The Lion Returns

PART ONE

The Plans Of Men

The physical universes are not designed for the convenience or pleasure of humans or other incarnate souls. Intelligence, diligence, and good intentions do not necessarily produce security, comfort and pleasure. There are no guarantees.

One can try and one can hope, but one's expectations are often disappointed. On the other hand, today's victories sometimes lead to tomorrow's woes, while out of today's woes may grow tomorrow's blessings. The roots of joys and griefs can be distant in both time and place. So it is well to be light on your feet, and not too fixed in your desires.

Vulkan to Macurdy, on the highway to Teklapori in the spring of 1950

1 Leave

Captain Curtis Macurdy's train pulled slowly up to the red sandstone depot. Through a window he saw his wife on the platform, flowerlike in a pink print frock. Without waiting for the train to stop, he moved quickly down the nearly empty aisle, grabbed his duffel bag from a baggage shelf, and when the door opened, swung down the stairs onto the gray concrete.

Mary saw him at once, and crying his name, ran toward him. Putting down his bag, he caught her in his arms and they kissed hungrily, while the handful of other disembarking passengers grinned or looked away. It was Thursday, June 1, 1945. Servicemen on leave were commonplace.

"You taste marvelous," he murmured. "You smell marvelous."

She laughed despite eyes brimming with tears. "That's perfume," she said, then added playfully, "Evening in Paris." She looked around. The air was damp and heavy; smoke from the coal-burning locomotive settled instead of rising. "Perfume and coal smoke," she added laughing. "And soot."

He picked up his bag again and they walked hand in hand to the car. It was she who got in behind the wheel. That had become habitual. He got in beside her, feasting his eyes.

"Hungry?" she asked,

"For food you mean? Yeah, I guess I am. I had breakfast on the train somewhere west of Pendleton, and a Hershey bar at the station in Portland."

He knew from her letters that she'd moved out of her father's house and rented the apartment above Sweiger's Cafe. He was curious as to why, but hadn't asked. She'd tell him in her own time. She pulled up in front, and they went into the cafe for lunch. Ruthie Sweiger saw them take a booth, and came over with menus. "Look who's here!" she said. "How long has it been?"

He answered in German, as he would have before the war. "Not quite three years. July '42."

Her eyebrows rose, and she replied in the same language. "Your German sounds really old-country now. You put me to shame."

"It should sound old-country." He said it without elaborating.

"Curtis," Mary said quietly in her Baltisches Deutsch, "people are looking at us."

He glanced over a shoulder. At a table, two men were scowling in their direction. Curtis got to his feet facing them, standing six feet two and weighing 230 pounds. One side of his chest bore rows of ribbons, topped by airborne wings and a combat infantry badge. Grinning from beneath a long-since-broken nose, he walked over to them.

"Do I know you guys from somewhere?"

"I don't think so," one of them answered, rising. "We came over from Idaho last year. We log for the Severtson brothers."

Macurdy extended a large hand. "My name's Curtis Macurdy. I used to log for the Severtsons, before I joined the sheriff's department. With luck, I'll be back for good before too long."

Both men shook hands with him, self-conscious now, and Curtis returned to the booth, grinning again. "A little public relations for the sheriff's department," he said, in German again. "And food for thought about people speaking German."

Ruthie left to bring coffee, then took their orders. While they waited, Curtis and Mary made small talk, and looked at each other. Curtis felt her stockinged foot stroke his leg. When their food arrived, they ate quickly, without even refills on coffee. Then Curtis paid the bill and they left. They held hands up the narrow stairs to her apartment, and when Mary closed the door behind them, she set the bolt.

For a long moment they simply stood, gazing at each other. Then they stepped together and kissed, with more fervor than at the depot. Finally Mary stepped back and spoke, her voice husky. "The bedroom," she said pointing, "is over there. I am going to the bathroom, which is over there." Again she pointed. "When I'm done there, I'm going there. Which is where I want you to be."

After a couple of minutes she arrived at the final there. He was standing naked by the bed. She wore only a negligee, and as she walked toward him, dropped it to the floor.

"Oh God, Curtis!" she breathed in his arms. "Oh God, how I want you! How I've wanted you these three long years!"

Their first lovemaking was quick, almost desperate. Afterward they lay side by side talking, talk which was not quick at all. There was much he hadn't written; much of it would have been deleted by military censors if he had. And things she hadn't written, not wanting to send bad news.

He knew of course that Klara, Mary's grandmother, had died of a heart attack the previous autumn. He'd gotten that letter while in France, training dissident Germans to carry out sabotage and other partisan actions in Hitler's planned "National Redoubt." And he knew that Mary's dad, Fritzi, had married after Klara's death.

