Several cups of coffee, and the due date, were not enough. He
had barely made progress on the paper by the time the sun had come up. He was
too wired to sleep, yet too tired to think.
He took a shower to try to wake up. As he dried off, he looked
outside. The rain had stopped, and there were even breaks of sunshine.
Maybe a walk to get his car would help.
He dressed quickly, and then headed out. It was a 20 minute walk
to the campus.
The morning air was fresh after the overnight rain. He took a
deep breath and forced himself to think of the paper. Suddenly, words popped
into his head, as if someone was whispering. He realized the right direction
for the paper. If he’d had his laptop, he would have sat down somewhere before
the idea left him.
He picked up his pace. He wanted to get the car and get back to
the house before he forgot. He kept thinking about it, more words came. Yes.
Very few people were on the street – not surprising at 7 a.m. on
a Saturday morning. A few students were up, heading home, or in search of
breakfast or coffee. He spotted his car.
“Hey, up early,” a cheerful voice said from behind him.
He turned. Joe Paolotto was ambling along with a walking stick.
“Um, I left my car here last night,” he said.
“It’s a great morning for a walk anyway,” Joe said. “I try to
get out every morning. My attempt at exercise.”
He patted his stomach. “Hard to believe, but I’ve already lost
five pounds this summer.”
“Uh, great. Good luck with that. What’s with the stick? Did you
hurt the leg?”
“No. I think it’s a nice fashion accessory. Besides, It has its
uses. Maybe I’ll show you some day. But don’t forget the party tonight.” Seeing
Frank’s puzzlement, added, “At my place. I invited Professor Staples. He
probably won’t come, but you never know.”
“Oh, right.” He’s too chipper for a Saturday morning, Frank
thought. “That paper.”
“I’m almost done. Poof. It came last night. Just have to proof.
I’m a terrible speller. And sometimes I quote from memory inaccurately. How’s
yours coming?”
“I think I finally have a focus. I was going to go back to my
place to work on it,” Frank said, turning his body to hint that he needed to
get going.
Joe did not take the hint. “I’d be happy to talk about it, maybe
help. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’ve had a couple of cups already, thanks. I need to get back
to my computer.”
Looking disappointed, Joe said, “Right. Well, I hope to see
tonight. A break might help, and we can talk then.”
Joe suddenly looked serious. “I get this strange feeling we
should talk.”
“Um, I’ll see. Thanks.”
Frank turned and hurried to his car. He got in and looked back.
No sign of Joe.
Yeah, right. I’m going to that party, he thought.
He drove back to the house and hurried to the apartment to get
to work on the paper before he lost his inspiration. It meant revising it to
take into account the new direction he’d come up with, but suddenly it seemed
to flow. He wrote quickly, smoothly, much more smoothly than he normally did,
leaving a few spots for facts to check.
By noon, he had much of the paper done – except for the blank
spots. He checked on the internet for some of the information he needed. The
rest needed a visit to the library.
He showered and drove back to the campus. He was surprisingly
awake considering he’d been up all night, and what had happened the night
before. He’d almost forgotten about that in the heat of composing.
Demons? She must have put something in their drinks. That had to
be it.
He hurried into the library and looked in the online catalog.
Yes, there was information about John Lowry. He began to
scribble down call numbers, when he suddenly pause.
John Lowry? He could not remember ever hearing of him before.
How had that name suddenly come to him?;
Maybe something I read once. Or maybe something that Staples
said that had had settled into his subconscious.
He shrugged, and continued to make notes, then rushed off into
the stacks.
He hated library stacks. Too closed in. Too much dead air
despite air conditioners and fans.
The section he wanted was in an old wing of the library several
floors up. The air in it had the musty smell of old books and old leather. He
searched for the books, and quickly found one of them. He looked inside. The
book was so old and so little used it did not even have one of those magnetic
strips put in books these days. It still had the old charge record glued to the
inside cover. He looked at the last date. 1939.
He searched for the other books on his list, and then found a
desk next to a window to search them for what he needed. He worked steadily,
occasionally looking out the window at the campus. With the sun shining campus
actually looked beautiful.
He could easily get distracted.
