by Garrett W. Vance
Summer of 1634
"All right everyone, hold real still!" The small group of third graders froze, looks of excitement on their faces. What great kids! There was movement in the tall reeds along the edges of the narrow inlet; once a West Virginia hollow, now an arm of a tree lined lake formed by a Thuringian stream colliding with a Ring of Fire hillside appearing in its path. It was harder to see 'the rim' of the ring these days, time had meshed and melded the North American and European ecologies along its border. From out of the native water grass that had found a home in the formerly West Virginian soil appeared a mother duck and ten brown downed ducklings, much to everyone's delight.
"That's a 'Wood Duck'!" Pam told the gathered students of the summer nature program she was putting on in conjunction with the middle school. "It's one of the species that came through the Ring of Fire. This new lake has created a perfect habitat for it. I'll bet her nest is in those pine trees over there." Pam pointed to the pines that lined the lake's edge in what had once been a Thuringian stream valley. The ghostly silver tops of less fortunate trees below them poked out of the surface along the wooded shore; they had drowned when the lake formed but their protruding upper branches and sunken trunks provided excellent homes for fish and water insects as well as protective cover for shorebirds. Pam's practiced eyes found a European kingfisher perched on a dead branch waiting for a fat minnow to target. The kingfishers were shy but maybe the kids would be able to get a glimpse later if they stayed quiet—right now there were ducklings in front of them. There was no point in trying to drag their attention away just yet; baby ducks are a hard act to follow!
"The male of this species was considered to be one of up-time America's most beautiful birds. There are no other ducks like it in Europe, fossil studies told us that it originated in North America and its closest relative is the Mandarin duck of China. I'm really glad they came along with us. If we're lucky we will see this group's poppa before we end the day." The kids oohed and aahed appreciatively. Their accompanying schoolteacher asked the kids to open their sketch books to record their sighting as the family of wood ducks paddled around in the nearby shallows. Pam wandered over to where Gerbald stood careful watch farther up the hollow's steep side. Despite his usual impassive expression Pam could see wrinkles of pleasure had formed around his bright blue eyes. Gerbald was such a softy under that stony exterior, the retired soldier was immensely enjoying playing bodyguard for the children.
The summer nature program was proving to be a resounding success; everyone involved was having a lot of fun, even stoic Gerbald. Pam felt proud of the program that had been her brainchild. Her interest in birds had grown to include the entire ecology that they were a part of, she had spent long hours in the National Library devouring all the material she could find; she was a well trained researcher and had rapidly absorbed a vast amount of information. She was also making progress on her pet project, writing and illustrating her Birds of the USE -A Field Guide. It was fun to think that she would be the default 'John J Audubon' of this universe, something that would have been impossible to imagine in her old life. She smiled up into the blue skies of seventeenth-century Germany, a place that was finally feeling like home.
The next day, Pam and Gerbald led a group of lively sixth graders up the now well worn trail to the lake. She enjoyed their cheerful banter as they lollygagged along, even though the noise was probably scaring off all the birds within a mile radius. Pam marveled at the adaptability of children, the mixed group of up-time and down-time Americans were yakking away in an untidy mishmash of English and German. Pam's German had progressed to where she could catch most it but apparently an arcane slang vocabulary was already developing, indecipherable to the hopelessly un-hip ears of an adult.
As she walked through the sun dappled woods listening to the babble around her, Pam reminisced on a long ago dinner party at the home of a work colleague from Morgantown who had spent many years working in Japan and had returned with a Japanese wife. At the table the two of them spoke in perfectly normal English. Of course, his very charming wife barely had an accent; but, when they were alone together in the kitchen bringing out more wine or another course, Pam overheard them both switch to a nearly incomprehensible mix of their respective languages. " Atsui yo, use the oven mitts, neh!" Pam didn't want to embarrass them, but couldn't help but ask them about it; her hosts just laughed. "Forgive our 'Japan-glish', we can't help it!" They explained that some words just "sounded better" in one or the other languages and so when trying to get an idea across they chose freely from both vocabularies. Listening to her junior birdwatchers Pam was sure she was hearing the sound of the future of their hybrid nation. Up-time Americans were going to have to get bilingual fast or they wouldn't be able to understand what their own kids were talking about!
Pam shushed the exuberant group as they arrived at the inlet. "All right everyone, it's time to be quiet and see which birds are here with us today. Yesterday there was a mother wood duck with her ducklings and they were darn cute!" The kids quieted down more quickly than she would expect. An excellent German influence on our up-time kids—when it's time to be quiet they do it, no argument! Pam was not one who flinched at applying some strictness in a child's upbringing, and rather admired the Germans for their expertise on the subject. She hoped her own Walt didn't resent her too much and she was awfully proud of how he had turned out. I wasn't the easiest mother to have, I know . . . I liked things my way and was damned picky! But maybe the discipline I taught him is making things easier for him as a young adult in this age. I hope so, anyway.
The kid's school teacher at Fluharty Middle School, Stacey Antoni, a very pleasant lady who had lost a husband to the Ring of Fire, had gathered them by the shore in a semblance of order, ready for Pam to get started. Gerbald had taken his usual watchful place on the hill side, their safety was in good hands. Pam began her introduction.
"This lake is an excellent example of the adaptation and mixture between North American and European ecologies along the Ring of Fire's rim. These reeds are a native German species that find they like the richness of West Virginia's soil much to their liking. The reeds are providing excellent habitat for a North American duck species, the wood duck, which we will hopefully—" Pam stopped her lecture when she noticed she had completely lost the attention of several schoolgirls nearest the water's edge.
"Oh, look! The liebchen, they are so cute!"
Baby ducks. Pam smiled ruefully. There is no competing with baby ducks.
"—see today. Well everyone, it appears that we have met our American ducks. The mother wood duck has grown accustomed to our visits and is no longer very shy. They like to stay in shallow water where they can find a lot of small insects to eat—"
"Ms. Miller!" A sweetly gawky-looking boy whose weight hadn't caught up with his latest growth spurt interrupted her. "Ms. Miller, where is the mother duck?"
Pam stepped closer to the still waters. The ducklings were huddled together beside a clump of marsh grass. They were strangely quiet and weren't engaged in their usual search for food. Pam scanned the shore for the wood duck hen; she was nowhere to be seen.
"That's odd." Pam looked back at the silent ducklings. There were only eight of them—the day before there had been ten.
Pam saw Gerbald, who seemed to possess an uncanny sixth sense when it came to trouble, was already coming down the hillside toward the group; a flash of blue as well trained eyes scanned the terrain from the shade of his monstrous hat's floppy brim.
