Grantville Gazette, Volume XII Page 3

  "And why shouldn't I give you a name?" she asked the distant flock. It's not like anyone else cares. She had made nonchalant inquiries after European bird books at the school library and every private book collection in Grantville. Oh, just thought it might be interesting to know what's in my garden these days. Even a guide from Great Britain would have been useful as she knew it shared many species with the mainland. There wasn't a single one. What the hell do coal miners care about European birds anyway? This made her frown; she felt self conscious at her hobby. She had publicly kept her interest quiet, she really didn't want the other townsfolk to know how much it had come to mean to her.

  Pam dreaded the day when someone would inevitably refer to her as 'The Birdwatcher'—yeah, that would stick. "Then they'll be sure you're a nut." She thought of her ex-husband Trent down at the mine chuckling along with them. " Yeah, I always thought she was a birdbrain!" Pam blew a blast of air at a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her face. She knew she wasn't being fair, Trent wasn't mean-spirited like that. He would keep quiet and just shake his head knowingly. Come on, let's not do this today. Just watch the damn birds, Pam. She put the field glasses back up to her eyes. There were men there.

  A trio of rugged-looking men had come out of the woods and now walked along the tree line. One had what must be a crossbow strapped to his back and they all wore sizable knives hung from their belts. Down-timers. Most of the dangerous sorts had been scared off over the last year, but you really couldn't be too sure. She was far from any road and at least a mile from anyone's house. They may be just regular folks about their business . . . or not. Forcing herself to move slowly despite her racing heartbeat Pam pulled her legs up to her chest then slid on her butt backwards into the tall grass, keeping low. Any eye, animal or human, was attracted to quick motion. She watched the men continue on their path, snippets of their deep voices conversing in German came to her ears. She carefully turned over to crawl away from the bank's edge on her belly, not looking back. They didn't see me. She crawled through the grass until she reached the path through the maples she had taken to get there. She ran as far as she could until the stitch in her side grew too painful, then continued walking quickly home.

  Later that night Pam set at her table looking glumly through her notebooks. She had calmed down with the aid of some kirshwasser. Here was something she definitely liked about Germany. Yay for booze. She looked glumly at her notes. Her drawing of the oriole looked crude and amateurish to her now.

  "This birdwatching thing is going to get me killed." Pam closed the notebook and stared at the darkness beyond the garden window. I need to be more careful. That was a fact. These were exceptionally dangerous times she now lived in. But she couldn't just stay in her garden anymore, it would drive her crazy. She had to get out.

  Maybe I need to hire a bodyguard. She smiled and lifted the shot glass in a jaunty toasting motion. "Not a bad idea."

  * * *

  What the hell was I thinking? The next day Pam stood before a small crowd gathered near town hall. This corner had become an unofficial mustering point for Germans looking for work; as news of Grantville's opportunities had spread the population of the corner had increased. At the moment there were twelve men and four women, ages ranging from thirteen to sixty, in various degrees of health and what she considered shabbiness.

  Pam tried to look nonchalant as she attempted to covertly eyeball them. Knowing they were on display many of the would-be workers smiled broadly and bowed as if she were a visiting princess, which only made her more uncomfortable. Oh, just do it, Pam! Squaring her shoulders she approached a fairly tall fellow who looked to be in his early twenties. He was thin and obviously in need of several good meals but seemed strong enough; although there wasn't much of the warrior about him.

  "Uhh, do you speak English?"

  "Ja!"

  "Good! What's your name?"

  The fellow hesitated slightly, a worried look on his face. "Ja?" he replied hopefully.

  This isn't working.

  "Okay, thanks." Pam moved away from the young man trying not to see his disappointment. She felt sorry for everyone here; desperation was heavy in the air. I need someone with at least a little English; my German is just not good enough yet. Actually, I can hardly speak it at all. That's got to change.

  A determined-looking red-cheeked woman trundled up to her. She appeared to be in her late fifties but was probably only around forty. The hardships of this century could age people so quickly. Her round face was stern but had an honest look to it.

