Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI Read online

  Walt tried to stay calm, systematically freeing himself from the prison of his sleeping bag and crumpled tent. At last he was able to find the zippers and peel himself out. He managed to extract his pistol belt from the mess but before he could draw he froze at the sight of man and boar dancing in a circle, Gerbald hacking away at the boar's thick hide with his Katzbalger shortsword as the boar tried to aim its tusks into his gut. The thing was a true monster, weighing at least seven hundred pounds and was nearly eight feet long! Walt had heard of boar hogs even bigger down in places like Texas and Florida but to his eyes the creature they faced was utterly huge. Gerbald lost his footing in the deadly dance and the boar was able to get a shot in; its enormous head caught Gerbald at the waist with the top of the snout, narrowly missing connecting with its wicked tusks. Gerbald was flung eight feet through the air, landing hard against the side of a tree. The boar lowered its head for a charge, Walt realized Gerbald was stunned and wouldn't be able to dodge in time. The next thing he knew he was shouting and jumping up and down.

  "Yeaaaaah! Over here, you sumbitch!" The boar turned with an angry snort, its attention now on Walt's ruckus. It was a great gray fell beast looming in the moonlight like a thing out of legend. Walt instinctively turned and ran; there was no time to draw. He had never hunted wild boar but he knew they were hard to kill head on, their thick flesh made a formidable shield. There was a scraggly looking birch tree a few yards ahead of him with some low branches; it was the only option he had to get clear of the charge. Behind him came the thunder of hooves, the drum beat of death on his very heels. The tree was in reach and he jumped, scrambling up into the branches with best speed, slowed by the pistol belt held tightly in one hand. Beneath him he felt the ground shake as the angry beast passed beneath seconds later. Walt scrambled higher, yelling like a madman to keep the boar's attention on him, hoping Gerbald would recover. A mad boar could be a man-killer as deadly as a bear or tiger. The boar skidded to a halt in the fallen leaves, angling around for another pass.

  Walt somehow managed to get his pistol belt buckled on and the weapon drawn and cocked. He was only around eight feet off the ground and found himself wishing strongly for a bigger tree; he could feel his perch swaying beneath his weight. The boar had made its turn and was now coming fast, straight at his refuge. Walt drew a bead as carefully as he could, how could anything so big move so fast? He squeezed off a shot aimed at the eye but the bullet landed in the thing's meaty shoulder-it didn't even slow down. Cursing, Walt braced himself with his free hand; the boar slammed into the tree's small trunk with a mighty crack. Walt's stomach lurched as he felt the tree tipping backward, he lost his grip and fell gracelessly to the ground, concentrating on keeping the pistol in his grasp and pointed away from himself more than on making a comfortable landing. He impacted hard on his left side, keeping the gun above his head as stones and roots beat him savagely while he rolled. Once he came to a stop he saw a blurred figure shoot past, scarlet-stained silver caught the moonlight- Gerbald was charging the beast, shortsword raised high.

  Walt found his feet again as Gerbald closed on the boar, which was somewhat stunned by the impact of its charge. This time Gerbald jumped onto its back and buried his blade deep through its thick hide behind the shoulder blade. With an ear-splitting squeal the great boar shook its head, trying to dislodge its unwanted passenger. Gerbald hung on tight to the hilt of his sword, twisting it and digging deeper into the enraged creature's flesh, his expression one of grimmest determination. Walt noticed Gerbald's ubiquitous mustard colored hat had fallen off and it made the retired soldier look strangely vulnerable. Gerbald and the boar were in a stalemate, the boar showed no signs of weakening despite the blood oozing from the sword wound, but Gerbald was unable to get his weapon clear for another stroke without being thrown off and put back in the path of those tusks.

  The sight broke Walt free from his shock. He strode confidently toward the struggling pair, holding the Smith amp; Wesson in a firm two hand grip. He approached from the side, the enormous creature was too busy trying to buck off Gerbald to notice him; Walt knew its eyesight wasn't too good. The great boar stopped its thrashing for a moment as Walt came in close, a beady black eye focused on him in the phantom light. Walt aimed and fired at a distance of two feet: The shot went directly through the eye. The creature heaved and bucked one more time then collapsed with a jarring thud as Gerbald jumped free. They stood staring at the now lifeless beast that had nearly killed them both, breathing hard in the chill autumn night.