Mary had moved out of her father's home because she hadn't gotten along with Margaret, Fritzi's wife. Margaret was basically a good woman, Mary insisted, but bossy and critical, in the kitchen and about the housework. And insisted that Mary, as "her daughter," attend church regularly with Fritzi and herself. Even though Mary was thirty years old, and been married for twelve of them. The matter of church attendance was Margaret's only position that Fritzi had overruled-previously his own attendance had been fitful-and Margaret had backed off without saying anything more about it.

Mary's uncle, Wiiri Saari, owned several rental houses. Lying there on the rumpled bedsheets, the young couple decided to let Wiiri know that when Curtis got out of the army, they'd like to rent one of them.

Curtis suggested they spend the rest of his leave on the coast south of Tillamook Bay, where they'd spent part of his leave in 1942. Mary agreed eagerly. She'd already gotten a week's leave from her job at Wiiri's machine shop. She could probably get it extended.

With a slim finger, Mary followed a long scar on Curtis's right thigh. "I wish-" she said hesitantly, "I wish you didn't have to go back. Mostly I felt sure you'd come home, but sometimes I wasn't very brave. I was so afraid for you. And the Japanese? People say they won't give up, that they'll fight to the bitter end. And you're dearer to me than my own life."

Curtis kissed her gently. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't have to fight the Japanese." He paused, sorting his thoughts. When he spoke again, it was in a monotone, all emotion suppressed. "I was never in ETOUSA; that was a lie, a cover story. In the hospital in England, while I was recuperating, I was recruited by the OSS, because I spoke German well. Railroaded is the word. After they trained me, they smuggled me into Germany on a spy mission. In Bavaria lived with people I had to kill. Kill for good reasons."

He stopped talking for a long moment. Mary looked worriedly at him, waiting, knowing he wasn't done.

"People I saw every day," he went on. "One of them especially I knew and liked; I had to shoot him in the back. Another I killed treacherously, while he was shaking my hand. I needed to kidnap him, but first I had to make him unconscious, and… sometimes you misjudge how much force to use. You can't afford to use too little."

He paused, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll tell you more about those things sometime." Again he paused. "Those ribbons on my Ike jacket-they include the Distinguished Service Cross, the next highest decoration after the Medal of Honor. That one's from Sicily. I almost bled to death there. One of the two silver stars is from Bavaria; they're one step below the DSC. You can read the commendations that go with them."

He reached, touched her solemn face. Her aura matched her expression. This wasn't easy for her, he knew, but she needed to hear it. "Anyway I'm done with war now," he went on. "For good. It may not be patriotic to feel that way, but I'm done with it. I'll tell you more about that too, someday. It's not only this war. It's stuff from before. From Yuulith, stuff I saw and did there that I never told you about."

With his fingertips he felt the rugged scars of his buttocks, and his voice took on a tone of wry amusement. "This," he said, then ran a finger along the longest of the surgical scars on his right leg, "and these will help me stay out of it. Among the things I did to get ready for Germany was, I practiced walking with a limp. Till it was automatic. Along with my scars, and pretending to be weak-minded, the limp explained why I wasn't in the German army. And kept me out of it while I was there."

Again his voice changed, became dry, matter-of-fact. "I'm due to report at the Pentagon on June 19. When I get there I'll be limping, just a little. And no one will question it; my medical records will take care of that. At worst they'll have me training guys somewhere."

That evening they ate supper with Fritzi and Margaret. Margaret questioned him about the war, his family, his plans. His answers were less than candid; her aura, her tone, her eyes, told him she was looking for things to disapprove of. He felt a powerful urge to shock her, tell her about his weird AWOL at Oujda, in French Morocco. About the voitar and the Bavarian Gate; the promiscuous Berta Stark, now a good wife and foster mother; the sexually ravenous, half-voitik Rillissa; the sorceries in Schloss Tannenberg. Instead he recited generalities.

Afterward he told Mary that Margaret might be good to Fritzi, but he himself wouldn't care to be around her. Though he didn't say so, he was aware that Fritzi was having regrets. Curtis saw auras in much greater detail than Mary did.

The next day they got in their '39 Chevy and drove to the coast. There they rented a tourist cabin, and spent ten lazy days strolling the beach, listening to the gulls, watching the surf break on great boulders and basaltic shelves, and hiking the heavy green forest. He left for D.C. on the 13th, planning to spend a couple of days in Indiana en route, visiting family.