He settled back into the books and soon had all the data he
needed, and started to flip through the book. He came across a biographical
sketch of John Lowry.
He was imprisoned in 1581 for being a Catholic after being
turned in by a man named George “Judas” Eliot, a criminal notorious for
betraying Catholics. But he was not executed thanks to some influential
friends. Instead, he was kept imprisoned for 10 years, and finally released and
spent several years as an invalid at a friend’s estate. It was then that he had
done most of his writing about medieval history that had been helpful to Frank.
But he had also written about witchcraft.
Curious, Frank went to one of the computers on the floor and
looked up other books by Lowry. He found one, located in an even more obscure
stack.
He went off in search. Great, a tower stack.
He climbed ever higher on old wooden stairs and through dead
air, finally coming to the top floor. The lights were off when he got to the
floor.
There were boxes of books scattered about and empty shelves. It
looked as if the library was packing up this floor.
The book he wanted was on a back shelf that had not been
touched.
The book was not about Lowry per se, but about witchcraft and
the witch trials of the 16th century.
The book did not have an index. Great. Frank sat at a table
piled high with books ready for boxing, and began flipping through. He almost
gave up when he spotted Lowry’s name.
Lowry had been part of a group that met to talk about philosophy
and ancient ways, including medieval guilds – the subsidiarity connection Frank
had already discovered.
But then several members of the group were ejected and later
arrested for witchcraft. A section of a document written by Lowry was quoted.
“Dame Agnes claimed to see spirits. Simon Slaney told her that
if she did, it was a great power. If she could learn to control them, then she
should use them for her ends. He was seconded by his cousin, Magnus Sounder,
who said he himself had learned to use such spirits to win in the courts,
though he spoke little of such things and trusted our confidence.
This bespoke witchcraft to us. Having known prison walls for my
religious beliefs already, and not easy with talk of such things, I was prepared
to leave the group when Albert Thomas said all those who shared Simon Slaney’s
and Magnus Sounder’s beliefs were not welcome in the group any more. Dame
Agnes, Simon Seeley, Magnus Sounder, Henry Scott, and Clive Staples all parted
ways with our group. I was relieved, yet much saddened, for they provoked
likely conversation, especially Clive Staples. But such companionship put my
neck in jeopardy.
Thence did Daniel Parson tell me he planned to report them for
fear of his own life, and advised me to do the same as I was already suspect
for my beliefs. There was wisdom in what he said, and so with sadness I signed
a statement he had written stating what we had heard.
Magnus Sounder was arrested and after a trial, burned. The
others I heard naught of, other than they may have fled to the colonies.”
Frank searched for other references, but found nothing. A wild
goose chase. So he turned in his friends to save his neck. I might have done
the same under the circumstances, he thought.
He put the book back where he found it. He started to leave when
he spotted the title of a book on the table.
Nathaniel Slaney: The Father of Carthage.
He grabbed the book and flipped through until he found Simon
Slaney, who, the book said, fled to the colonies to escape religious
persecution. He was the great grandfather of Nathaniel Slaney.
Fleeing to escape what he would consider religious persecution,"
Frank mused.
And this town is one result.
He wondered if there were any Slaneys still in Cathage. He made
a mental note to ask Jack.
He started down when he heard the noise of someone coming up. He
felt strangely embarrassed, as if he shouldn’t be there, even though he had
every right.
He continued down util he could see the person . A shock passed
through him.
“Art?” he said hesitantly, “Art Selig?”
Art halted and looked at him, his eyes darkening.
“What are you doing up there?” Art growled.
“Research. I didn’t’ know you were here. It’s been a long time.”
He took a couple of steps closer, then stopped when he saw the
way Art was glaring at him.
“I work here.," Art snarled "What were you looking for?”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . .. ..
Jack went into the kitchen. Frank glanced over his paper again, and sowno
glaring errors.
Then suddenly he thought of Joe.
He seemed like he really wanted to see me, Frank thought. And he realized he
had a suddent feeling they should talk.
As he spoke, he rubbed his fingers together. Like a fly. It made
Frank feel queasy.
“I was looking for information for a paper. It was a dead end.”
“This tower is dangerous. They shut it down a while back. Better
get out.”