  At last Gerbald looked over to Walt, who still stood with his pistol aimed at the massive head. "Nice shot. Very Dirty Harry." Gerbald said with a pale grin.

  ***

  The battle ended around three in the morning but there was no way they were going back to sleep, hot adrenaline still coursing through their veins. Walt stoked up the fire and Gerbald made some coffee, which they both drank with heavy doses of Walt's moonshine. They often glanced over at the still mass lying nearby, as if to make sure it didn't get up and move again.

  At last Gerbald stood up slowly, favoring his sore back; they were both battered and bruised by the encounter. "Will you indulge an old German hunter before we begin to prepare the boar for travel?" Walt nodded affirmative. "Bring your hat, please, Walt."

  Walt extracted his Grantville Roughriders baseball cap from his fallen tent. Gerbald waited for him beside a spruce tree. With his still bloody shortsword he cut off a blue needled twig of three inches. He led Walt over to the fallen boar. Leaning over the enormous head Gerbald daubed the needles with blood from beneath the boar's bullet-punctured eye. His movements were tender and spoke of a deep respect for the fallen animal; even though it had nearly killed them both it was due this. Walt was beginning to understand the German tradition of the hunt and thought of some hunters he knew back home who treated their kills as a kind of joke… it was only themselves they degraded, he now understood.

  Gerbald took the bloodied twig and beckoned Walt to come to him. He looked Walt in the eye solemnly. "Walt, this was your kill. I now give you the Schutzenbruch or 'shooter's branch.' Please lower your head." Walt obeyed and Gerbald gently tucked the twig into the braided gold colored cord stretched across the top of the bill. Walt straightened.

  "You were a hunter of America before, Walt. Now you are a hunter of the Thuringerwald. Waidmann's Heil! "

  " Waidmann's Heil! " Walt answered, feeling pride grow in him. Hail great hunter of the Germanies!

  ***

  With still an hour to go before dawn Walt looked at the giant boar, and then looked at the big buck. He looked at the giant boar again, then looked at the big buck again.

  "Uhh, Gerbald, how are we going to get all this meat back to Grantville? I mean, just the buck we could've handled, but now we've got King Hog here."

  "Not to worry Walt, it is quite simple. First we must do more work on our kills, removing most of the larger bones. Once we have done this the load will be sufficiently lightened. Then we will make a sled from branches and drag our prizes back down the valley. We need not return over the ridge we came in by, there is another road at the end of this valley, much closer. Once there we shall hire a passing wagon, there is always someone on the road willing to make a few extra dollars. We shall be back home enjoying pork chops before you know it!"

  "You make it sound so easy."

  "It won't be…"

  It was brutally hard work. In fact, it was a back-breaking son of a bitch and it took them half the damn day to drag their prizes the two and a half miles downhill to the road, but they got there, sweating and exhausted. Not long after a local farmer wandered by in a rickety wagon to stare white faced at the massive head of the boar; now he knew what had killed his favorite dog last year and was happy to take the job. Loading the kills on was a further heavy task and the weight threatened to break the rather tired old wagon, but they slowly made their way back to Grantville, arriving just before dusk. They paid the farmer with a hefty quarter of bacon and
a still shiny 1987 dime that Walt had found in his pack. Their prizes now proudly displayed on the front yard's grass, they went in to get Crystal.

  ***

  "Good lord! You killed a wooly mammoth!" Crystal exclaimed when she saw the great boar's head in the front yard. Several passersby stopped to gawk and admire it.

  "You're pretty close, but no trunk."

  "And what's this? Hell's bells, it's a moose! Look at the antlers on that thing!"

  "I think it's some kind of elk. Gerbald calls it a Rothirsch."

  "My heavens, all this will feed an army."

  "We can freeze some of it here and some at your uncle's place and I want to give some to my dad… and my mom. I think she'd like some of the bacon. We can salt cure some as well, and make jerky." Walt was actually starting to salivate as Gerbald prepared his knives for a further proper butchering. He looked up at Walt and Walt thought he saw a glimmer of pride there, the pride a man has in a younger man who has been his student.