Pam turned back to her group of students. "Well kids, it is a bit unusual for a mother duck to leave her babies unattended, but not unheard of. She may just be out looking for food and thought they would be safe here. Now is a good chance for you to get out your sketchbooks and get a picture drawn of them while they are sitting still." Pam flashed a quick concerned look to their teacher who returned a subtle nod. Message received, good teachers have an instinct for trouble. The teacher quickly went about getting the notebooks deployed and the students distracted with work. Pam walked casually but quickly to Gerbald who had moved quietly along the shore toward the inlet's mouth, his gaze alternating between the muddy ground and the vicinity.
"Gerbald, the mother duck and some of her ducklings are missing. I have a bad feeling about it. . . . Maybe a fox?"
"Pam, I am looking for tracks. If they are here I will find." They didn't discuss the subject much but Pam knew that Gerbald had extensive hunting experience. As a former professional soldier there was no doubt a good many of his meals had come from the region's many forests. Gerbald was a very savvy woodsman. Born and raised in West Virginia, Pam was no stranger to the hunter's art. She had even brought down a buck herself on a hunting trip with her uncles and cousins back in her teens. She hadn't burst into tears as so many do, she had established too tough an exterior for that, especially in front of her boy cousins; but she hadn't relished the experience one bit either, and felt some regret at the sight of the death she had made. She accepted her family's praise, ate the venison, enjoyed the taste; but once was enough. Hunting was all right and a fact of life—within reason.
"Not . . . a fox." Gerbald said quietly as he peered into the rushes. Gently he extracted a duck's pinion feather from a clump of stalks; her heart sinking Pam saw that it was a female wood duck's. Gerbald used it to point at the damp ground.
"There—a boot print in the mud. There—more feathers. The bird, it struggled. Here—this is where they tied the snare; you see the marks." Pam nodded solemnly at the dead branch, some of the rotting bark had peeled away when the twine was untied. She felt a great surge of emotion building in her, a potent mix of grief and rage. No time for it, she could get upset later but not now, not in front of the kids.
"Which way did they go, Gerbald?" Her voice was even and hard as an iron rail.
"Up the hill, but the tracks are not clear. I am not sure how many, maybe two or more. This was only some hours ago." Pam peered up at the steep formerly West Virginian hill, into the shadows beneath sugar maples, beech and yellow birch trees. She nodded slowly.
"All right. They're for later." Squaring her shoulders Pam marched back to the young teenagers. They stopped their talk, sensing that something was wrong from her face's stony set.
Mrs. Antoni looked very worried. "Pam? Is everything okay?"
"No, I'm afraid its not." Pam considered for a moment softening the story but decided against it. They're old enough, they should be told. "The mother wood duck is dead. She has been killed by hunters. Human hunters." A distressed murmur went through the group. Pam looked at the huddled mass of ducklings in the shallows. There was no escaping what came next, as much as she hated to remove a wild thing from its habitat she had no choice. It was unlikely that the two missing ducklings were taken by the hunters, they had probably fallen victim to a crow or some other opportunist—a baby duck alone would make an easy snack for a variety of creatures.
"What we have here now is an endangered species. These may be the only transplanted wood ducks in the whole Ring of Fire. I'd like very much to save them and I need your help."
A murmur of excitement went through the group—"Of course we will help!" It was unanimous. Pam smiled a little at their youthful good will. These are good kids. I'm glad I am here, doing these things. Pam rarely thought of her life before the Ring of Fire anymore. After her divorce she had disappeared into a glass bottle world comprised of her tiny house and secluded back garden. Seeing herself standing in front of a bunch of people, even if they were mostly kids, and being the one in charge, the one who knew what to do—she never would have expected this . . . or how much she liked it.
"All right. Here is the plan. Now that they have no mother we need to catch them and take care of them until they are older. Boys, I'd like to ask you to take off your shirts and give them to the girls." This couldn't help but produce a few giggles. Pam had to have a chuckle herself, despite the tragic nature of the situation. "Well, we aren't going to do it the other way!" Everyone snickered now and Mrs. Antoni gave her an alarmed look. "Girls, you are going to be the catchers, I think you'll be gentler than the boys, ja?" One of the girls in the group, and it sounded like a down-timer accent muttered "Duh!" Yes, we are also having a marvelous influence on this century's youth!
"You boys are going to roll up your pant legs and wade out into the lake from over there." She pointed a few meters down the shoreline toward the main lake where they wouldn't disturb the ducklings too soon. "Be careful, it drops off pretty sharp about six yards out. I want you to slowly make a half-circle around the ducklings so they can't swim away in any direction—if they try to go past you I need you to grab them with your hands! They are very fragile so you must be careful; it's easy to injure them.
"Girls, you are going to make the other half of the circle along the shore. Crouch low and have the boy's shirts ready. When I give the signal the boys are going to start making noise and will move towards the shore. That's going to drive the ducklings up onto the grass where you can drop the shirts over them. Once you have a duckling caught under your shirt hold it there and I'll come get it to put in my bag here." Pam quickly emptied the contents of her rucksack onto the ground, she could fit most of it in her coat pockets for the trip back, and it would make a nice safe container for their fuzzy little captives. "Does everyone understand? Stacey and Gerbald, you stay back a ways—if the girls miss any then it's up to you to grab them." The teacher gave her a determined nod and Gerbald had developed an exceedingly wry smile.
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled in his best West Virginian; obviously he had been practicing.
Marshaling her troops in a loud stage whisper Pam directed the boys out into the water. Good Lord, I hope no one drowns on my watch! They moved surprisingly quietly, lanky young teen herons stalking through the reeds. The cluster of ducklings had begun to peep softly, looking around nervously, their instincts told them something was up. Pam got the girls crouched in their circle, shirts spread wide between their hands, ready to make the catch. 'Operation Duck-lift' is a go! The excitement of the rescue operation had lifted Pam's spirits quite a bit. She might as well enjoy the fun now and ask questions later about why this had happened and what she was going to do about it.
"Boys—move in! Slowly!" The waders had formed a wide ring and now carefully closed it. Soon they were all within an arm's reach of each other. Ready . . . steady . . .
"Do it!" The boys began to move rapidly into shore whooping merrily. As hoped for the ducklings lost their nerve and broke from cover; they made a plaintive peeping plunge for the grassy shore. Perfect! "Here they come, girls!" To their credit the girls remained calm and quiet, waiting for the madly fleeing ducklings to get within reach—and down went the shirts! Six of the girls had a duckling thrashing about under cotton T's and homespun linen shirts, which were now being cut in up-time style as was, not too surprisingly, the burgeoning fashion amongst Grantville's kids. Pam, distracted by the action almost missed the duckling that ran between Mrs. Antoni's legs and was headed straight for her. Plop! Down went Pam's rucksack over it.
