Ring of Fire III Read online

  “Get the hell off my site,” Mike snarled. His temper rose and his hands curled into fists. Inside he was amazed at himself. He knew that he’d grown over the last three years—from the smallest boy in his classes to one of the tallest—and that work in his mother’s garden and on this dig had widened his shoulders and added muscle but...Memories of being repeatedly pounded into the ground by the Colburn twins made him avoid fights. Looking at von Alvensleben Mike realized that he topped the man by two inches and at least twenty pounds. At this moment he wanted nothing more than to wipe the sneer off the man’s face. Red-faced, von Alvensleben stared at Mike, then whirled and strode off toward the hotel surrey. Clausnitzer and Glasewaldt exchanged glances and hurried after him. Ernst von Weferling stood calmly, looking slightly amused.

  The surrey’s driver frowned at Mike. Five men had ridden out from the hotel and he was expecting four to ride back. He was probably hoping for additional tips. Unhappy passengers were unlikely tippers.

  “Sir,” Mike addressed von Weferling politely. “Do you wish to go back, too?”

  “Certainly there is a horse I can rent in the village.” Von Weferling smiled tightly. He waved the surrey away and watched as it moved off. He turnd back and said, “I’d like to have you explain more about this archaeological site without the extraneous commentary from the ignorant and ill-informed. Clausnitzer and Glasewaldt have little learning and less Latin. Alvensleben is a complete fraud.” Von Weferling paused and looked around. “How certain are you that this isn’t a Roman villa? Their writings indicate that they were hundreds of miles from here but if you’ve found Roman pottery...”

  “The style of stonework looks like pictures I’ve seen of Roman walls and I’m pretty sure that the red pottery is Roman. However, as you said, there aren’t any records that show Roman settlements in this area. It could have been built years or centuries after the Romans. The Roman bowl might have been traded for or part of a collection of curiosities. Ask me again in a couple of years and I might have an answer.” Mike shrugged. There was so much that he didn’t know, so much information that had been lost. So much had to be relearned.

  “Up-time,” he continued, “they could figure out who had lived in a place at different times from the pottery.”

  “My researchers tell me that you have only bits and pieces of archaeological knowledge. I’ve read a précis of the theory of identifying pottery but I understood that there are only a few pictures of identified pottery in the library.”

  “Yes, sir. But we lucked out on the Roman stuff. Back up-time, one of my girlfriend’s cousins visited Germany. She toured a well documented excavation—a Roman villa rustica.” Mike grinned widely. “It had been partly restored as a museum. Lannie picked up a couple of brochures and saved them. Along with pictures of the stonework there were pictures of Roman pottery. We have to rebuild the pottery databases but we aren’t starting completely from scratch. At least not for the Roman stuff. For now we save every pottery sherd, document where it came from, measure it and try to match it to other sherds to see if we can figure out what the whole piece looked like. If it comes out of the same level or is close to a piece that we think is Roman, we mark it as possibly Roman. Or at least possibly from the Roman period. Someday someone will know if we’ve gotten the designations right. For now, your guess as to who built this place is as good as mine. Ten, twenty, or a hundred years from now someone may figure it out from the pottery.”

  “Ah, you are looking years ahead. That is good. I’ve a cousin at the university in Jena who might be interested in discussing archaeology with you. Now, that pair of green flags, do you think that might have been a gate?’

  “It seems to be in the right location for one. We haven’t managed to trace the wall completely so we don’t yet know if it encloses the site. That’s one of things I’m trying to establish. Whenever it was built and whoever built it, it looks like it was a farm complex. The location’s wrong for a fort and the layout so far seems to follow that of a villa rustica. If that’s right then there should be a house, a couple of workshops, at least one barn, and quarters for slaves and servants—all enclosed by a wall.”

  * * *

  “How did it go today?” Rob Clark handed Mike a cold bottle of root beer. “Try this while you tell me.”

  “One out of four listened and seemed to understand.” Mike smiled sardonically. “Not a great start for the establishment of real archaeology as opposed to pot and treasure hunting.” He sat down on the porch swing and took a swig. “Not bad, Rob, not bad at all. Tastes kind of like the way I remember A&W did. Is it a new product?”