“Yeah, I’m going,” he said, then tried to make conversation. “So
you teach here?”
“Research. INS.”
Frank felt even more uneasy.
“Oh,” he said cautiously, “I met Dr. Soehner.”
“I know. He wants to see you,” he said. Then he added
firmly.”You should make a point of it.”
“I’ll think about it, if I have time.”
“Make the time. It’ll be worth your while.”
“Yeah, I’ll think of it.”
He started down again.
Art glared at him. “Think hard,” he said firmly.
Frank was about to say something, thought better, and hurried
down.
He got out of the tower and took a breath of fresh air.
Weird. When standing next to Art he was sure he’d smelled smoke.
There was nothing in the air here.
Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, he thought absently.
Hope I never run into
that fire.
Sharon Sweetwater joined the throng entering Carthage General
Hospital as visiting hours began. She checked the room number again, and then
took the elevator up to the third floor.
She had two hours before she had to be at the clinic –
short-staffed thanks to the departure of the nurse and doctor. Few people had
applied yet. Few wanted to volunteer or work in an inner city clinic,
especially not in Carthage.
Her own mother had called the night before.
“Can’t you find another job? There’s so much crime there.”
Her mother had called several times before with similar
messages.
Sharon’s response was always the same.
“I’m needed. I feel as if I’m doing good.”
This visit was part of “doing good.” One of the clinic’s
patients had ended up in the hospital. A troubled woman who had no one. Sharon
had promised to visit her.
“You have to start caring about yourself,” her mother had warned
her on more than one occasion. “You have to stop putting others first.”
Her mother, who had married multiple times and lost many jobs
because she was good at putting herself first. Her mother who now had no one.
She took the elevator up to the floor. The doors slid open, and
she was greeted by noise. Not the usual hospital noises. Voices, loud, angry,
frightened, sometimes a mixture of both.
Sharon looked at the nurses. They looked beat and burned out.
Maybe the clinic isn’t so bad, she thought.
She found the room and went in.
“Sister Sharon,” the woman rasped with delight. “You
came.”
“How are you, Masia?”
Masia, who was only 30, could have passed for nearly twice her
age. She had a scar above her left eye and was missing a couple of teeth.
“I been better. I can’t sleep much. This is the noisiest
hospital I ever been in.”
“I noticed,” Sharon said. “Maybe it’s busy.”
“You’re telling me,” Masia said. “People talking and yelling.”
“But how are you doing,” Sharon said to try to get back on
track.
“They say the infection has gotten better. I had some internal
bleeding. I mighta died if you hadn’t sent me here.”
A regular at the clinic, Masia had come in a couple of days
before wearing a large, dirty, bloody towel taped to her side. She had been
stabbed the day before, and had tried to take care of it herself. It was
unclear how deep the wound was, and how bad the infection that had developed
was, so Sharon had called an ambulance and the police. Masia refused to say how
it had happened, or who had done it. Given her track record, it could have been
anyone from one of her boyfriends to one of her drinking buddies.
But Sharon had learned that despite her wild ways, Masia was
basically a good soul. She tried to help others in any way she could. She often
convinced others to come to the clinic, and sometimes came along to give
support and to overcome mistrust. Sharon had developed a soft spot for her, and
the rest of the clinic staff tried to find odd jobs for her to help her earn
some money – and to keep her busy so she didn’t drink or do more drugs.
“You, die?” Sharon said with a smile. “You’re too tough.
“Jesus don’t want me yet,” Masia said.
“He’s going to hit you in the back of the head!” a voice
bellowed.
Sharon flinched, but no blow came.
“Thas my roommate,” Masia said. “She sees things.”
“They don’t like you,” the other woman yelled. “You scare them.
Hey, don’t take my couch!”
Sharon looked at the woman. A bony old woman with thin straggly
hair, she had wild, feverish eyes.
“Did you call the police?” the woman asked her.
“The staff will take care of that,” Sharon said, not certain
what the woman was talking about.
“The vampires have them,” the woman said. “They got suckers all
over them. Bob? Get away from me.”
“Poor woman,” Sharon muttered.
“You hear a lot of that,” Masia said. “All night. I gotta
get outta here. My place is quieter.”