Curtis's parents, Charley and Edna, had had no further contact with the Sisterhood. Not that he'd asked-all that was behind him, for good-but they'd have mentioned it. Charley's back had gone bad, and he'd sold the farm to his elder son, Frank. Frank was running beef cattle on it because he couldn't get enough help to raise crops, and couldn't afford to quit his job as shop foreman at Dellmon's Chevrolet. Frank Jr., a platoon sergeant, had come back wounded from France, and was training infantry at Fort McClellan. He wanted to farm the place when the war was over.

Curtis left Indiana feeling both good and bad. The farm he'd grown up on had changed, and his parents had become old in just the three years since he'd last seen them. On the other hand, Frank was looking out for them, and when Frank Jr. got out of the army, the farm would be in good hands.

2 Job Interview

At the Pentagon, Macurdy reported to a major in G-2-Intelligence-who looked him over thoroughly and with disapproval. "The OSS," the major said, "has little or no role in the pending invasion of Japan, and some of its personnel, including yourself, are being transferred to other services. You might have been transferred back to the airborne, but you have twice been transferred out of it as medically unfit. And the Military Police"-he paused, then added wryly: "to which you once were assigned but in which you never served, have rejected you on the basis of your subsequent service behavior.

"There is also the problem of your rank. Your captaincy may have been appropriate to OSS activities, but you lack both the training and the experience to serve as a captain in the airborne or other infantry organization. They might have been interested in you as a sergeant, but not as a captain."

He gazed disapprovingly at the large young man across the desk. Having read his service record, Macurdy's surly expression didn't surprise him. "At any rate," he continued, "for some undecipherable reason you have been assigned to us. Perhaps because of certain very limited similarities of function between G-2 and the OSS. We have found your personnel records both interesting and puzzling. Frankly, your history in the OSS is sufficiently odd and undocumented to bring into question your veracity and your mental health. While the irregularities in your airborne history were impractical to analyze, since so many of the people with whom you served were subsequently killed or invalided out.

"Your combat record, on the other hand, is well documented, and impressive if brief. Overall, however, it seems clear that you showed remarkably little respect for standard procedures, and for army ways of doing things in general. Which you might have gotten away with in the airborne, or"-he grimaced slightly-"the OSS. But not in military intelligence. Even your injuries and medical-surgical history, after the traffic accident in Oujda, are utterly incompatible with your subsequent assignments and combat record." The major peered intently at Curtis, as if hoping to perceive the truth. "Afterward, when reassigned to the Military Police, you avoided the transfer by going AWOL from the hospital, and by some still undetermined subterfuge, inserted yourself into the 505th Parachute Infantry."

He looked down at the blotter on his desk, then up again. "My commanding officer has instructed me to ignore all that, since the results redounded to the benefit of the war effort. So now I am faced with the problem of what duties to assign you. Your alpha score was rather ordinary, and your education ended with 8th grade. Your courage is beyond question, and your German passed as native." He paused. "Despite your conspicuously non-German name. But German is now irrelevant. I can send you to military intelligence school, but by the time you could complete it, we're unlikely to have any need for you."

Again the major paused, his gaze intent. "Tell me, Captain Macurdy, what particular skills do you have to offer, which we might build upon?"

Macurdy scowled a dark, ugly scowl at the major. "I can see and read auras," he answered. "The halos people have around them. Tells me all sorts of things about them. And I see better at night than most. Give me a knife, and I can go around in the dark and kill people without anyone the wiser, till they come across the body. And I can keep warm in the cold; I can go naked all day, in weather you couldn't stand in winter uniform." He seemed to sneer, then raised his exceptionally large hands in front of him, opening, then clenching them. "I can take a horseshoe in either hand and squeeze it shut. I can light fire without matches. I can go a week easy without eating, but I need water every day." He stopped as if done, then added: "And I can shoot fireballs out of my hand. Blow a man's head off without hardly a sound."

Without realizing it, the major had leaned back, away from the man across the desk. Now he looked long and carefully at him. "Thank you, Captain Macurdy," he said carefully. "That was an interesting and informative list of talents. Return to your quarters. You'll be notified of our decision."

While limping down the long corridor, Macurdy whistled so cheerfully, people he passed turned and looked back at him.

3 Making Adjustments

Curtis's next arrival home was on June 25. He had a medical discharge, based on his old injuries, and was on thirty-day terminal leave. He'd draw his captain's pay till July 23. As before, Mary met him at the depot. They went to her little apartment-theirs now-and made love. Afterward he dressed in civvies, clothes he'd left behind in '42.