One more had broken the shirt line and was weaving madly toward the hillside. Gerbald, with a delicate flick of the wrist, tossed his ridiculous floppy hat on it. He rarely took the misshapen thing off, only when his wife Dore threatened to render grievous harm at the dinner table, so Pam considered it a generous gesture of solidarity on her bodyguard's part. Figuring that Gerbald could suffer the dread German summer sun on his head for a few minutes, Pam scooped her own catch deeper into the rucksack. She then proceeded to gently pry struggling ducklings out from under the shirts. Soon she had six loudly protesting balls of fuzz. When she retrieved the one under Gerbald's hat they exchanged a quick grin. Yeah, that was fun! The students were laughing and hooting now as the boys tried to regain their shirts from the girls, who were engaged in a merry game of keep-away with the bare shouldered boys. Mrs. Antoni just shook her head and let them have at it. She walked over to Pam and Gerbald. Pam smiled warmly at her.
"Thanks for letting me use the kids as a wildlife rescue team, Stacey."
"No problem, it was good for them. At first the Grantville kids and the new kids were really shy with each other, it was to be expected. But now I'm at the point where I forget which is which—they're all just kids now, American kids. They have really become a tight knit group."
"Can you understand that mixed up slang of theirs?"
"Good heavens no, I never expected that! In class they must communicate correctly in one language or the other depending on what's required for the lesson. Out of class there is no stopping them, and the funny thing is I catch myself doing it sometimes, too!" They all shared a chuckle. Pam was shortly reminded of her responsibility by the gently squirming weight of her rucksack.
"We need to round these guys up and head back for Grantville pronto. I've got to get these ducklings out of this bag and into temporary quarters." Mrs. Antoni proceeded to bark orders and within a relatively short time blushing boys were reunited with their grass-stained shirts and the students were assembled. Pam gave them a brief thank you speech congratulating them on their helpfulness after which they began the trip back to town brimming with pride and tuckered out from all the hullabaloo.
As they were leaving the inlet Gerbald lingered behind a long moment, gazing up the hillside. Anything that distressed his dear employer and 'little sister' Pam would have Gerbald to contend with. In case anyone may be watching and he thought he knew who might be. He made a show of touching the hilt of his katzbalger, a lethal shortsword designed for wreaking havoc in the close quarters of unwieldy pike formations.
"It is still sharp." he announced to the shadowy trees, turned martially on his boot heel and marched after the group.
By the time Pam and Gerbald had been relieved of their charges and said their goodbyes it was getting near dinner time. They walked to Pam's house where Gerbald helped her extricate a dirty sea-green kiddy pool from its place leaning against the side yard's overgrown fence. Pam had thought she might use it as a refreshing spot to lounge on summer afternoons back up-time; she'd used it exactly twice. She found the extra pounds she'd put on during the divorce and the more extra pounds she'd put on after had pretty much wiped out all desire for getting into a bathing suit, much less venturing outside in one. Once the leaves and dust were knocked out of the thing they dragged it into the living room where it filled most of the floor space. Pam sacrificed a cardboard box, cutting one end of it off and turning it upside down over a folded fluffy hand towel within the kiddy pool's confines to form a cozy faux nest. Next she added a wide, shallow glass baking dish with water for them to drink and bathe in. Throughout this part of the process Gerbald stood holding the bag of softly hooting little creatures well away from his body with a long suffering look.
"What's the matter Gerbald?" Pam asked slyly.
"Nothing, of course." He smiled unconvincingly.
"Hey, you are awfully good with those little fellows Gerbald, so gentle . . . maybe you would like to keep them until they are old enough to go out on their own! I bet Dore would love them!" Pam grinned like a coyote.
"Wass? Nein!" Lapsing into German was rare for Gerbald who rather prided himself on his English mastery. He moved purposefully toward the temporary enclosure, thrusting the rucksack toward Pam, who backed away, making him follow her in a circle around the kiddie pool.
"Pam! Take your baby ducks now, bitte!" Pam shook with mirth at her friend's discomfiture.
"So much for being a macho man with a sensitive side, Gerbald!" Pam set the rucksack down on the plastic pool floor, giving a gentle shake to dislodge the small refugees. They ran around willy nilly for a minute, but once they found the water they calmed down, engaged in the very messy process of splashing all its contents out of the bowl onto the pool's floor. They were still peeping, but at a much less frantic pitch.
Gerbald peered down his nose at them, a glimpse of narrowed eyes beneath his voluminous hat's drooping brim. "Do they always make such noise? This pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-ing of theirs?"
"Oh, I should think not. Once they settle down they'll probably go right to sleep, they must be exhausted. Now, you're sure you wouldn't like to have some pets for a while? I think it would be good for you, taking care of something so small and cutsie-ootsy-wootsy!"
Gerbald grimaced at the thought. "I do not do 'cute,'" he announced firmly. Pam laughed at his use of the up-time turn of phrase. Determining that his duties had ended, Gerbald flew out the door so fast his shadow almost got left behind in the living room.
"See you tomorrow!" He called back from the safety of the road, which he had sprinted all the way down to.
"Coward!" Pam waved.
Out of sight down the road Gerbald slowed to a thoughtful pace. He had said nothing to Pam about his suspicions regarding the morning's events. It would not do to worry her further and it was something he had rather not tell her about in any case. He would see to the matter tomorrow . . .
As she ate her dinner Pam listened to the ducklings; pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Poor little things, I know you miss your momma. I'm going to make sure you grow up into big wild ducks, I promise." pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!
Working on the drafts of her growing field guide Pam felt sorry for the orphans behind her. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "I am going to find out who did this and put a stop to it my little friends, don't you worry. I don't care if they make it a law or not, nobody is going to kill up-time birds if I can help it. I'll sic Gerbald on 'em all right, that will fix their wagons." pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! Shortly she gave up trying to get any work done and headed for the bathroom. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!
After a quick shower and tooth brushing Pam tiptoed through the room. They had grown quieter. She switched off the table lamp. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! With a grimace she turned it back on. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Okey dokey, goodnight now! I'll leave the light on." She said tenderly to them. I'm talking to ducks now. Softly she closed the bedroom door. Even closed she could still here an only slightly muffled pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! Poor little guys.
"They'll settle down after a while." Pam crawled into bed, well worn out after the crazy afternoon. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! She turned on the bedside reading lamp to enjoy a mystery novel she'd borrowed. She had finally gotten past the point where reading any up-time fiction had filled her with homesickness and despair at never seeing the twentieth century again. Now this was home and she could enjoy a good up-time read with just a tinge of nostalgia. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! It was hard to concentrate with the endless chorus going on next door. After she had read the same sentence five times in a row she gave up, flopped the book down on the bed stand, turned off the light and scrunched down under the covers. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Poor . . . little . . . things . . ."
pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!
