The Grantville Gazette - Vol 3 Part 19

VII: h.e.l.l

Woolly Snider had big plans for New Year's Eve. The mines had closed down for their weeklong holiday. Even with the emergency situation after the Ring of Fire, the mines still needed to perform regular maintenance. Woolly, as usual, had been spending most of his off time at Tip's, his favorite local bar. Tip Fisher had built a d.a.m.n fine brewery out back, which along with the still he swore was built from the plans his grand pappy had drawn up, served a very tasty boilermaker.

Unlike the owner of Club 250, Tip was more interested in cheap labor that didn't steal from him than where or when they had been born. It also didn't hurt that Tip's had a new barmaid named Inga. She was one of those refugee down-timers and always seemed to be at Woolly's elbow when his beer needed refilling. Even though she didn't speak English too good, she always laughed and blushed when he flirted with her. She wasn't the prettiest thing in town but had big t.i.ts and a solid, but not fat waistline. As he was on the long side of 50, Woolly wasn't as particular as he had been in his early years.

To tell the truth, which sometimes even Woolly did tohimself , he had never been very particular about women or booze. Those two vices had gotten him into trouble more times than he liked to recall.

Grantville was having a hard winter, so it didn't surprise anyone when it started snowing around nine that night. Woolly, having started early, was fairly well tanked by then. When Joe c.o.o.nce, the bartender, announced he was going to close early, New Years Eve or not, Woolly decided he had nothing to lose by asking Inga to come home with him. Even with the confidence that Tip's still had given him, he was more than a little surprised when she nodded yes.

After Inga finished cleaning up, they walked up the hill in an increasingly heavy snowfall, to his shack.

The shack wasn't much from the start. However, because it was connected to a septic collection station, it was now surrounded by a large cl.u.s.ter of new emergency housing. Woolly and his neighbors had built this jumble just downhill from the unincorporatedvillageofDeborah to house a lot of paying refugees during the winter.

Tents, plywood shacks with tarpaper roofs, and every imaginable construction shortcut was represented in the cl.u.s.ter of buildings. They were tightly packed around the central toilet and water facility that had at one time been the workshop of Woolly and his neighbor. Who the h.e.l.l cared if those a.s.sholes at the town housing office didn't send renters his way? There were plenty of Germans looking for any warm place to sleep in the middle of this winter.

Some time later, Woolly rolled over and pulled his covers off and sat up.Not bad, old man , he thought to himself.Even after all this time, everything still works like it's supposed to.

As he listened to Inga settling in to her nap, Woolly decided that this would be the perfect time to break out his last pack of smokes. After all, if this wasn't a good reason to celebrate, nothing was! Woolly fired one up and lay back down and considered his good fortune. He went back over all the little things that had made the evening enjoyable as his eyes got heavy.

As he fell asleep, Woolly dropped the still lit cigarette onto the floor. It rolled to rest against a rag that Woolly had been using to clean the pistons of his car before he installed his new natural gas conversion kit. It wasn't for some several seconds more that the ash tip came into contact with the oily rag, which began to smolder. A small flame sprang up shortly thereafter. It found fertile fuel in the newspaper that Woolly had pasted to the wall to cut down on the drafts from outside. The newspaper, in turn, put out a plume of smoke and carbon monoxide as it quietly burned away. Unfortunately, Woolly had also been collecting and compressing plastic containers which also caught fire. This produced even more black smoke and CO gas. Next to ignite was a stack of more newspapers and a comprehensive collection of slick men's magazines. Woolly had bought these at a gas station by the interstate some time before the ROF. Now they erected a plume of smoke and were an additional source of carbon monoxide gas. In turn, the curtains engaged, all of which poured more smoke into the room.