"This week," he said, "I'll talk to Fritzi about getting my old job back. If it's going to make any trouble, I'll settle for sergeant on an undersheriff's pay. And if that's not possible… I'll worry about that when the time comes.

"Or maybe," he added, watching her intently, "maybe it's time for you and me to go somewhere else." They'd talked about that eventuality even before they were married, but she'd lived in Nehtaka all her life. It wouldn't be easy for her.

"Somewhere we're not known," he went on, "where people won't realize I don't age. Back before I enlisted, maybe four years ago, people already commented on it. Axel Severtson asked me if I'd been drinking from the Fountain of Youth-that I didn't look any older than when I'd worked for him. And Lute Halvoy said I better hurry up and start showing my years, or people would call me a draft dodger.

"And tight as manpower's got to be, with so many off in the military, we can go just about anywhere and find good jobs.

"Think about it. We'll have to do it sooner or later, and in a couple years, when the war's over and all the guys start coming home, jobs might get hard to find. Might even be another depression."

That night they had supper at Fritzi's again. "When do you want to come back to work?" Fritzi asked.

"How does next week sound? I'd like to lay around a few days." Curtis paused. "Is Harvey Chellgren still the undersheriff?"

" Ja, and he is a good officer. Maybe a little too political. He likes a little too much to please people. You will be better. And he knows you got the job coming to you, by law and by right. I told him if you take it, I will ask the county to approve a raise for him, to what he's getting now, and we will call him senior deputy. He's got so many friends in the county, the board will probably do it.

"Besides, I'm going to retire in '48, when my term is up. I've already told him I might. He will probably run for sheriff then. You should too. You'd make a better one than him. Then whoever loses can be undersheriff. You two always got along good."

The first thing bad that happened to Curtis was the next day, when he went to see Roy Klaplanahoo's wife and children. Roy, she told him, had been killed in Germany, in Bloody Hurtgen. With the war in Europe almost over, and having survived Sicily, Italy, France and Belgium.

It was almost predictable, but Curtis was crushed. He went home and wept before his dismayed wife. Afterward he told her of the battle of Ternass, in Yuulith. Of the thousands killed, all of them his responsibility, his guilt. How many Roy Klaplanahoos had died there? But Roy had been his friend. There'd been a bond, begun in the hobo jungle outside Miles City, Montana, carrying forward to Severtson's logging camp, and renewed in North Africa.

He told her of other things that had happened in Yuulith, too, things he'd never mentioned before. They'd seemed irrelevant, there'd been no need for her to know, and they'd have stretched her credulity.

"Do you believe me-Mary?" He'd almost called her Spear Maiden! Despite the two being so unlike.

"I believe you, darling," she answered. "I know you too well to doubt your honesty or your sanity. And I see auras too, you know. I even saw some of your mental pictures when you talked." She paused. "I want you to tell me more about Yuulith. Sometime soon. Share it with me. I won't be jealous of your other wives, I promise. I want to know more about them. They must have been good people."

He kissed her gently, and minutes later they went to bed.

That night he awoke from a dream. Of the spear maiden, Melody; he hadn't dreamt of her in years. But the setting was different than in earlier Melody dreams. This one was on the battlefield at Ternass. They lay side by side on the grass, talking. Then someone-Varia, he thought-blew a trumpet, and all the dead got up and brushed themselves off. Roy Klaplanahoo was with them, and the tall voitik corporal, Trosza, whose killing had laid heavily on his conscience. They all mingled, talking and laughing. Then one of them came up to him-Lord Quaie, still with the steaming hole in his belly. And he was not hostile. He was gesturing, his mouth working earnestly, but no words came out.

At that point Curtis wakened. It took awhile to get back to sleep.

He returned as undersheriff the next week, and enjoyed the work again. Loggers, many of them new to him, continued to flood the taverns and dance halls on Saturday evenings. But his reputation had preceded him. The Nehtaka Weekly Sentinel had given a brief summary of his military record-primarily assignments, actions, and military honors-provided by the Army's Office of Public Information. This inspired men who knew him from before to retell and exaggerate his prewar exploits in Nehtaka County, both as a law officer and a logger.

None of them knew of his exploits in Yuulith, of course.

Two years after Curtis's return, Fritzi had a stroke. In the hospital, slurring from one side of his mouth, he announced first his appointment of Curtis as acting sheriff, then his own retirement, to take effect at the end of June. In the hospital, and afterward at his home, Curtis sat daily by the bed, healing Fritzi by hand and gaze, sometimes with a silent Margaret looking on coldly. It was obvious to Curtis that she distrusted him.