"Maybe I should turn their light off now." Pam crawled out of bed and crept into the living room. Eight pairs of glossy black eyes peered nervously at her from within the box's shelter. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Shhhh, you guys go to sleep now!" pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! Pam blinked tiredly at them, then went back to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. It was already eleven she saw as she got back in bed; she felt unnaturally heavy, drooping with exhaustion.
pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!
Midnight.
pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!
One in the morning.
pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!
Two in the morning.
"You don't know just what an endangered species you are becoming, little ducks . . ." A muffled voice emanated from beneath the pillow.
pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!
It was early Saturday morning so Pam was considering sleeping in. The problem was, now that the ducklings were finally quiet she was growing worried about them. Around seven she got up to have a look. She found them all in a cozy bunch sleeping on the soft towel. You guys had a hard day yesterday . . . hopefully today will be a better one.
She walked into the kitchen to get the morning coffee going. If she ever met any Turks she would probably hug them, tears of joy streaming down her face. The reintroduction of coffee to seventeenth-century Grantville had been a tremendous comfort to her as it was to most other up-time Americans. Turkish coffee, yum! Moving quietly Pam sat down at her window-side table. The bird feeder had its morning crowd; bluethroats, towhees, pirols, titmice, and her treasured cardinals, the usual mix of native German and transplanted up-time birds. She watched the brilliant red cardinals with keen pleasure.
"The American redbird," she reminded herself looking at the noble form of the cardinals. "That's a better name for you in this day and age." In the guide book she was creating she had listed the name 'cardinal' as an "archaic" up-time appellation (best not to think too hard on that), in the New United States the startlingly bright plumaged bird was now widely known among down-timers as the Amerikanische rotvogel.
Watching her breakfast guests tearing into the sunflower seeds grown on her front yard plantation Pam let out a sudden gasp. Good lord! What do I feed the ducklings? They must be half starved! Pam grabbed her paltry collection of American field guides, pushing aside the old familiar regret that she had not bought more bird books before the Ring of Fire came. File that under 'Lost Chances and Failed Romances,' Pammy old girl. She would do what she could with what she had—a skill set that had acquired much honing of late. There wasn't much in the books regarding feeding, and nothing specific on ducklings. She knew wood ducks were mainly herbivorous; they were considered a perching duck but shared some traits with dabblers like the mallards. Thinking hard, Pam distinctly recalled seeing the ducklings when they were still up at the lake going after small insects as well as pondweeds; all baby birds needed high quantities of protein.
On her way out the kitchen door she turned off the stove, the coffee would have to wait. She grabbed a small trowel and a pail as she headed for the sunflower field. Most of her wide, sloping front yard was devoted to sunflowers, they provided excellent bird feed and besides—they were just damn pretty. She stuck the trowel into the dark, dew-moist earth between the rows.
"Bingo!" Her first scoop yielded two wriggling pink earthworms. "Breakfast is served!" Once she had five of the unfortunate invertebrates in her pail she washed them briefly in the wall spigot. Back in the house she placed one on the cutting board, proceeding to chop it into very small pieces. Briefly a voice in her head, her own mother's traveling across the space-time continuum, admonished her. "That's disgusting—you eat off that, too you know!" Pam grinned as she realized she could care less. She heaped the minced earthworm into a shallow bowl filled with water. She noticed that some of the pieces were still moving. All the better.
Her downy house guests had awoken and were now peeping softly, poking their heads out of the box's shelter, the ringed markings around their eyes giving them a charmingly mischievous look. Pam gently placed the bowl on the kiddy pool's bottom, then stepped back to watch quietly. The ducklings peered shyly at the new object at first but once they caught the scent all shyness evaporated. Feeding frenzy! Pam marveled. Very hungry ducklings tore into the earthworm soup with relish. "So, you guys were hungry. Is that why you kept me up half the night?" I hope this is the right stuff for you . . .
Pam knew it was time that she got some help with this. She needed someone who knew something about raising fowl. She hauled out the Grantville phone book, found the name and dialed the number. He's a farmer—he'll be up early.
"Hello, Willie Ray? This is Pam Miller. I wonder if maybe you could help me out . . ."
Pam felt awful as she gently placed the frightened ducklings back into her rucksack—it was still the safest way she could think of to transport them. Soon she was headed down the sunny morning road whistling Zippity Doo Dah to a chorus of muffled peeps.
Willie Ray Hudson's place was well-known to every Grantviller. She found Willie Ray still nursing a cup of coffee on his wide front porch. As it turned out the friendly old farmer had spent the prior evening long and late at the Thuringen Gardens public house and he now rather resembled a tree full of owls blinking at the bright morning sun as if it were an unexpected calamity. Pam took his offer of "A cup of Joe." She hadn't gotten around to hers this morning and Willie Ray obviously needed some time to rally. He gave Pam a sheepish grin.
"This coffee is doing the trick, Pam. I'll be up an at 'em pretty quick. A fellow my age putting down that strong German beer like it's Sunday picnic lemonade, I should know better. Made a damn fool of myself. I think I ended up back here courtesy of a wheelbarrow!" He grinned, his jaw a field of gray stubble growing on darkly tanned furrows of weathered wrinkles.
"I know how you feel, Willie Ray. I got into some of that moonshine the boys are making these days a while back. My hired man's wife had to put me to bed like a baby, thank heavens for Gerbald and Dore! I was a mess, I felt like I'd been kicked in the head by a mule the next afternoon when I came to." They shared a laugh at their respective misadventures in the realms of the spirits. Something about Willie Ray and his farm made Pam feel comfortably rustic. She had spent plenty of time here and in places like this in her youth.
"Now, what you got in that old travellin' bag, Miss Pam? By the sound of it I'll bet it's not canned beans and frankfurters. Must be those orphans."
"They're wild wood duck ducklings, Willie Ray. Have you ever seen the ducks with the long crest coming off the back of their heads? The real pretty ones."
"I know what wood ducks are; seen a lot of birds here on the farm over the years, usually going after my patch of corn. Just what happened?"
"Their mother was killed by a trapper up along the rim. Probably a hungry down-timer shacked up in the German pine woods north of town. Gerbald and I are going to go see if we can find who it was later today. I was ready to kill them yesterday but now I think I'm going to try to reason with them, get them to hunt somewhere else outside the Ring." Pam's brow furrowed. She really hadn't a clue how to deal with the situation but she knew she had to do something.
"Well, being reasonable is always a good place to start. Come on, Pam. Let's show these little peeps their new home." Willie Ray stood up slowly. He stayed in great shape working his farm but the years had taken their toll; he wasn't a young man any longer.
The cloud passed from Pam's face. "Really? You do have a place for them?"