Woolly and Inga coughed, but were much too intoxicated and drained after their horizontal exercises to realize that the smoke they were breathing wasn't from the cigarette. It wasn't until the flames caught the polyester bedspread on fire that Inga woke to a terrible burning sensation around her legs. She screamed and she jumped out of bed right into the middle of another burning pile of magazines. If her cotton slip hadn't been fully on fire by then, it certainly was now. Of course, the bedspread wanted to stick to her skin as she dragged it, all the while screaming. Now standing upright, breathing in nothing but smoke and carbon monoxide, Inga continued to scream in agony and run around the room looking for relief. It came with the loss of oxygen as she fainted back into the middle of the now fully engaged bed.

For the second time tonight, Woolly had gotten lucky. Awakened with a start by the sounds of Inga screaming, his heart seized and he died before he even felt the flames begin to lick his naked body.

By now the flames had reached a temperature of over 1800 degrees at the ceiling and between 300 to 400 degrees at the floor and had burned their way through the tarpaper roof. Glowing embers were rising up through the heavy snowfall, which had the effect of m.u.f.fling the sounds of Inga's screams from the sleeping families situated around the flaming house. Mostly, the embers died in the heavy snow. But a few made the most of the fresh fuel they had found in a pile of straw that was stored under the eve of one of the temporary plywood structures nearby.

The dry straw caught on and pa.s.sed the flames to begin licking up the corner of the adjacent plywood wall where slept the "First Christmas Baby of Grantville." Born just six days ago to Mathias and Anna Heydman, who had fled into the ROF area fleeing the approaching armies of mercenaries, little Mike Stearns Heydman was sleeping soundly in his mothers' arms. His father was pulling the late shift cleaning up at the police station. At first the warmth of the wall felt good to Anna. She was unaware that carbon monoxide gas had already slowed her reactions. First, she became aware of the coughing of her child, and then she smelled the smoke. She became alert just in time to see the wall give way and fire flame through the wall and catch her and little Mike's bedding on fire. She immediately grabbed her child and pulled him to her as she tried to escape the danger but the straw filled mattress was too dry and flamed up, catching the baby's cotton swaddling clothes even as she was pulling him away from the danger.

Anna screamed as she ran to take the baby to safety outside. The flames burned higher on his clothing and now singed her hands. Refusing to let go, but not thinking about anything but getting Mike out to dowse the flames in a snowdrift, she didn't reach the front door before Mike was fully engulfed in fire.

The flame now jumped to her cotton nightgown. Her last conscious vision was that of her only baby screaming in agony, flames licking over his face and illuminating his huge, beautiful, baby blue eyes. Theflashover effect as she opened the door with one foot ignited a huge fireball, blowing her and her baby out into the snow where they mercifully died.

Thanks to the barking of the dogs, nature's own fire alarms, the call came to the nearest volunteer fireman on duty twelve minutes after Woolly's cigarette lit the rag. However, by the time the first fire truck arrived, it was essentially over. Of the twenty-three families comprising one hundred and three humans huddled together in this privately built emergency housing area, only seven families had escaped the evening unharmed. Four others had only minor scorch damage to the pre-ROF house that they shared.

Three entire families, fifteen men, women and children, were burned alive and the remaining six families had at least one member dead or with severe burns from trying to fight the flames, for a total of twenty-eight second and third degree burn victims.

VIII: Fulfillment

"Brother Johann!"

Johann had just entered the cafe where he regularly breakfasted when he heard his name being called.

Looking around, he saw Huddy sitting in a booth by the window, gesturing at him.

"Brother, join me." Huddy smiled pointing to the empty seat across from him.

After Johann ordered his usual porridge, called something else by the Americans, Huddy leaned back on his bench and began, "Good to see you this morning Brother. I suppose you've heard about the New Year's Eve fire by now?"

Johann nodded.

"I told those d.a.m.n fools not to build that slum, but they wouldn't listen. And Dan Frost-he's the police chief-had too much else to deal with to go out there and force them to rebuild it properly."