Ten days later, Fritzi was up and walking, unimpaired. Doc Wesley told Curtis the recovery was a lot quicker and more complete than he'd expected. "I don't know what it is you do, young man," he said, "but I wish I could do it."

Afterward Macurdy imagined Wesley in Oz, apprenticing under Arbel, then returning to Oregon with his new skills. But even if the doctor could be talked into it, it wouldn't be possible. He might survive the transit through the gate-might even retain his sanity-but he'd never make it back.

4 Exposure

For the 1948 Memorial Day celebration in Nehtaka's Veterans' Park, Macurdy and a number of other wounded veterans, of two wars, were asked to participate in a "remembrance" ceremony. Curtis agreed to introduce the other Purple Heart recipients, and to read the list of those who'd died from enemy action.

He took the duty seriously, and practiced the names to avoid grossly mispronouncing any.

As master of ceremonies, Mayor Louie Severtson introduced Curtis: "Here," he said, "is a young man who really ain't so young. I've known him since '33-that's fifteen years ago!-when he was new around here. He was twenty-five then, and didn't hardly look it. He went to war in '42. In '43 he won the Distinguished Service Cross for exceptional heroism in combat, and later served as an OSS spy in Nazi Germany, earning a silver star for gallantry. And after all that, at age forty, he still looks like a twenty-five-year-old."

He turned to Curtis, grinning. "How do you do that, Macurdy?"

It seemed to Curtis his heart had stopped. "It runs in the family," he said. "And clean living helps."

He got through his own presentation, and sat down with a sense of foreboding.

He and Mary had been invited to supper at Fritzi's that evening. Margaret had little to say before and during the meal, but it was obvious she had something on her mind. After pie, they sat over coffee.

"You mentioned your family," Margaret said. "The sheriff says they farm, back in Indiana."

"They did. My dad's retired now."

"How old does he look?"

Curtis frowned, but his voice was casual. "About seventy-five, the last time I saw him. He was born in 1872, which makes him seventy-six now. Worked hard all his life."

"Who else in your family looked as young as you do at age forty?"

Curtis's lips had thinned at her question. "My double-great grampa, I'm told. And a great uncle. Actually I lied when I took the deputy job in '33. I was older. And I lied about my age in the army in '42, afraid they wouldn't put a man my actual age in a combat unit. I'm forty-four now."

Fritzi stared uncomfortably at his wife. "Margaret…" he began.

She cut him short with a gesture, and another question for Curtis. "I've also heard you were married before."

"Twice."

That stopped her, but only for a moment. "The sheriff told me something about you. About you and Mary, before you were married. When he overheard you talking on the front porch. It was almost like witchcraft, he said, the effect it had on Mary. After that she was changed. She'd always said she'd never marry. She hadn't even gone out with boys."

Curtis's face had turned stony, and his eyes smoldered. "I learned that from my first wife," he said. "She was a witch. From another world. Does that satisfy you?"

Margaret paled, more from his look than his words, but her eyes did not soften. "He is kidding you," Fritzi broke in. His mild accent had thickened, as usual when something upset him. "You had no right to ask him such questions, like a prosecutor. He was right to feel insulted. Now apologize to him!"

She stared pinch-lipped at her husband, then turned back to Macurdy. It was hatred he saw now, in her aura and eyes, and when she spoke, she bit the words out. "If I have wronged you, I apologize."

"You did wrong me," Curtis answered. "Frankly, none of it was your business. I've been part of this community for fifteen years, counting my service time, and I've never wronged anyone here. Not once! I risk my life as a lawman, and risked it a lot more as a soldier, for my country. I met Mary because I risked my life, killing the armed man who'd just shot Fritzi and two other men. I've always had better things to do than to pry in other peoples' private lives."

Abruptly he stood. "Fritzi, I apologize for the upset. You're a good man, one of the best I know. I lived nine happy years in this house with your mother and daughter. I helped heal your gunshot wound. Helped heal Klara after she got hit by that car. To me you're more like a second father than a father-in-law.

"I hope this-clash here tonight, doesn't hurt things between you and your wife. But I will not sit down in this house with her again."

He turned to Mary, who looked distressed. "We'd better go now."

She nodded and got up. "I'm sorry, Papa," she said. "I love you very much. You are welcome in our home any time." She turned to Margaret. "And so are you, if you care to come. But we will not come here. This was my home for more than twenty-five years. My happy home. You have made it dark for me."

Margaret did not get up, but her words and face were as hard as Curtis's had been. "It is not I who brought darkness to this home. I advise you to rid yourself of that person"-she pointed at Curtis-"before it is too late."