  "I can English," she announced in a low, confident tone.

  Pam smiled meekly. "I'm sorry, but I need a man, a herr . . . someone strong."

  "Strong man." The woman nodded at her. "I know." With a business-like bow the woman motioned for Pam to follow her. Pam did so, not really having a better plan. The woman led her over to a brick wall where a man was leaning. A wide-brimmed hat the color of dirty white socks that may have once had some kind of shape was pulled down over his eyes.

  "Gerbald." She pointed at the man. 'Gerbald!" she announced loudly to get his attention.

  The man slowly looked up, peering out from beneath the uneven felt brim, looking first at the German woman then at Pam. His eyes were a beautiful cobalt blue within a woven nest of deep wrinkles. He stood slowly up from the wall and gave a nod to the approaching women.

  "Hello. I am Gerbald." The pitch of his voice had a pleasant depth, there was weariness there, but Pam heard confidence as well.

  "Gerbald strong!" the woman proclaimed with a proud smile.

  Gerbald chuckled. "My wife, Dore." He leaned his head toward the determined woman. "Dore is also strong." His eyes creased further with amusement, the remarkable blue shining out. Dore stood taller and moved proudly to his side.

  I like them. Pam smiled back at the pair. "I'm Pam. It's good to meet you."

  Gerbald was around five foot eight inches tall with wide shoulders and a solid-looking build. He wore a battered sage green long wool coat crossed by a wide brown leather belt, mustard breeches and knee high brown leather boots; an ensemble which made Pam think Robin Hood! What looked to be a saber hung at his side; there was little doubt that he had been a military man of some sort. Pam thought he might be around fifty-five but knew he was likely older. In any case, he seemed to be hale and in good health and the sort of man that other men don't trifle with lightly. Her smile broadened.

  "Were you a soldier?"

  "Yes, a long time. Not now. Good soldier, not bad man." He looked a bit worried that his former profession might not go over well with this female potential employer.

  "Soldier my job before, but I am tired. I don't like fight anymore, too sad. Peace." He looked at Pam hoping she would understand him.

  Pam's instincts seemed sure that he was sincere and very likely legitimate in his claims. There were a lot of men like this in these times, men who would have been farmers or carpenters if not swept up by the omnipresence of war. Gerbald cocked his head at her, one eyebrow lifting the brim of his monstrously ridiculous hat slightly upward.

  "You . . . you need soldier?"

  "Yes. Well, not exactly. I need a guard. Someone to go with me outside of Grantville, into the forests and fields. I am looking for . . . things, in the countryside. You would guard me. Stop bad men from hurting me."

  Gerbald nodded. "Yes, guard. I can do."

  "Great!" She looked at the couple and realized there were a lot more things to discuss—how much would she pay Gerbald? Where did the two of them live? I'll figure it out. I've done well today. Pam was exceptionally pleased at succeeding in her mission, she was sure she had done better than she could have hoped. "Well, Gerbald, Dore, let me buy you a beer and we'll talk some more about the job." And so they headed for the Thuringen Gardens, a trio of contentment.

  * * *

  Over several rounds of the Gardens' fine beer, Pam learned a little more about Gerbald and Dore. He, like so many men of the age and region,
had been a soldier for hire, and Dore his camp follower mate. He had left his last employer because his captain had ordered him to do something that Gerbald did not want to do, something he wouldn't go into any detail about. The name Magdeburg came to mind, but Pam did not press the issue. She knew he was being purposefully vague regarding many details of his soldiering career; it was perhaps better she didn't know. Dore sat stone-faced and silent during this part of the conversation. She was plainly deeply devoted to the man. Pam didn't hold their secrets against them; how could someone like her really understand the horrors that these people had faced in this war-crazed world they were born to? Her gut told her she could trust them and so she would.