"Sure I do. What's a farm without a duck pond? It's out back of the barn, remember?" It had been quite a few years since she had visited Willie Ray. She felt guilty for a moment but the genial farmer wasn't the type to fuss over that kind of thing. Folks were welcome to drop by the farm when it suited them. Pam followed Willie Ray around the side of the house and down the bare path through the grass to the barn. They walked through the large outbuilding, a couple of cows giving Willie Ray a scolding moo for being late with their milking.
"I hear ya, girls. Dang it, where are those hired men of mine?"
"Were they with you last night?" Pam asked with feigned innocence. Willie Ray flashed her a rueful grin.
"Why, I do believe they were. Come to think of it last I seen they were singing drinking songs while propping each other up. Figure I'll see 'em around noon then. My own damn fault, I was buying the rounds."
Heading out the back of the barn they arrived at the duck pond. It was fairly spacious, a good twelve yards wide and fifteen long. One end had been left natural, full of cattails and lily pads. The end nearest the barn had a muddy beach crisscrossed with the tracks of various fowl, a gnarled willow tree providing shade. The entire area was surrounded with a sturdy looking chickenwire fence, dug well into the ground, something to keep the chickens in and the weasels out. The enclosure also included a roomy bird yard and several coops and pens, all occupied by an untidy population of clucking, quacking, honking and gobbling critters. A very large red rooster gave Pam the evil eye, an intruder in his domain. It advanced menacingly a few steps but Willie Ray shooed him off with a raised boot. The rooster held its head high in the air, stalking off with greatly injured pride.
"Never mind Pete, he's more bark than bite. But I seen him give a weasel the spur once, cut the varmint's throat wide open! He earns his keep. Now, let's find Matilda." They walked over to the water's edge where a motley collection of drakes and hens milled about, made up of assorted domestic ducks, semi wild mallard ducks and those that were clearly a mix containing varying degrees of both. They walked right into the middle of the congregation, the ducks only acknowledging their presence by stepping casually out of their path.
"Matilda! Tilda, Tilda!" Willie Ray called, followed by a sharp whistle. From the shore a very large and obviously well fed hen waddled toward them. She was a mutt all right; she had the markings of a mallard hen but instead of brown and white they were in shades of dark and light gray. Her beak and feet were a very un-mallard shade of blue. Pam had never seen a goofier looking bird and had to smile outright.
"This here is Matilda, mother to the world. She's a good old gal; poor thing's eggs haven't hatched for a few years. She has adopted everything from goose goslings to a Labrador retriever puppy—good thing they're swimmers! Damn dog still thinks he's a duck. She ought to be right pleased to have some ducklings again. Here Pam, let me have that bag."
Pam handed him her peeping cargo a little reluctantly, but the old leathery hands were as gentle as a cloud. He bent over with a small grunt to hold the rucksack open on the ground, lying on its side. Matilda hurried over to look inside, waddling so fast she almost took a nose dive. Pam laughed aloud.
"Watch this, Pam." Willie Ray grinned up at her.
Matilda stuck her head right into the bag. A gentle grunting quack could be heard. Suddenly the ducklings poured out of the bag to form a huddle around Matilda's big blue feet. Matilda put her head down in amongst them so they could all get a good dose of each other's scent. Then she looked up at Willie Ray and gave a quack that was surely filled with pleasure and pride. "Thanks for bringing them to me; I'll take it from here!" Spreading her wings gently she herded them over to the water. The ducklings followed along eagerly and were shortly feasting on duckweed, a happy and hungry line paddling behind their new surrogate mother. Pam could sense the waves of relief coming from their tiny bodies. Some people didn't think animals felt emotions the way humans do, but she had always strongly disagreed with that notion. She felt her eyes moistening with joy. Oh hell, now I'm going to cry.
Willie Ray watched the scene with serene pleasure. He took a look inside the rucksack to make sure all the ducks had been released. Satisfied, he handed it back to Pam.
"Well, that's better. Those little guys were sure scared shitless."
Pam nodded. "Yeah, they probably were." She sniffled happily.
"Darn right! Just look in your bag!"
Pam still had a few more hours to wait for Gerbald to finish his day time job. Willie Ray invited her to have another cup of coffee so they returned to the front porch. Sitting there watching the grass grow and the farm dogs playing Pam could almost forget about the Ring of Fire. This was still "home" after all, a chunk of the West Virginia she had grown up in. She had traveled a little up-time, been to New York and down to Florida, made it to Montreal, Canada, but unlike so many young people in the hills itching to escape their rural beginnings, Pam had been happy going to college nearby, then taking a job only twenty miles from home. It was a good place, and it was still good, even beneath the skies of history book Europe.
"Pam, I've heard about what you are doing with the school. That nature program is a fine idea. Kids should feel connected to the land and get to know the wild things around them. I think you're doing a real good thing."
"Thanks, Willie Ray. I'm glad to hear you say so. Sometimes I wonder if I've gotten a little nuts about it."
"Well, it's a good kind of nuts if it is. Say, bring those kids out here some time, you can visit your baby ducks and show the kids all them birds that are eating up my corn patch. There are these little blue ones that are real hungry buggers, never saw them before."
"Those are bluethroats! Blaukehlchen. They're one of the native German birds that have taken a liking to Grantville and my sunflower seeds in particular. And bringing the kids out here would be great! I really appreciate you helping me out today."
"Pleasure's mine. Another thing, I read your proposals on protected species and a national bird. I want you to know I support both of them. I'm going to do what I can to get them passed, especially the protected species part. I figure any critters which came through that thing with us deserve to live as much as we do, and I'm not the only one who thinks so."
Pam slumped back in her chair. It had been a year since she had sent that proposal in and she hadn't tried to follow up on it. Apparently it still existed in governmental limbo. "That is really good to hear. I thought for sure everyone would just think I'm a dingbat, worrying about birds when we're still trying to figure out how we're going to just survive in this time."
"Well Pam, you know we are starting an industrial revolution here. I'm hoping we do it with a lot more compassion for both people and nature than happened in the old history. Might as well start now teaching folks to value nature and protect it. Seems like we have a second chance at that."
"Willie Ray, I would never have guessed you were an environmentalist."
"Now, don't start calling names! You'll tarnish my reputation as a red neck hillbilly! I'm a farmer and so I understand that we need to live in balance with nature. I've been joking about those birds getting into my corn; well, they eat some, but I still have plenty left. The thing is, those birds are also eating insects, and insects do a lot more damage to a crop than birds do. It's a good balance. I want to keep those birds around. There's nothing like seeing a flock of red birds in the trees, that's somethin' well worth protecting. My mother was quite fond of them; she used to feed them sometimes, called them 'red birds' instead of 'cardinals' too, a lot of folks did. Anyway, I'm not sure if they're going to make it as a national bird, although they were a fine choice as West Virginia's state bird, and I'd hate to see them all made into hats before they had a chance to build their numbers here."