  "So, Walt, since you made the kills, the heads are yours."

  Crystal looked at the gigantic boar head, its tusks bared in a rather sinister grin, then at the majestic tree of the stag's rack.

  "Oh no, don't even think it." Crystal's copper pigtails swayed as she shook her head emphatically. Walt was starting to grin.

  "You know, I've always thought that it would be pretty cool to have some trophies on the wall of my den."

  "You don't have a den yet! There is no way, Walt. Just forget it!"

  "But honey, it's a German hunting tradition. Please, we must be respectful of traditions."

  Crystal fumed and fussed, regarding the giant animal heads with a mixture of fascination and disgust. Walt and Gerbald were now deep in council, discussing the merits of various taxidermists while Crystal looked helplessly at the dead beasts she would soon be sharing her home with.

  ***

  A few of weeks later Crystal found herself looking at the boar and stag's stern visages as she sat in her living room. Walt had tucked a blood-stained sprig of pine needles behind the boar's ear and told her not to remove it. Men, as it turned out were the strangest creatures of all.

  Walt came out of his room carrying a rectangular box and headed for the front door.

  "Where are you going, honey?

  "I have a little something for Gerbald, a thank you for the hunting trip. I'll be back in a while."

  "No problemo, darlin'. I'll just set here with Porky and Bullwinkle for company."

  ***

  Walt found Gerbald in the sunflower field that filled his mom's front yard, doing some digging.

  " Waidmann's Heil, Walt! " he cried out cheerfully, stopping his work.

  " Waidmann's Heil, Gerbald! " Walt answered in kind.

  "Here to see your mom?" Gerbald asked with a raised eyebrow, a hopeful expression there.

  Walt flushed a little. "Well, maybe I'll go up and say hello for a minute." This brought a pleased glow to Gerbald's weathered face which made Walt feel kind of good, too. "Actually, I came to see you. I have something for you, a thank you for the hunting trip." Walt handed Gerbald the heavy box.

  Gerbald looked at him with surprise, feeling the weight. He carefully opened it to reveal an unusual gun, somewhere between a rifle and a pistol. Gerbald looked at Walt in surprise.

  Walt pointed at the weapon.

  "It's a Snake Charmer, a shotgun with a pistol grip. It's compact, lightweight and portable, good for backpacks… or, in your case, coat pockets. I bought it a few years back in my gun craze phase. It's a great weapon but I hardly ever use it. I want you to have it."

  Gerbald gave a solemn bow. "My young friend, it is a kingly gift but I surely cannot accept. You must keep this wonderful gun for yourself and your future sons; your friendship is quite enough thanks for me."

  "I thought you might say that, Gerbald. How about this, then? I want you to use it to protect my mom."

  Gerbald reflected on that, holding the small shotgun reverently in his hands.

  "I haven't forgotten the things you told me up in that valley. What my mom is doing to protect the environment is… important. A lot of people aren't going to want to hear it. She's going to make enemies. I'm really, truly glad she has you watching her back. Use this for her."

  Gerbald nodded. "I am honored to serve her and honored to do so with her son's excellent gift."

  "Thanks, Gerbald. Ya know, don't let this go to your head or anything, but… you really do kind of remind me of Clint Eastwood."

  The older man's face glowed like sunlight. "Really? I do hope we can have a Hollywood soon, I would so very much like to be in a movie."

  Walt laughed and pointed at the gun. "Okay, show me what you got, Clint."

  Gerbald's eyes narrowed and he lifted the Snake Charmer out of its box, holding it with a deft grip in his right hand. He looked like a supreme bad-ass, even with that crazy Cat in the Hat lid.

  "This is my gun, Clyde."

  Walt clapped his approval.

  "You know, I think you've had a big hand in helping my mom find her purpose here, Gerbald. I'm still looking for mine; I guess I still have a ways to go. Meanwhile, let's go hunting again soon. Maybe you and I could make it a tradition."

  "So we shall Walt, a fine tradition indeed. Waidmann's Heil! "

  ***

  Stretching Out, Part Four: Beyond the Line

  Iver P. Cooper

  Trinidad, April, 1634

  It was a lake, but one unlike any other they had seen. This was the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad. A hundred acres of tar.