Curtis and Mary left, Curtis grimly pleased with himself, and at the same time sick with anger. He and Mary spoke almost not at all as they walked the mile to the small house they'd bought. He did, however, stop at a liquor store for a pint of bourbon. He wanted something to ease his agitation, and was out of practice at meditating. When they got home, he set the bottle on the living room table, where they often read in the evening.

"Curtis," Mary said, "I agree with you that Margaret was completely out of line. She showed me a side of herself I hadn't wanted to recognize before. Now it's in the open. But right now I don't want to talk about it, or about anything. I just want to have a drink of that whiskey, read awhile, then go to sleep. And wake up in the morning to a new day."

Curtis's eyebrows rose. He'd never known Mary to drink, and wondered if she had while he was overseas. He nodded without speaking. Opening the bottle, he poured about two ounces in a tumbler, and put it on the table in front of her. She raised her glass and took a swallow. Her eyes and mouth opened in shock, and she gasped. "So that's what it's like," she said blinking, and shuddered. Then she sat down at the table and opened the Reader's Digest. He poured half a glass for himself, took a sip, then sat down with the latest issue of Blue Book.

After a couple of pages and several sips, he looked at her glass. The level was down a bit; apparently she was determined. After reading a short story, he left the room, changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth. By the time he'd returned to the dining room, Mary had finished the two ounces and poured another.

A few minutes later she got up and hurried to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The next minute or so she spent vomiting and groaning. Curtis went into the kitchen, put the pint on the counter, lit a burner on the stove and put the tea kettle on it. Then he put bread in the toaster, and two tea bags into cups. Finally he spread butter on the toast.

While he waited for the water to get hot, he went into the hall and listened at the bathroom door. She was gargling; a good sign. He went back to the kitchen. While he was pouring water onto their tea bags, she came in looking weak and abashed.

"I made tea," he told her. "And buttered some toast; something easy to take."

"Thanks," she said huskily, and sank onto a chair. Cautiously she tasted the toast, then sipped some tea and took another bite. Curtis sat down and tasted his own, then examined her somewhat diminished aura. "How do you feel?"

She didn't answer at once, as if examining herself. "Actually not too bad," she said. "Weak. Embarrassed. Wiser. But not nauseous or anything. I'll be all right."

"No need to be embarrassed. It's happened to millions. Billions, probably."

She finished her bread. "I don't think I was cut out to drink liquor."

"Lots of people wish they could say that." He stood, and took the bottle off the counter. "Let me show you my magical trick," he said, and poured the contents into the sink. "There. It's gone."

He went to her, and bending, kissed her. She was about to tell him this was not a good night to get amorous, then changed her mind. It is, she told herself, a very good night to get amorous, and standing, kissed him back passionately. In the way her Aunt Hilmi had suggested for healing misunderstandings. It seemed to her it might work for other traumas. After a moment he began unbuttoning her blouse.

5 Sunday Service

In June 1948, Harvey Chellgren announced his candidacy for Nehtaka County Sheriff. A naturally social and political creature, he was a son of a large, considerably branched family, a member of the Swedish lodge (from his mother's side) and the Sons of Norway (from his father's). He was also a past master of the local Masonic Lodge, and treasurer of the Moose. Within a month, all four lodges declared their support for him. The local chapters of the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars, on the other hand, came out for Macurdy. The Sentinel published what it knew about both men, and forecast a close race.

The editorial closed with a personality summary. "Harvey," it said, "is bright, outgoing, and friendly. He always tries to handle things with a minimum of bad feelings, but is tough when he has to be… Curtis is mild-mannered, but he has presence. Even if you don't know his military and police record, you tend to do what he tells you. Whichever of these two men is elected, we can expect to have a good sheriff."

In earlier years, Fritzi had attended church irregularly, his attitude reflecting that of his mother. Basically, Klara had been somewhat religious, but as a young woman had become alienated by the state Lutheranism of Prussia. She was acutely skeptical of churches and preachers, and at any rate, in Nehtaka there were no services in German, the only language she knew. So she'd gone twice a year, at Christmas and Easter.

Now however, at Margaret's insistence, Fritzi attended church weekly.

Before the war, nudged by whatever unidentified impulse, Curtis had gone to church three or four times a year, and Mary with him. As a child, her Aunt Ruth had taken her regularly to the local Finnish church, where "her mother would have taken her, if she'd lived." Fritzi agreed, and enforced it. But when she'd reached her teens, Mary had resisted, and Klara had supported her. From that time on, she'd attended mainly with Klara, on the old woman's infrequent pilgrimages to Holy Redeemer.