Scowling, Huddy continued, "I had Chief Matheny and some of his firemen over after they finished their shift last night. G.o.d, were they bitter. The rest of my up-time booze is now gone, but they needed it a lot more than I did. The whole thing was preventable if any of the building codes had been followed." Huddy looked down at his plate and drank a sip of his coffee. "I know you've been spending most of your time in the library, but I wanted to let you know that Reverend Wiley has been telling me what a wonderful guest you've been at the church."

"The Reverend has been a most gracious host. Especially considering the religious views of my... this era." Johann adjusted his gla.s.ses. "Huddy, how did you all do it? I mean, how in such a brief time, did you Americans, up-timers, adjust so well to such an incredible shift in your entire universe?"

Frowning, Huddy responded, "I guess we just had no choice. In my grandfathers' day, Grantville used to be a much larger town with several industries and a solid economy. By the time of the Ring, the pottery business and the electronics a.s.sembly business were closed and the last mine had been shut down. Thoseof us who decided to stick it out must be survivor types. The outside world had pretty much kicked us out before we got moved here. Maybe we just figured that this is a second chance for us all."

Johann nodded and finished his breakfast as he considered what Huddy had said.

"Brother Johann!" Johann, startled by the familiar voice, looked up to see Marietta standing by the booth, wearing no make up and cheeks streaked with tears. "Brother, you must come with me. I can't get Jenny to leave the mortuary. She just won't stop obsessing over those bodies."

Jenny hadn't slept in two days whenMarietta returned with Brother Johann to force her to stop and rest.

"Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!Those absolute b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."Jenny broke into tears yet again. She thought back to the totally preventable event that had placed all those charred remains that were still waiting processing in her funeral home's bas.e.m.e.nt. "They were babies,Marietta !Little children who had done no harm to anyone."

Between the sobs, Jenny huggedMarietta 's large frame, which was like the oversized teddy bear her daddy had won for her at the state fair so many years ago. "There wasn't a thought given to fire in that whole... whole miserable pile of s.h.i.t. What the h.e.l.l do we have building codes for, anyway? If any greedy, d.a.m.n fool can build... can build anything he wants to with no thought for safety?"

Mariettaand Johann helped Jenny close up and walked her home. Once there, whileMarietta helped her friend clean up, Johann prepared a meal, blessing all the ingredients to bring Jenny the gift of endurance during this trial.

As Jenny andMarietta ate, Johann found Jenny's Bible and read the unfamiliar interpretation of the wonderful words he knew so well. "Praisebe to the G.o.d of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from G.o.d. He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and He will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that He will continue to deliver us."

After Jenny finally dropped into a much-needed sleep, Johann escortedMarietta to her home. He prayed for her strength to continue to support her friend in this time of her trial. Then he walked back to his room. While walking over the swinging footbridge crossing the now frozen Buffalo Creek, he stopped.

With the electric and gas lights of downtown Grantville largely behind him, Johann gripped the support cable and looked downstream. Then he turned his head up to the brilliant cold points of light steadily gleaming overhead in the clear black sky. Letting his hood fall to his shoulders, he just let his mind go back over the events of this journey upon which G.o.d had directed him.

His ancestors, his family, the land they had owned all too briefly, the friends he had grown up with, the beliefs he had followed, and the life's work he had chosen all seemed to be a giant puzzle picture in which he was just now starting to recognize a higher plan than he had ever imagined before.

"I am your servant; give me discernment so that I may understand your statutes. Your statutes are wonderful; therefore I obey them. The unfolding of your words gives light; it gives understanding to the simple."

In the report Johann wrote that night he observed: Brothers, when I took on this mission I wondered if Grantville was a City ofG.o.d or a City of the Devil. I am now satisfied that it is neither. Grantville and the people that came back into our time, their past, against their will, are the same flawed people that we allsee around us daily. They love their children, honor their beliefs, and grieve over their misfortunes. Then, like all people, they ask for guidance, and go on with their lives.

Grantville, this entire Ring of Fire area, is not a City of G.o.d or of the Devil. It is a City ofMan.

The newly elected government took office and quickly put into effect a series of measures to bring in more local down-time builders to get as many refugees out of the unsafe housing as fast as possible.