  Pam had asked around at the Research Institute about the going rate for German laborers in Grantville. She had told her co-workers that she wanted some odd jobs done around her house and yard; she was still intent on keeping her birdwatching habit very quiet. Why do I do that? Just because Trent didn't get me doesn't mean they won't. She pushed the thought out of her head, there would be time to indulge in 'Pam analyzes Pam' later. Pam made a tidy wage in the current economy, her up-time lab work experience and scientific knowledge had significantly increased in value here under these extreme circumstances. She was useful and in high demand . Now that's a new concept.

  She offered Gerbald a little more than the current going rate, much to Dore's obvious delight. She only needed him part time and wanted to keep him around—the hiring process was not a performance she wanted to repeat any time soon! The deal was made and settled with a handshake. It turned out that the pair had lodging in a group shelter not too far from her place, which would be convenient. This news came as a relief to Pam. Her house was so cramped even for one that she had not been asked to take in refugees the last winter and besides, she very much valued her privacy. Gerbald and Dore walked her home so they could see where she lived and Pam went to bed, excited about the next day's birdwatching.

  * * *

  Pam got to the institute early the next morning. She worked like a whirlwind. She felt infused with boundless energy; now she was going to be able to go out past the rim and be as sure as anyone could be of her safety. There was no doubt that Gerbald could handle anything short of an army of bandits. She didn't take a lunch break and left around one, claiming she needed to go supervise the workers at her place. The days were getting long now and they would have plenty of time to hike out to her intended region of exploration and back before dusk. Pam's house was on the outskirts of Grantville at the northwest edge of town. The new northwest, that is. She and Gerbald would walk some gravel back roads and paths that didn't see much traffic these days.

  When she arrived home, flushed from excitement and the extra speed she had put into her gait, she found Gerbald and Dore standing at attention on the road beside her front yard's edge.

  "Hello, come on, come in!' She bustled up the incline of the long walk to her front door with them in tow. She had a big yard and a small house, just the way she liked it. She had kept her smaller back garden a private paradise of flowers and shrubs for her birds while the spacious front yard was now filled with row after row of rapidly growing sunflowers (Her up-time landlord would hate that!) watched over by an empty aluminum laundry tree. Except for a few rows of useful vegetables it had all gone to sunflowers this year. Her former landlord had mercifully been left up-time in Fairmont—the place was going to really be hers now and she could do with it as she pleased. She wondered sometimes if the bossy old coot had ever tried to drive out to Grantville on a mission to crab at her about keeping the lawn mowed precisely to his picky specifications only to find a chunk of this time's Thuringia in place of his property—that would be a surprise! Now available in Marion County: Real German farm, quaint out buildings, wooded setting. Pam figured they would never know.

  "Sorry about the mess. I live alone and I've just been too busy to clean much lately." Dore and Gerbald nodded politely, standing just inside the door as Pam bustled about the small living room's clutter, gathering her notebook and field glasses. She pushed a sweater for the cool evening walk home into her rucksack, threw it over her shoulder and headed for the door. Dore looked a polite question at her.

  "Oh yeah, Dore . . . well, you can wait here for us if you like, just make yourself at home." She motioned to the overstuffed loveseat that was still partially visible under a week's worth of laundry in waiting. "Have a seat and take it easy!" Dore smiled sweetly, nodding her understanding. "See you later!" With an indelible grin etched on her face, Pam marched down the walk, Gerbald in practiced step behind.

  * * *

  They walked northwest passing Highpoint on their right. Pam was eager to visit a new lake she had heard had formed where the watercourse of a lazy Thuringian stream had found a big West Virginian hill in its path. She thought there might be some marsh birds there and it sounded like some interesting "rim" terrain that she hadn't seen yet. Even after a year there was something about that border between her original everyday world and this strange (new? old?) century they now inhabited that drew her to it. Seeing it, being at the edge helped make it real to her, something that watching cars be replaced by horses in the streets of Grantville and the loss of such everyday items as toothpaste and deodorants still failed to do.