Curtis, after his return, hadn't gone at all, had felt no need to. And the Lutheran liturgy at Holy Redeemer had always confused him; he'd gone too seldom to get the hang of it. At the only other church he'd attended-under duress as a child-the services had been much simpler. But now, Fritzi suggested, as a candidate for office it was well to be seen in church. "You don't have to go every week," he said. "After you're elected, once a month is plenty."

Curtis decided to take the advice, and the following Sunday, he and Mary were at Holy Redeemer Lutheran. In 1943, Pastor Huseby's wife had run off with an airman, and the pastor had moved elsewhere. Now Pastor Albin Koht presided. Mary did not look forward to it. Koht was arrogant and intolerant, she said, more suitable for a Missouri Synod church.

They walked the half mile through lovely summer weather. The breeze off the Pacific was cool enough that climbing the slope of the final block, they hardly broke a sweat. Axel Severtson and his wife were the greeters. The old logger met them in the vestibule, and wrung Curtis's hand. Grinning he said, "The next time you wisit that Fountain of Youth, don't forget to bring me a bottle of that vater. But don't take too long. I'm coming up sixty-four this fall, you know. And after you hit sixty-five, it don't vork no more."

Curtis liked the organ prelude. Probably, he thought, it would be the high point of the morning. When Pastor Koht stepped to the altar, the pews were perhaps two-thirds full. Pastor Huseby had done better. Koht welcomed the congregation and made some announcements, while Curtis evaluated his aura. Christian love was not apparent there, but rejection and disapproval were evident. Perhaps, Curtis thought, they could try the Finnish church the next time, or the Swedish Covenant. They probably had English language services, and the Finnish church was nearer home.

Koht led the congregation in invoking God, then the sign of the cross, and then in confession. "If we say we have no sin," he intoned, "we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. But if we confess our sins, God who is faithful and just will forgive us, and cleanse us from all unrighteousness." He paused. "We will now bow our heads in silence for reflection and self-examination."

Curtis bowed his head. He did, he thought, know his own sins well enough, had recognized and regretted them. And God, if he knew everything, didn't need Curtis Macurdy to point out either the commission or the remorse. But it was just as well, he supposed, to revisit them again.

"Most merciful God," Koht went on, and the congregation read the response: "Have mercy on us. We confess to you that we have sinned…" Curtis found the place and joined them. Finally Koht intoned: "With joy, I proclaim to you that Almighty God, rich in mercy, abundant in love, forgives you all your sin, and grants you newness of life in Jesus Christ."

Curtis had detected no joy in the pastor. God's mercy and love, he thought, had a poor spokesman at Holy Redeemer. Then told himself wryly, You're not exactly a fountain of joy and love either, this morning.

Next they sang a hymn, the first in a series separated by prayers, pastoral readings, and congregational response. During the hymns, Curtis simply mouthed the words. He had a defeatist attitude toward singing. He couldn't read the music, didn't know the hymns, and couldn't manage the high and low parts.

At length, Koht announced the first Bible reading-Exodus 22, verses 18 through 20. His strong voice loudened as he began to read. " 'You shall not permit a witch to live. Whosoever lies with a beast shall be put to death. Whosoever sacrifices to any god, save to the LORD only, shall be utterly destroyed.' "

He paused and referred the congregation to Psalm 1 in the program. Accompanied by the organ, Koht read aloud verses 1, 3, and 5, the congregation interspersing 2, 4, and 6. Macurdy did not read. He told himself that this arrogant pastor would condemn Mary and himself just for being able to see auras.

"Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgement," Koht finished, "nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous." The congregation wrapped it up with: "For the Lord knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked shall perish."

Koht paused for a long moment. "The next reading," he said, "is Deuteronomy 18, verses 10 through 12." He paused, then read: " There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter or a witch. Or a charmer, or a consultant with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the LORD: and because of these abominations the LORD thy God doth drive them out from before thee.'

"This is the word of the LORD," Koht finished.

"Thanks be to God," the congregation responded.

Again Koht paused, then bowed his head and prayed, asking that God strengthen the congregation in their will to resist and reject evil. While Koht prayed, Curtis thought of Varia. By biblical criteria, she no doubt did qualify as a witch, though she certainly didn't think of herself as one. To his knowledge, her magicks were neutral at worst. Usually they helped, though he couldn't guarantee the same for the rest of the Sisterhood. Certainly not Sarkia. But as far as he knew, none of them dealt with, or even believed in demons. They sought to learn and master potentials in the Web of the World.

Not that he'd explain any of that to the reverend. It would be a waste of time.