Congress also consulted with the officials of their member city-states to make sure that the building codes Grantville brought back with them met with the needs of the local communities. Finally, the government pa.s.sed a law formalizing a building safety inspection process and levied stiff penalties for violations, with no exceptions.

As the people around him carried on with their lives, Brother Johann continued his mission. A paper drive had been put into motion to move as much of the up-time old newspapers and magazines out of homes and into safe storage in the empty areas of the library. Over time the drive had pulled in stacks and stacks of every conceivable type of printed material.

Johann set out to try to bring all of it into the order as set forth by DDC 21. First, he sorted the various materials into piles based on how it was printed: newspapers, tabloids, and slick magazines. Then he started to organize each group by publication date and publication. After the major categories had been carefully stored away and the number of copies and condition of each had been recorded in the card catalog, Johann began to work on the miscellaneous pile.

He wasn't sure why he had chosen to glance through the contents of this particular pamphlet. Johann had long ago resolved not to worry about the exact contents of this ma.s.sive trove of information until he had finished his organization of types of materials. But, while thumbing through the pages before him, he saw the words.

He had already turned to the next page when his mind screamed at him about what he had seen. He flipped back to the page. Yes, the words were there!"Benedictine" and "fire department."

Reading the article, he now noticed with a shock the black and white photograph of what must have been a fellow follower of St. Benedict in his black robe and some others in what appeared to be slick black long coats of some kind and helmets with large protective brims extending from the back.

Johann couldn't help but smile when he saw the name of the Order of Saint Benedict Abbey. Not only had he heard of the saint, he had filed many doc.u.ments from the Congregation of the Priests of theMission that had been founded by the French Father only a few years ago. Here in Grantville, Johann had attended the Catholic Church that had been named for him, St. Vincent de Paul, but post-ROF, had been renamed St. Mary's.Brother Johann was sure it was the angel's wings fluttering against his neck that caused his hair to rise as he adjusted his gla.s.ses and read about the effects of accidents or uncontrolled hazards, panic, fire, explosion, natural disasters, or hazardous materials."Created following the catastrophic fire atSaint Vincentin January of 1963, a combination of monks from theSaint VincentBenedictine Monastery, seminarians and college students has since served the fire protection needs of the entireSaint Vincentcommunity."

Brother Johann dropped to his knees, crossed himself and began a prayer of thanksgiving that onlyended when he became aware ofMarietta turning off the lights in the next room of the library.

In his cell that evening, he began the report that he had so often wondered if he would ever be able to write. Saint Benedict had founded his order based on the belief that the individual should sink into service to his community, to not draw undue attention to himself beyond others, and that obedience must be a path followed by those appointed to lead as much asthose being led.

Above all else, there must be a time for prayer, a time for rest, and a time of work and all these times must be considered holy. Thus, the Order of Saint Benedict in all ways lived by the central tenet of prayer and work.

The things that had been taken from the Order and the Church in that other future were clearly just things. The estates and the wealth and the power were nothing compared to the Holy Word they retained and the simple life of the Rule as written by St. Benedict himself in the sixth century.

A life of quiet service, away from the confusion of the mult.i.tudes but at the same time in service to the mult.i.tudes was very much the way of the firemen that Brother Johann had carefully observed in action since the New Year's Eve Fire.Spending the entire day preparing for the call that would eventually come, and being ready when it did, this was the way of the up-time fire department here in Grantville. Brother Johann now believed it to be a fitting occupation for his Order.Brother Johann's report was circulated among OSB monasteries throughoutEurope , just as its predecessors had been. It was read to the brothers over dinner, as was their custom. The brothers of each monastery prayed and thought over the information Johann had brought into their lives and, consulting with their respective Abbots, found their answers one by one.

The crocuses had just begun to raise their blooms above the melting snow when the first two men walked into Grantville from the west wearing their black robes and carrying their packs and walking sticks. By the time leaf buds appeared on the oak trees in the Buffalo Creek Valley, the residents of Grantville no longer wondered at the similarly garbed men who singly, or in groups of two or three, arrived from all different directions, calmly walked into the town's fire station, and closed the door behind them.