"A lot of new Americans are already mostly sold on protecting red birds thanks to my friends spreading the word. Right now I'm mostly worried about the up-time game birds, like the ducks. I'm hoping that at least the original Grantvillers will stop hunting them, but I know it's hard to tell folks not to shoot something they like the taste of."
"Well, I think I can help with that. I know more than a few members of the UMWA, including the Prime Minister." He grinned widely "Whoever thought a hick like me would keep such fine company? Anyway, I'll see if I can get them boys squared away on the issue. Law or not, if the UMWA is behind it it's as good as law in these parts." He paused for a moment. "You know, I'm not sure some of them would know a wood duck from a snow goose—if it's a bird with webbed feet they'll shoot it. Do you think you could show them some pictures or something? That wild bunch of gun nuts could use a dose of nature program themselves."
Pam stopped her coffee cup in mid sip. Pictures . . . "Willie Ray, you are a genius!" She jumped up, startling Willie Ray which caused him to stand up as well. "That's the best idea ever, I'm going to get right to work on it! I'll see you soon, thanks Willie Ray!" Pam bestowed an enthusiastic hug which almost knocked the old farmer over and then went down the porch stairs two at a time. Willie Ray leaned on the rail watching her run up the drive. "You're the best, Willie Ray. A real genius!" she called back as she reached the road.
"Well, that's good to hear Pam, but do tell me just why I'm a 'genius' sometime. Ain't never been called that before!"
Pam hurried down the asphalt road to Fluharty Middle School. She had already walked at least three miles today and would walk many more before the day was done. She allowed herself a small sense of satisfaction, back up-time she would not have been able to sustain such a pace. If the Ring of Fire had not brought an unexpected end to things as they were she wondered how long she would have continued her bonbon eating binges of self pity. Now she could barely imagine an alternative future up-time for herself; this was her life, right now, in sixteen hundred and thirty four. It didn't matter to her how they got here, act of god or the devil himself; she was here and making things happen. It felt like a second chance.
At the school Pam sought out Mrs. Antoni. She explained her idea and asked if the students could be brought to the task. Mrs. Antoni shared Pam's excitement.
"That's a wonderful idea, Pam! This will be an excellent learning opportunity, a good dose of civic action. Why not start now since you're here? I have them this next period and my lesson plan can wait for a good cause."
The sixth graders listened to Pam eagerly, after all she was the nice lady who broke them out of the stuffy old classroom ("School in summer? It's not fair!") to go on fun nature walks ("Our hero!"). Anything Ms. Miller needed she would get. As Pam explained the project Mrs. Antoni was readying the butcher paper and poster paints.
"In your notebooks you've drawn a lot of pictures of the birds you've seen. First we are going to make a list of all the American birds from your notes. Next we will assign each student, or group of students, one of those birds to make a poster for. We need a painted picture of the bird and text in both English and German asking people to please protect this species. The more posters you can make, the better!"
Soon the room was a buzzing beehive of activity. There were some pretty good artists in the group; Pam was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the paintings as she walked from table to table. A menagerie of tempera birds was taking shape; a common loon seen down by the power plant, a cedar waxwing found just down the drive from the school, a red head duck spotted on Plum Run, a summer tanager sighted on a fence post beside a farmer's field. The American birds had survived the trip intact and their numbers were increasing. Pam had not dared hope for so many species; it was another example of the resiliency of nature.
A painted slogan above a fair rendering of a Baltimore oriole caught her eye, big bold red and white striped letters with a blue outline: "Don't shoot! I'm an American!" Pam laughed. That will do!
"That's great!" Pam cheered them on. "You guys are doing great! I have to get going but I want to thank you all for the help!" Pam left to a chorus of cheers and encouragement from her nature program students. The future birdwatchers of America , and maybe more. The seeds have been planted and a crop of nature lovers is growing.
As she went up the long sunflower-lined walk to her front door Pam felt that something was amiss. The door was open and she could hear the sound of bustling activity inside. The lawn chair that Gerbald would have waited for her in on the narrow concrete porch stood empty.
"Gerbald? Dore?" She called through the door.
"I am here but you will not find that foolish man!' Dore's voice rang out harshly. Uh-oh. Pam entered to find Dore dismantling the temporary duck shelter, her hands moving with a harsh precision that spoke of a towering rage.
"Where is Gerbald, Dore?"
"Gerbald? You mean The Great Soldier? Why he is out hunting of course, hunting for blood." The towel the ducklings had slept on flew into the laundry hamper with hurricane force.
"What do you mean? What's going on, Dore?" The older woman paused in her frenetic cleaning. Her face was red and her eyes puffy; she was full of anger but there was also something of fear written across her broad face. She blew a hot puff of air from her button nose, her shoulders slumped as if letting go of some heavy load.
"The men who killed your wooden duck." Dore's English had greatly improved but still had some idiosyncrasies Pam often found too amusing to correct right away. "Gerbald knows them."
"What? How?" Pam moved closer, stunned at this revelation.
"They were soldiers with Gerbald. He knew them by the way they made trap, it was Gerbald who taught them that. They are bad men." A gray, worried expression swept the red from her face. "Pam, Gerbald is not like them, you do understand? He was a soldier, but he never did the bad things, the things to women and children. He hated the men who did those evils. He spoke against them. It became trouble for him."
"Is that why he left that army? I knew it was something like that. What happened?"
"Dear Pam, it is not my story to tell you. Gerbald will when he is ready. But now those old troubles have found us here." Tears were building in Dore's eyes, her wrath had run its course and left a tired woman afraid for her husband. Pam gave her a fierce hug. Dore hugged back, nearly hard enough to break Pam's ribs. No words were needed. After a minute Pam released herself from Dore's powerful washerwoman arms.
"How long ago did he leave, Dore?"
"An hour. He had the look that comes before battle. He said that you that you must stay here with me."
"I'll stop him. I can catch him." Oblique terror came to Dore's hazel eyes.
"No! You must not go Pam, it is dangerous! Gerbald is a strong man, a good soldier. You must let him do as he will."
Pam stood undecided. Dore was probably right, Gerbald could take care of himself. But what if something went wrong? She had come to love the man like a brother, he was without a doubt her closest friend in the world, and when it came down to it, other than Dore, he was her only close friend.
"Goddamnit, that stubborn billy goat! I'm putting a stop to this." Pam grabbed a gnarled oak walking stick from the corner of the room, it had been her grandmother's. It was hard as a rock and the only thing she had resembling a weapon; carrying it would make her at least feel somewhat safer. It wasn't going to come to that anyway, not if she could help it.
"Pam, no, you are crazy! They will kill you, those bad men, or worse, I know . . . Don't do this, please!" Dore moved her solid frame between Pam and the door. Pam felt sorry for her friend but she had made up her mind.