  The retired soldier wasn't a small talker which suited Pam perfectly. They reached their destination at the top of a rolling hill ending abruptly in a razor straight plummet. Pam stayed well back from the edge which was now crumbling and unsafe—it would be a long fall. Below them a lake had formed, the top halves of dying German pine trees stood forlornly in murky water, the upturned roots of a West Virginia red maple that had lost its purchase were now a bleached tangle at the steep shore. She decided to make their way down the left side of the hill to a narrow flat spot along the rim where the water had flowed into a West Virginia hollow creating a narrow shady marsh.

  "Gerbald, I'm going to be looking for birds. I'd like you to just stay quiet and keep your eyes open for any people." Gerbald nodded his understanding and backed off to stand under a nearby sycamore, calmly scanning the jumbled landscape. Pam pulled her field glasses out to begin looking for activity. A lone duck bobbed along at the far end of the new lake but it was too distant to make out in detail. A Eurasian jay gave a shrill cry from farther down the shore but remained out of view.

  Around thirty minutes went by. Pam decided that there wasn't really much to see after all, so she wandered over to where Gerbald stood under the sycamore to collect him for the walk home. She noticed some of the "bluebibs" that so often visited her garden flitting about in the tree's higher branches. Even though these had become a regular backyard visitor she put the field glasses to her eye out of habit to watch their antics for a few moments while Gerbald quietly observed her. Shortly she joined him under the tree.

  "Well, not much to see here. Let's start walking back, I guess." Gerbald, who instinctively understood her general preference for quiet, took this as a cue that it would be all right for him to speak.

  "You are . . . seeing birds?"

  "Yes, I am. I watch them." Gerbald nodded but made no further comment. Pam decided that she had to talk about her . . . obsession?—with someone and her new bodyguard was the only logical choice. If he were going to be following her around daily, he might as well understand what she was doing.

  "I like birds. A lot. They are beautiful. I like to watch what they do, see where they live." Gerbald nodded understanding politely.

  "These up here—" she pointed into the branches above them. "I call them 'bluebibs.' They are from here, Germany."

  "Blaukehlchen"

  "Pardon?"

  "Blaukehlchen." He motioned upwards with his misshapen hat's brim. "Bird is named." Pam's eyes went wide.

  "You know the name of that bird? In German?" Gerbald shrugged and nodded.

  "Do you know the names of a lot of birds?" She felt an excitement growing.

  "Some. They pretty. My father . . . he like bir
d. He tell name, I listen."

  "Blau-kehl-chen." Pam carefully tried to pronounce the German name. "Blue . . . Chin?" She asked, pointing to her own chin. Gerbald smiled in what she took as assent.

  "You know German a little."

  "Not very much. That was just a guess! Well, I wasn't far off when I called them 'bluebibs' it seems." She grinned. Pam quickly dragged her notebook and pencil out of the rucksack. Beneath her drawing of the little blue-throated bird she now wrote "blaukehlchen" followed by "blue chin" in English. "So, now you have a name after all."

  Somehow knowing the local name for the first German bird she had met on that shocking morning made Pam feel better. There was order here; wild things had been given names long before her coming and it made this century somehow less alien. It wasn't like we ended up on Mars. That rather chilling thought made the oddly patched together landscape before them look positively homey. Mars would have been a short stay. Pam pushed thoughts of a Grantville frozen and lifeless in the shadow of Olympus Mons firmly out of her head. She looked back at her notebook—an idea was forming.

  Pam flipped to the "lemon oriole" she had drawn the other day.

  "Gerbald, this bird is yellow and black." Gerbald looked at the drawing carefully.

  "Pirol".

  "Pi-rol?"

  "Yes, I think. Yellow bird and here and here . . ." He pointed at the wings and tail. ". . . is black."

  "Yes! I wonder if there is a direct translation for pirol in English. Well, it's a prettier sounding name than 'lemon oriole' anyway! . . . Pirol." Pam realized that she was about to begin studying German in earnest.