“Maybe in a day or two if the infection is under control,”
Sharon said. “They get people out quickly these days.”
“They’re watching you,” the woman said to Sharon, then snapped,
“Get off my couch.”
From out in the hall, Sharon heard a man’s voice yelling, ”She
says I’m a murderer.”
Sharon shook her head.
The woman suddenly and calmly said,”Papootie.”
Sharon blinked.
“What did you say?”
“Papootie, help me.”
“What’s the matter, Masia said. “You look funny.”
“It’s nothing,” Sharon said uneasily. “I’m okay. You get better.
Let us know when you get out. Come to the clinic and I’ll get you some tea.”
“I’d rather have beer,” Masia chortled.
Sharon left the room and hurried to the elevator. She felt cold.
It’s a coincidence, she said to herself. There’s no way
that woman could know.
He’s dead.
…..
The afternoon went well. Despite the weird experience of the
night before, the lack of sleep, and running into Art, Frank was able to finish
his paper. Another read through, and he would be able to hand it in. Then he
could get on to reading the upcoming week’s assignments.
Staples did believe in work.
Jack came back midafternoon.
“I gotta get more reliable board operators,” he grumbled. “These
morning shifts are murder.”
He smiled at Frank.
“You wouldn’t be interested in an exciting career in radio,
would you?;”
“Well, I do have a face for radio.”
“That’s my line!”
“By the way, I saw an old friend. Art Selig. He works with
Soehner.
Jack looked surprised.
“He’s spooky. How do you know him?”
“He’s from Kashong Falls. We went to high school together.
We used to be friends, then something happened. I think he resented me because
I was good at chess. How’s that for a reason to stop being friends?”
“Chess? You really were a nerd.”
“I’m a high school teacher."
“Okay, you are still a nerd. But there is something not right
about Selig. He’s Soehner’s right hand thug."
“He was pushing me to go to the INS. Said Soehner wants to see
me.”
“For once I agree with him.”
“You have ulterior motives. You just want a spy.”
“I’m just trying to seduce you and turn you into a radio whore.
If I win a award for exposing INS I’ll share it with you. Or at least I’ll
mention your name as I accept the award.”
“Thanks.”
“As for seducing, how did Liza fail to snag you?
“I don’t like to be snagged. Besides, as I said, there was too
much weirdness at her place. Don’t laugh, but it felt evil.”
I won’t laugh. But evil? That’s your Catholic roots showing. I
say dangerous. She fools around with too much dangerous stuff.
“You don’t believe in all that?”
“I don’t believe in it as magic and all that, but there is
something there. You can’t deny that after what happened.”
“No,” he said softly. Then he added brightly., “Maybe you should
get her to go to the INS. I bet she would short circuit all their machines.”
“I think she did go there once. She said it was all bogus, but I
think it freaked her.”
“What do they do?”
“As best I can tell, they are researching psychic ability. But
I’m convinced they are do it to use it, like a weapon. They get military
funding. Imagine an army of psychic warriors.”
“Bad sci fi.”
“ That sort of stuff has been researched before. Like distant
viewing. They’ve actually tested people’s ability to see things far away – like
another country. Imagine the spy potential with stuff like that.”
“They don’t have that, do they?”
“Mixed reports. But what’s going on here is different. There’s
something about Carthage that seems to support the research. Liza says there’s
so much going on in the spirit world that other members of her coven won’t even
live here.”
"Oh, right. One thing I may have found out. Nathaniel
Slaney founded Carthage, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well he might be connected with Simon Slaney, a witch who fled
England for the colonies.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I stumbled across mention of him.
“So a relative of a witch started this place? You know all the
old Native American legends about this place, right?”
“Some.”
“Well they avoided this place. But he settled here. Figures
there’s be some witch connection.”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“It make sense. But
I’ll look into it. Maybe make a feature story. Now, I need some food.”
Jack headed off to the kitchen. Frank was annoyed. He wanted to talk more about what happened last night, but Jack seemed to be avoiding it.
Instead, he glanced over his paper and saw no obvious mistakes or typos.
Then he thought of Joe.
Suddenly he had the feeling they did need to talk.
Pax et bonum