"Dore, don't be afraid for me, please. I'll stay hidden if I can't catch him first, and if he's hurt I'll bring help. They won't see me unless I want them to. Let me go, please." Pam met Dore's fretful look with a cool, confident gaze. There would be no changing her mind. Dore relented, crumpling into a shape much frailer than Pam ever could have expected of the seemingly indomitable woman.
"Ja, I know. You have a soldier's courage in you my Pam. Go then, find Gerbald. Damn fools the both of you. I will clean up this barnyard you have made of your house." With a curt gesture of her chin Dore turned to advance menacingly on the soiled kiddy pool. Pam hurried down the walk, not saying good-bye.
She ran up the road as fast as she could. If she could only catch him before he left the inlet. She exited the road to head up the trail, moving fast on the well packed earth. She kept her breathing as regular as possible, she was in the greatest shape of her life but sustaining an all out run was taking its toll; she was no track star. Fast enough, I'm fast enough. He's hunting men and will go slow, he'll never think that I would dare come after him. Doubt threatened her as she huffed along. Should I really be doing this? What if we both end up getting killed? This isn't a game Pam, these people are killers. The walking stick she carried before her in sweating hands suddenly seemed an ineffectual and foolish hope—what good would it be against trained soldiers? She almost dropped it beside the trail but held onto it anyway, it was all the protection she had if something went wrong. Stop thinking, it isn't helping. Just catch him.
The inlet was quiet, the dark water calm. Gerbald was not to be found. Damnit! Pam went to the spot where they had found the bird snare. To the left the inlet opened onto the wider lake. To the right the sliced West Virginian hillside made a flat edge along the water's edge. There was a new looking boot print on the muddy shore headed toward the hill and Pam remembered Gerbald saying they had gone in that direction. Up we go.
Keeping well away from the unstable edge Pam followed what she thought might be the possibility of a trail. A scuff mark here, a bent branch here—she began to feel like a genuine Davy Crocket. A sincere regret that she had disdained the ownership of a firearm as an adult filled her, she had been such a promising shot as a youngster. A Winchester rifle would have provided a wealth of comfort at the moment. She used Grandma's walking stick to impatiently bash a clump of scratchy brush out of her way. Quiet now Pam, you are going to let the birds know you're here. An image came to her of murderous looking cartoon birds: crows, vultures and evil-eyed eagles sharpening wicked battle axes with feathered hands; nearby a fire with a big Pam-sized cook pot bubbled. Birdwatching. A nice safe hobby. Too bad they don't have gator wrestling in these parts, I could use the relaxing change of pace.
Pam came to the corner of the lake, a jumbled landscape where the hardwood forested West Virginia hilltop abruptly adjoined a pine covered German ridge. The trail seemed to continue to the hard left along the ridge top past the rim, there were signs of recent skids on the still mostly bare soil of a steep two meter tall elevation mismatch. Pam slid down it into Thuringia proper. The ghost of a trail continued roughly northwards away from Grantville into brooding pines. Pam felt a momentary thrill of fear. Okay, I've never been here before and I've left home territory. There are killers and rapists out there, and I'm looking for someone who is looking for them. I must be crazy and I better be careful.
Pam walked slowly through the Thuringian forest, listening for the sound of movement or voices. She stayed low and wary, not wanting to be seen or heard. There was no more rushing to stop Gerbald, this was now. . . . What, a rescue? Hardly! She certainly wasn't the cavalry coming. Why didn't I call the police, tell them what's going on? It had never occurred to her to do so. Too late now. Doubt threatened to turn her back; she fought it, willing it away. This is something I have to do for Gerbald and Dore. That was reason enough for the risk.
The ridge curved sharply away east, the lake forming another inlet below her. Pam stopped to think. How am I ever going to find seasoned woodsmen who don't want to be found? A breeze wandered through the pine branches, it felt good. Voices came with it; the voices of men . . . angry men. Pam froze. After listening very carefully Pam thought she knew which way they were coming from. She slowly made her way in that direction. At least they're upwind of me, I'll take that break.
She soon found herself crouched under a bush watching three men arguing loudly in German. Realizing one of them was Gerbald her heart leapt. She forced herself to stay in hiding instead of rushing to his side, instinctively sensing that would not be a good move. There were two exceptionally scroungy-looking characters standing in front of a dilapidated shelter. Two earthen walls were covered by an incongruously bright side of aluminum sheeting, obviously filched from the outskirts of Grantville. Objects hung from a length of twine across the shack's opening; dead birds and small animals. Pam's heart wrenched as she recognized a Baltimore oriole and a redhead duck drake next to a fox pup. A fury began to kindle within her. There were many other items lying about the decrepit shack; a child's bicycle, a coil of rusty chain, a gas can. These men were thieves at the least.
The shouting had resumed. Gerbald was gesturing angrily at the stolen goods and the hung carcasses. She could only catch about half of his rapid fire German, it wasn't the Thuringian dialect and she guessed that every other word was an exotic blaspheme or bloodcurdling curse. The two dirty men glowered at him, she saw that one lightly held the heft of a sizable axe and the other had a long knife stuck in his ragged belt. The murderous crow and vulture. They were unmoved by Gerbald's fiery lecture but not willing to challenge him either. She had never seen Gerbald like this. He was furious, his voice a thundering avalanche of icy shards and unstoppable boulders. Although his stance seemed relaxed Pam knew he was coiled to pounce, one hand eagerly gripping the hilt of his prized katzbalger shortsword. This is what Gerbald looks like when he's going to war.
The harangue continued. It occurred to Pam from watching the demeanor of the two ruffians that they had experienced Gerbald's rage before. These were once his men! He must have commanded them back when they were all soldiers! Pam nodded slowly at her revelation. I wonder who's in command of them now?
A hard, heavy boot placed itself firmly on Pam's bottom where she squatted. With a mighty upward shove it sent her sprawling face first out onto the scrabbly ground in the hut's clearing, in full view of Gerbald and his former command.
"Well, we have guests I see!" a sneering voice announced in false friendly tones from behind her. The man's German was slow and clearly spoken, undoubtedly for her benefit since she was clearly dressed as an up-timer and would be unlikely to understand anything but the simplest language. Pam kept enough wit about her to hang on to her walking stick as she rolled quickly to the side. She regained her feet in a ready crouch, backing carefully away from the man who had kicked her. The evil eyed eagle had arrived. Gerbald quickly hid his look of unhappy surprise at Pam's presence, but the unpleasant newcomer had seen it well enough. He continued in taunting tones.