CONTINUING SERIALS.

Euterpe, Episode 2.

By Enrico M. Toro

To Father Thomas Fitzherbert SJ of the Ill.u.s.trissimus Collegium Anglicanum inRome From Maestro Giacomo Carissimi inThuringenGardens, Grantville August 1633

Very Reverend Father, I am sorry it took so long to write you again, but a journey throughEurope in these days is everything but short and comfortable. Only after I reached my final destination could I spend some time to tell you indetail of my adventures. I only hope your students and the other teachers at the Collegium will forgive me for the time I steal from your primary duty. Hundreds of miles on the road can fill a lot of pages and break a courier's back!

I haven't received any letter from you yet, but I'm sure I will in the next weeks. Afterall the letter must cover the same distance I did and only the Americans seem capable of traveling faster than on horseback.

We arrived in Grantville last night and we are finally getting some rest from the fatigues of the trip. We are hosted in a brand-new inn that is more clean and comfortable than any other place where we have slept in the past weeks. We may also dare to pay a visit to the bathhouse and enjoy the too often neglected pleasures of hot water and soap. Soon maybe we will enjoy some of amenities of the twentieth century.

This town is so different from any other I've visited, so unique that it would take too much time to describe even my first impressions, but I promise to carry out this task in my future letters.

Today, as soon as we arrived we paid a short visit to the local church, but we plan to introduce ourselves in a more polite and thorough way to Father Mazzarre, Grantville's parish priest. Our goal is to make a good impression, but it's hard to have a respectable appearance so covered in mud and dirty as we were this morning.

We need also to start looking for a long-term accommodation. The town is crammed full, but I have the feeling that some American will help us.

As you have certainly noticed I said "we" and not just "I." Many things happened during this trip and I'm not alone here. Well, I think I'm confusing you, so I had better start from the beginning.

I leftRome very early on a hot day in June. It was the only possible way to avoid the traffic that jams the gates of the city when many people come from the countryside to sell their products.

As I told you in my previous letter, my travel companions were three German Jesuits all freshly graduated from the seminary and ready for their first a.s.signment. The youngest of them, Matthias Kramer, was going toInnsbruck to teach in the local college. The other two, Dietrich Adler and Heinrich Schultheis, were directed to Wien, where the Company has its headquarters for theHoly Roman Empire .

Together with their servants, we had an armed escort of five horse arquebusiers detached from the papal cavalry. With their leader, the Cavalier Ruggero Longari, they were remaining in Wien at the papal legation.

The coach we traveled in is a proof of the power and influence of your order, dear Father. It was entirely made of timber reinforced with bronze. Not only it had gla.s.s windows and not just leather curtains, but six horses pulled it. Moreover the coach was provided, I have been told, with one ofthose new "swan neck" suspension systems that allows the wheels to make large turning movements and makes traveling easier for the pa.s.senger. Made to fit six to eight people it was very conformable for just the four of us and I had planned to read as much as I could during the trip.

I brought with me a small library: a copy of Torquato Ta.s.so'sJerusalem Delivered , that small but already so famous book t.i.tledLo Statista Regnante written by Don Valeriano Castiglione, the two volumes of theAdvancement of Learning by Francis Bacon, your recently printed translation of Turcellini'sLife of St. Francis Xavier . I found it very appropriate to bring along also a copy of Tacitus'

Germania . After all, Father, it is you who always said that reading a page or two in Latin every day keeps the mind keen and well trained. Unfortunately, as I will explain later, I didn't have many occasions to read.