  “One out of four is a far better ratio than I’ve had trying to convince people that training horses does not require the extensive use of whips. Part of our problem is our ages. It’s hard for anyone to accept that we could know more about a subject than the older folks.” Rob sipped his root beer. “Yeah, this is by a new brew master in town. He’s looking for something different. We’ve got to have twenty, maybe thirty guys brewing beer. One more doesn’t stand much of a chance against that kind of competition.”

  “So you set him up, huh?” Mike leaned back, holding the cold bottle against his face. “What else is he trying?”

  “Root beer’s the start. Got the recipe from an old cookbook somebody gave the library. I figure just the root beer alone should do well.”

  “Ultimate goal is Pepsi?”

  “Coke!”

  “If your brew master comes up with any acceptable cola he’ll make a mint.” Mike finished off his bottle. “I never much liked root beer but this is, um, a taste of home.”

  “Yeah. Beer’s not bad but I’d rather not walk around with a buzz on all day. Especially not working with the horses. They can be dangerous enough when you’re stone cold sober.” Rob pulled another bottle out of the cooler beside his chair and handed it to Mike.

  “You and Lannie ever finish that list of all the ways a horse can mess you up?”

  “No,” Lannie Clark’s voice answered from behind Mike. “It was rather pointless. How’d your show-and-tell go?” She sat down heavily beside Rob and held out her hand. He put a root beer bottle in it.

  Mike sighed. “Three of them accused me of holding out on them because I didn’t show them piles of gold. Or Roman statues worth fabulous sums.”

  “They sound like up-time pot hunters and illegal art collectors.” She sipped the root beer, leaned back against her husband and groaned. “Thank you, honey. You finally found something I could drink without worrying about the baby.”

  “Sorry it took so long, my dear.” Rob bent down and kissed her forehead.

  “So this isn’t a plot to satisfy the cravings of all the up-timers?” Mike teased.

  “Just wait until you get married, Michael Tyler, just wait.” An evil grin was plastered across Rob’s face. “See what hoops you jump through to keep your wife happy!”

  “Especially when she’s nine months pregnant.” Lannie’s smile had a Mona Lisa quality to it. “I’m being so-o-o-o-o mean to him.”

  * * *

  The next morning Rob saddled one of the young horses he was training. The blood-bay filly was a four-year-old daughter of his Spanish stallion and an up-time quarter horse mare. Her siblings had brought top prices in the spring horse fair at Jena.

  It was a fine morning with just a hint of clouds on the western horizon. The filly behaved herself, eyeing the sheep grazing along the road but doing no more than snorting. He traded greetings with the girl watching the sheep. Five donkeys in the last pasture got more of a reaction from the filly and Rob stopped her, making her stand and look until the donkeys went from scary to boring.

  Rob checked the condition of the pastures as he rode past. When the last fence gave way to open fields his attention turned to the crops. The barley was doing well and the oats on the other side of the road looked good, too. Closer to the village he could see people working in gardens.

  “Good morning, Herr Clark. What brings y
ou to us today?” Heinrich Strelow, the mayor of New Hope, greeted him.

  “Good morning, Herr Strelow.” Rob dismounted, then paused. The mayor’s young daughter, Katerina, shyly stepped forward and took the reins of his filly.

  “Thank you, Katerina. If you could unsaddle her and brush her a bit...” The girl smiled and led the filly off.

  “It’s good of you to let her care for your horse.” Heinrich sighed and gestured after his daughter. “Ever since her mother was killed she comes alive only around the horses.”

  “Any time she feels up to it she can come up to the ranch and work with my horses. They respond well to her touch. When she’s older she’ll make a good trainer.”

  “Come, come to the inn. You must see the progress we’ve made. I trust you didn’t ride down here just to let my little girl brush your horse.” Heinrich guided Rob toward a two-story building that had scaffolding around it. “Lutz and his crew finished the walls last week. The roof was finished two days ago and the windows are being put in. It is the last of the village buildings to be finished.” The mayor’s pride was evident in every word. “Never would I have thought that we could rebuild so much so quickly. Without your help it wouldn’t have been possible.”