"So, Gerbald, you have found yourself a woman amongst these American witchfolk. You are doing well, she is a fine improvement over that old potato you used to keep. That old sack wasn't even good for birthing! Tell me, I have wondered what these Grantville she-devils must be like, I have heard they think themselves the equal of any man. When you have your way with her does she howl like a wild creature? Has she taught you some new sins?" Pam gazed at him with a mixture of disgust and disbelief
Gerbald's face went radish red with wrath. He snarled. "She is a sister to me, Kurt, so stop your filth. Your mouth is a pit full of shit and rotten puss. One more word and I'll shut it for good." Gerbald was advancing toward this Kurt creature, the two men he had been haranguing forgotten. Pam feared the look in Gerbald's eyes nearly as much as she feared the three evil men. She noticed, much to her terror, that the first two had readied their weapons and were quietly in step a few yards behind Gerbald. The leader of their flock had returned and now they were emboldened. Gerbald was outnumbered three to one. Well, I'm here, too . . .
"Oh, your sister! Well in that case, I must surely taste such delight for myself!" Kurt gave a sharp nod to his two cronies who now rushed at Gerbald. Gerbald, no fool, knew they were coming from behind but Kurt was already lunging toward Pam, one hand reaching to grab her, the other pulling a shortsword from its scabbard. Pam knew he would go for Kurt at all cost to prevent the man from touching her, ignoring the approaching threat. Men. Some tacticians they are. A rage had been building in Pam as well, enough to match Gerbald's—maybe more. She had to prevent Kurt from taking her hostage so that Gerbald wouldn't end up with an axe in his back thanks to his heroic foolishness. She took a step back, planted both feet, gripped the walking stick like a baseball bat and let fly the mightiest swing of her life, shouting in German:
"TASTE THIS!"
KE-RAK!!!
The length of hard oak shot above Kurt's grasping talon, colliding solidly with his jaw. The jaw gave way to the walking stick, bone breaking with an awful splintering sound, teeth spilling out like rice thrown at a wedding. A gush of blood followed as his head snapped sideways at the blow. He went down in seeming slow motion, an inhuman sob emerging from his throat. Gerbald stopped in his tracks stunned at the unexpected sight. Pam shouted at him in English. "Behind you!" Idiot!
With Pam no longer in immediate and distracting danger Gerbald's years of battlefield experience kicked in. It occurred to Pam that he had never fought directly for a loved one before, and the concept had distracted him from his usual combat savvy. Well, that is kind of sweet. With a practiced move Gerbald's katzbalger found the poorly guarded gut of the knife wielding enemy to his left, his thrust leaving a spreading circle of red on the man's wool tunic. With a low moan the man fell forward on his face. The other attacker swung his axe at Gerbald's head. Gerbald side-stepped that blow but tripped against the fallen form of his first target. This gave the axe wielder another shot, he connected a cruel cut into Gerbald's lower left thigh. This caused Gerbald to grunt with pain but it didn't stop him. His short sword was a silver blur as the man was pulling his axe from Gerbald's flesh. The katzbalger's razor sharp tip darted into the man's throat and twisted. Pam found the look of surprise on the man's face more shocking then the streams of bright blood coursing down his front. That's death. That's what death looks like. Lifeless hands released the axe, the man fell backwards with a gurgling cry.
Despite his pain Gerbald spun around, sword raised, crimson and thirsting for more. He stepped heavily toward the spot that Kurt had gone down thanks to Pam's at bat. Kurt wasn't there. Pam saw him slipping into the bushes, one hand holding shut his broken jaw. Gerbald started to lurch after him, laying a trail of his own blood next to that which Kurt had left. Pam's wits returned reluctantly, trying not to look at the two gored corpses slumped at their feet.
"Gerbald!" she shouted. "Stop!" It was a command. She pointed grandma's walking stick at him like a general's rod. Gerbald took another uneven step, awkwardly trying to hold the blood seeping from his thigh in with his free hand. He wasn't having much luck and knew it. Slowly he turned back to Pam as the despicable Kurt made his escape, fleeing whimpering into the brush.
"Yes, ma'am?" in that infuriatingly accurate hillbilly drawl he had made such a point of mastering. Pam shook her head in relief, horror, exhaustion, joy. It was really all a bit much for a summer afternoon.
"Hold still right there and let me wrap that wound. War's over." Gerbald nodded resigned assent, there was no way he would catch his enemy in rough terrain with such a wound hampering him. He wiped his gory shortsword nonchalantly on the pair of Levi's jeans he had come to favor. Later he wouldn't be happy about that tear in them. Pam handed him Grandma's walking stick which he used to take the weight off his injured leg.
"A handy thing." he remarked, idly stroking the smooth wood. "Very effective."
"No kidding. I can't believe I did that. Good lord, what would Grandma say!?" Gerbald handed her a length of linen bandage from one of the many useful pockets within his sage colored wool soldier's coat. It didn't matter how hot it got, he rarely took the thing off. Pam wrapped the bandage as tightly as she could around the wound; the blood slowed but didn't stop. "Can you walk?"
"I can, at least for now. A valkyrie from the old stories guides me to my spot at the table of heroes." She took his other arm and did her best to help support him. She couldn't help but look again at the two dead men as they passed by. A sudden realization shocked her.
"Gerbald! These men! I've seen them before!"
"Where, Pam? When?"
"In the woods along the rim a couple of years ago, not too far from here. These were the three men I saw who scared me when I was out birdwatching alone. I hid from them. It happened the day before I met you! They were why I hired you!"
Gerbald nodded. "It is good they did not see you then. Also, hiring me was a very good idea." Wry Gerbald charm despite the severity of the situation.
"Yes, I'd agree, most days . . . Boy are you in trouble. Do you want to tell me about it before Dore gets hold of you?"
"Not really. I knew them. They were under my command for a time. I felt a responsibility. I thought they were near but so far they had contented themselves with thievery. Eventually the rapes or murders would start as their fear of Grantville left them. It is all a bad story, we've had enough blood for today. Another time I'll tell you, please?"
"All right soldier, but I'll hold you to it. What about the bodies?"
"I am not a religious man, Pam. I'd as soon leave them for the carrion crows, they deserve no better. I suppose we should alert the Grantville authorities, especially since Kurt is still out there . . . Do you think I will be in trouble for this?" his eyes looked questioningly at her.
"As far as I'm concerned they got what they deserved. I'll tell them you were defending me; you aren't going to be in any trouble. Besides, it's kind of like the wild west these days, anyway."
"Yippee!" he cheered faintly. Why did the Germans love cowboy movies so? Gerbald's face turned serious again.
"Pam, this is important: That man, Kurt. It was brave what you did, who would have guessed our gentle bird lover contains such fury? He has hurt many women, it was good to see him get some measure of justice at your hands." Gerbald paused, making sure to catch her eyes with his. "It would have been much better if I had been able to kill him. Please understand, a wounded beast is more dangerous still. He will want revenge, in time he will come looking. You must be careful. I will always watch over you but he will try to find a time when I am not there, he is a coward but still very dangerous. Do you understand me?"
"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."