  David Pieterszoon de Vries, captain of the fluyt Walvis, studied it for a few moments. The lake was nearly circular, perhaps two thousand feet across, nestled in a shallow bowl at the top of a hill. The surface wasn't flat and still, like a mountain lake protected by hills from the wind. Instead, there were broad, dark folds, with clear rainwater lying in the hollows between them. David, in his youth, had worked for a bookseller, to learn English, and their haphazard arrangement remind him of marbled paper. Here and there, the folds were festooned with a patch of grass, a few yards in width, with a shrub or small tree rising above it like the mast of a ship.

  For Philip Jenkins, born in twentieth century West Virginia, it awoke other memories. "This is a humongous parking lot."

  "Sir Walter was right," said David. "Enough pitch here for all the ships of the world." Sir Walter Raleigh had come here in 1595; his sailors used its tar to protect their ships' hulls from the teredos, the wood borers of the tropical waters.

  "We have a lot more uses for it than for caulking ships," Philip replied.

  "Wait here." Using a boarding pike as a probe, David tested the surface. It seemed firm enough. He took a step forward. The tar sank slightly, but held his weight. He took a second step. No problem.

  David turned his head. "Follow me. Test the ground before you trust yourself to it, there may be softer areas at the center of the lake." After a moment's hesitation, the landing party followed him.

  ***

  Philip was surprised to discover that the tar didn't seem to stick to his shoes or clothing, as he would have expected. Inspected closely, the tar was finely wrinkled, like the skin of an elephant.

  David and his landing party walked around a bit, then he called them to a halt. "One spot seems as good as another, so let's start here." The sailors broke up the tar with picks, then drove their shovels into the bitumen, lifting out masses of dark goo. They dumped them into the waiting wheelbarrows. Philip wrinkled his nose; the disturbance of the lake surface, had brought forth a sulphurous smell. Nor was the lake quiet; it made burping sounds, now and then.

  "The lake is farting," one of the sailors joked.

  Philip saw a tree limb sticking out of the tar, and tried pulling it out. It resisted at first, then emerged, a ribbon of black taffy connecting it to the lake, like a baby's umbilical cord. Philip studied it for a moment, then threw down the stick. He walked over to David.

  "You know what
this place reminds me of?" asked Philip. "The Welt-Tier."

  David puzzled over the word for a moment. "German? World-animal?"

  "Yes, that's right. It was in a science fiction story by Philip Jose Farmer. The ground was springy, like this lake. When someone walked across it, it rose up, like a wave, and tried to swallow him. The land was really the skin of the Beast."

  The sailors within hearing stirred uneasily. "Philip," commanded David, "you should be shoveling." Philip nodded, and took the shovel that was handed to him.

  ***

  By the day's end, they had excavated a rectangular pit, some tens of feet long, and several feet deep. David decided against camping on land, it being Spanish territory, and everyone returned to the ship.

  When they came back to the lake to continue their labors, they discovered that the pit had partially filled in. Moreover, some of the nearby "islands" of vegetation had moved during the night.

  "The lake does act like a living thing," David whispered to Philip, "but an exceedingly sluggish one. Not like your Welt-Tier."

  Philip didn't respond at first. "According to Maria's research notes, tar is usually what's left behind when oil escapes to the surface, and dries out." But for those islands to move, there must be some liquid circulating beneath the surface. Perhaps it's just water, but I think it might well be oil."

  "So?"

  "We might want to drill for oil nearby. Tar is fine for waterproofing, and roadbuilding, and making organic chemicals, but oil-the liquid form-contains the fuel we need for our APVs. Or for power plants."

  "I think my patrons are planning an expedition for that purpose. But it would have to be much larger and better-armed than this one."

  "Why is that?"

  "We can spend a few days mining tar. Even if the garrison here on Trinidad finds out about us before we leave, their numbers are comparable to ours. We would be gone well before the Spanish can call in reinforcements from the mainland. Or rouse their Indian allies. But drilling for oil might take months, and then, as I understand it, you have to pump the oil into storage tanks. That calls for a permanent settlement. I don't see the Spanish letting any foreigners, least of all a pack of Protestants, live here without a fight."