  Inside the smell of raw wood and fresh whitewash was strong. Rob noted that while there were several long tables with benches, groups of smaller tables and chairs were also scattered around. The mayor led him across the room to an alcove featuring a semi-circular padded seat surrounding a circular table. The seat was upholstered in red leather and he’d swear that the tabletop was Formica. It reminded him of a booth in a 1950s style diner.

  Carl Bieber, the innkeeper, bustled up with a pair of beer mugs. He set them down, then took a rag out of his apron pocket and wiped the table. “Beautiful, isn’t it, Herr Clark? Just like in an up-time cafe.” The innkeeper bubbled with pride.

  “Um, yes, Carl.” Rob admired the table for a few moments and then turned to the mayor. “Heinrich, I’d like to have Carl join us for a bit, too. What I want to talk about concerns the whole village.”

  “Should I call out the rest of the council, too?” Heinrich asked.

  “No, not yet. My worries may not be real. If you think that they are, you can pass on my concerns.” Rob paused, drank some beer and put his thoughts in order. “I’m concerned about the safety of the people working up at the dig site. Talking to Mike Tyler yesterday I realized that some people think that they are digging for buried treasures. One man mentioned stashes of gold coins.”

  “And the whiff of gold or silver brings out the worst in men,” Heinrich said. “This could be a serious threat. Do you want to call out our militia?”

  Rob stroked his mustache. Was he jumping at monsters in the closet or was there a real threat?

  “I don’t know...Three of the men up there yesterday were convinced that Mike had already found treasure or knew where it was hidden. They could be nothing more sinister than men briefly overtaken by gold fever.”

  “Those men could be respectable, but they may have acquaintances who are not.” Heinrich nodded, a thoughtful frown on his face. After a few moments he looked up and continued. “The militia needs practice. We can have three or four men practice each day by guarding the dig. I’ll tell the men who are working there to go armed, too. We will see that nothing happens to the dig or young Tyler.” The man gave Rob a shrewd look. “When my grandchildren are my age that dig will be famous all over Europe. Scholars will come to see where up-time archaeology was first done.”

  “Not just scholars, but, what is the term—tourists?” Carl added emphatically. He thumped the tabletop. “They will stay in this inn and the village will grow rich off their money.” He leaned forward, enthusiasm showing on his face. “Erik Wiess was saying just last week that we should build a place to show off and explain what they dig out of the ground. A museum, he said.”

  Heinrich frowned and shook his head. “It would be nice but it will be years before we have enough money to build it.”

  Mike had somehow convinced these folks that their history was valuable enough to protect and display. Given the number of up-timers who didn’t understand, Rob hadn’t expected Mike would succeed.

  Archaeology had always fascinated Rob. Up-time he’d made it to most major museums in the U.S. and a number in Europe. For all that fascination Rob knew he lacked the patience and passion to devote his life to recreating the science of archaeology. Mike had the passion needed. So far he’d also had the patience it required.

  Three years before, when Jo Ann Manning first dragged Mike to a family dinner, his passion for archaeology had overcome his shyness. Since then he and Rob had talked many times. Two years ago Rob made the decision to support Mike’s vision however he could. Here was another opportunity.

  “Decide where you want to build your museum. Mike will have ideas about what it needs. I’m sure he’ll want room for laboratories to work with the artifacts. And we have to remember that our dig is just the first. When you have something worked up, come and talk to me. I’ll fund it as far as practicable.”

  Heinrich and Carl stared at him, speechless. Finally Heinrich spoke.

  “Too generous, Rob. That’s too generous. We owe you and your aunt so much already.”

  “No, it needs to be done. Someone needs to lead the way. Why shouldn’t that be the people of New Hope? Name it for my aunt and run it right—that’s all I’ll ask.”

  “The Helen Bennington Clark Museum. We shall set standards that the professors in Jena will envy!” Carl clapped Rob on the shoulder.

  Heinrich looked thoughtful. He leaned forward and grasped Rob’s hand.

  “We’ll do it. It will be a fitting honor. She gave us refuge and helped us reclaim our land. Speaking of which, Herr Hartzschorn was here yesterday. He’s found the last claimant for the woodlot.”