Once you leaveRome , the Via Flaminia follows theTiber valley for a few miles until Saxa Rubra where it begins its way among hilly countryside headed toward Civita. Many travelers, once on the top of the first hill, make a stop to rest in a place called Malborghetto. A very large inn has been built there, using the remains of a triumphal arc. The view from there is breathtaking. Under a blue summer sky, it looks like a Tiziano's landscape. One can see the whole Roman countryside and the last ridges of theApennines surrounding it. Far in the background, one can see the whole ofRome and it is still possible to recognize some of its features like the Dome of Saint Peter, thecuppolone .

While we were relaxing under a pergola lazily eating food from a tray full of pears and pecorino, I saw a rider coming in haste up the road. He was somehow familiar, but only once he got closer could I recognize Girolamo Zenti. He was riding a very tall steed and was dressed like someone ready for a long trip. Thigh-high boots, a leather doublet and a plumed large hat made him look very different from the artisan I met in his shop. The sword at his side and the two pistols on the saddle did nothing but reinforce the impression. My Girolamo looked like a dragoon!

Quite surprised, I began waving at him. I rose from the table to meet him along the way and I told him how startled I was to see him the on the very same road.

"Well, Maestro, for the moment I can just say I had a change of mind. I will explain myself later, once it is possible to have some privacy. I'm happy to have found you so early. At the Collegium, they told me you had left at dawn. Thank G.o.d you are not rushing those horses! Besides, I'm afraid I have to ask you the huge favor not to introduce me to your friends as Girolamo Zenti. You'd better tell them I am Carlo Beomonte, a friend who needs to travel toGermany and would like to share the long journey with you."

I did as asked, but I was eager to know more.

The same night, when we were guests at the Rocca Colonna in Castelnovo, I met him in the castle's courtyard. He was sitting on a bench trying to stretch his long legs and watching the castle servants doing the last ch.o.r.es of the day. After some time, once he realized we were alone, he lighted his clay pipe and gave me an account of the latest facts.

Girolamo had spent the night before in Trastevere gambling in a tavern; a place notorious for being visited by the offspring of the Roman aristocracy.

One of them had spent hours playing dice with my friend. Playing and losing big money. This was a very dangerous and explosive situation. As you can imagine, the young n.o.ble didn't accept losing face in front of friends and accused Girolamo of cheating.

To make his words sound truer, the young n.o.ble hastily drew his sword, probably expecting that a normal commoner would have backed off. Instead my companion, maybe for having drunk too much wine, reacted by drawing his own sword.

"Probably I took more fencing cla.s.ses than he did, or maybe it was just surprise, but I ended the fight quickly by putting a few inches of steel through the young n.o.bleman's shoulder.Nothing deadly, but enough to put me in serious trouble. It is never self-defense when the loser is the son of the Marquis Casati. "So, while my friends kept the young man's retinue at bay, I escaped as quickly as I could. While running home I realized I had just two options left: leave town that very same day or find refuge in a monastery and take the vows. I don't see much myself as a member of the clergy. Even if judged innocent by the police, I would have had to fear Casati's personal revenge."

Girolamo went home to change clothes and to take the pistols he kept inan hidden place together with his cash money and papers. Then he sneaked into his partner's home nearby and explained how he was forced to go away, probably toNaples , to escape the law. He had then spent the rest of the night hiding in a safe place in the ghetto.

With the day still young, he went to get the horse that he kept in a stable just inside Porta San Paolo. He had already begun his escape south when he recalled I was leaving forGermany . So, with a certain apprehension, he reenteredRome and paid a visit to the Collegium. There he met Renato,S. Apollinare 's sacristan who told him of my departure for Grantville a few hours before. Relieved to know I wasn't too far away, he went north following the Flamina until he caught me.

I objected that even if we made it toThuringia it could be a long exile for him. But, quite confidently for a fugitive, he replied: "Yes, I know it can be long. But if what you have told me of these Americans is true, they will value a man more for his skills than for his birth. And that is a place where I'd be happy to live. I'm tired of licking aristocratic boots any time I want to sell one of my works. I'm tired of being unable to read the books I want or to live the way I want. I'm fed up with these aristocrats and their caprices! Considering how much I'm interested in these pianos of yours, there is no better place to go!"