  It was Rob’s turn to nod. He’d talked to the lawyer two days before. “I’ve authorized him to negotiate for it. Once we get the paperwork signed I’ll turn the landrights over to the Gemeinde on the same terms as the rest of the leases.”

  The two men relaxed and smiled. Rob’s aunt had set those terms before she died. New Hope was the result of the survivors of two villages destroyed by the war combining forces. Before the Ring of Fire, the villagers had managed to build five houses and plant gardens but they hadn’t been able to pay their leases for several years.

  Sliding Rock Farm lost the far end of the valley it sat in to the Ring of Fire. Now the steep slopes of West Virginia hills opened out into a gently rolling vista. While the Clarks lost about a third of their property, the German farmers lost closer to three hundred acres. It took Rob’s aunt a month to find Ernst Hartzschorn, a down-time German lawyer, among the refugees crowding Grantville. She’d set Hartzschorn to work finding a way to settle the mess fairly. Before her death she’d charged Rob to finish the job.

  A noise from outside interrupted Rob’s thoughts. As he realized he was hearing a car engine Liz Manning burst through the inn’s door and stumbled against a table.

  “Rob! Hey, Rob! It’s the baby! Lannie’s water broke and Aunt Maggie sent me down to get you.”

  * * *

  The room was quiet. Minutes before, Maggie O’Reilly and the midwife had finished cleaning up and gone downstairs, chatting amiably. Lannie slept while Rob gingerly cradled his newborn son. He looked down at this tiny bit of humanity. Love, joy, wonder, awe, fear, and guilt all bubbled within him blending and mixing until he couldn’t say exactly what it was he felt. The baby opened his eyes and stared up at him.

  “Scary, isn’t it?”

  Rob looked up to see Ev Parker standing in the doorway. “Yes, sir.” Rob sighed and smiled down at the child. “Guess it’s starting to hit me just how scary parenthood can be. Horses I know. Business I know. With him I don’t even know where to start...”

  “Like anything else, son. You start at the beginning. For now you love him, feed him, diaper him, and do your best to keep him sa
fe. Later, as he grows, you love him, teach him, discipline him, show him how to behave, and worry about him.” Ev eased down into the big old rocking chair. “You’re a good man, Rob. You’ll do fine.”

  “Thank you, sir. Would you like to hold him?”

  “I surely would. He’s my first great-grandchild, at least as far as I know.” Ev’s voice was soft and he cradled the baby gently.

  “Did you tell Grandpa what we named him?” Lannie asked sleepily from the bed.

  “Not yet. Why don’t you tell him?” Rob leaned over and took his wife’s hand.

  “Coward.” Lannie smiled up at him.

  “No, just a bit overwhelmed.”

  “Hey, buster, I’m the one who did all the work.” Lannie squeezed Rob’s hand and looked over at her grandfather. “Grandpa, meet Everett Henry Clark.”

  The light from the bedside lamp glistened off the tears that rolled down the old man’s cheeks.

  September 1635

  Mike Tyler slid off his horse, staring around. The slope in front of him was pockmarked with holes. Anger burned across his mind. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and started counting. By the time he reached thirty-seven he had to open his eyes.

  Calmer, he surveyed the hillside again. The damage wasn’t as bad as it first appeared. Holes did litter the dig site but there were only about ten of them.

  He could hear voices coming from the far side of the shepherd’s hut he’d been using for storage. He strode toward the hut, trying to catalogue the damage. Four days ago this had been this universe’s second scientific archaeological dig. Now his carefully laid out grid of stakes and string was gone. The straight sides of his three-meter square test hole were gone, collapsed, and in the center was a ragged hole. Pottery shards were scattered in the dirt piles. The holes weren’t completely random. Whoever had done this had used Mike’s site map. The biggest hole was where he had guessed the main house might be.

  When he stepped around the hut two men nodded warily at him. His assistants from New Hope, Carl Heimpol and Peter Matz, stood next to a pile of newly dug dirt, leaning on their shovels. Carl tilted his head toward three figures uphill of them and shrugged. Mike recognized the loud voice and rotund figure stuffed into clothes more suited for town than a German hillside. Herr Martin Schuler was holding forth at full volume.