When Koht had finished praying, he scanned his audience. "The homily for today," he said, "is 'Sorcery, the Neglected Sin.'

"In reading Exodus 22, it is interesting to note the order in which God gave his admonitions to Moses. God's warning against witchcraft came ahead of his pronouncement against lying with beasts and worshiping false gods."

He paused, his gaze intent. "But what, exactly, is a witch? Must it be an old woman in a peaked hat, flying around on a broom? Regarding the verse in Exodus, today's biblical scholars, with older manuscripts to work from, and more accurate understanding of ancient Hebrew, translate the Hebrew word in Exodus as 'female sorcerer.' While in the verses in Deuteronomy, both 'witch' and 'wizard' are from the Hebrew for 'sorcerer.'

"So a witch is a sorcerer, someone who practices sorcery. And what exactly is sorcery? The examples I read from Deuteronomy can serve as at least a partial definition. Meanwhile my dictionary defines sorcery as: 'The use of power gained from the assistance or control of evil spirits.' "

He paused, looking over the silent congregation. "But this is 1948. Is it possible there are sorcerers around today? And evil spirits? In a place like Nehtaka County? If there are, how may we recognize them? In Matthew 7, verse 20, Jesus tells us: 'By their fruits shall ye know them.' In other words, by their results. He was talking about false prophets, but the same principle applies to any person."

Macurdy began to feel uncomfortable. Where was Koht leading with this bullshit?

"Consider the morality tale, The Picture of Dorian Gray, in which the principal character lives a life of utter evil, yet does not age. Does not age! Does not deteriorate! In that case due to sorcery woven into a picture."

Macurdy stared dumbfounded, his stomach sinking. Mary's hand squeezed his. Koht preached on.

"That is a novel, of course, a work of fiction. But it carries a powerful truth and lesson. If you believe that Evil cannot wear a pleasant visage, that Satan cannot give good fortune on Earth to those who worship him, you have not read, or have not heeded, your Bible. So. Is there a sorcerer in our community? I tell you that there is-and that you know him."

Curtis did not get up and walk out. To leave would draw attention, suggest a guilty conscience. How, he wondered, could this be happening in America in 1948?

The sermon was not long. Koht's faults did not include infatuation with his own voice. He ended with, "So then, if we find a sorcerer in our midst, or other evildoer as defined in the Bible, shall we run into the fields and pick up stones, and stone him to death? Or her? In the Book of John, chapter 8, verse 7, Jesus said, 'Him that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.' And of course, no one was. Or is. While in Deuteronomy 18:12 it is written, 'God doth drive them out from before thee.' And how did God drive them out? By the hand of the children of Israel! It comes down to people, God-fearing people, like you and me!

"Yet Christ said we are to obey Caesar, that is, obey the government. And the government does not allow us to forcibly evict someone from our community except by law. Which in fact does remove many evildoers from among us. Removes them and sends them to the penitentiary. But unfortunately, the laws do not recognize sorcery as real, as genuine sin.

"So again, what can we do? While the sorcerer may be free to move among us physically, we can shut him out of our lives, have nothing to do with him. Shun him."

He stopped abruptly, leaving people hanging, causing their minds to reach. After a long moment he said simply, "Let us pray," and bowed his head.

The rest of the service was a fog to Macurdy. When it was over, the congregation filed slowly from the sanctuary. Again Axel and Sara Severtson stood at its door, greeters in reverse, making friendly remarks, Axel shaking hands. When Curtis reached him, the old Swede not only shook his hand, but gripped his shoulder, saying something that didn't register. Instead of following the crowd to the basement for coffee and cake, Curtis and Mary left the building.

It was, he told himself, time to leave Nehtaka. But he said nothing, because the place that came to his mind wasn't a place he could take Mary. The transit might kill her.

6 Fall-Out

Koht's allusion was not lost on his congregation, and he received considerable flack from members. A meeting of male parishioners was called to discuss the issue. Koht admitted that the sorcerer he had in mind was Undersheriff Curtis Macurdy. When questioned further, he said that Macurdy's failure to age was only part of the information he had against him, but he refused to elaborate, or name his source.

A vote was taken to remove him from the pulpit, but it fell short of a majority of the total male membership. At that, one of the members stated that he was resigning his membership, and walked out, followed by several otbers. On the following Sunday, attendance at Holy Redeemer was the lowest of memory. Some of the missing showed up at the Swedish Covenant Church, where Sunday morning services were already held in English, and the Finnish Lutheran Church, where English services were held in the evenings.

Three weeks later, Koht was rebuked by the synod, and resigned. Most of Holy Redeemer's missing members returned when he left, but the congregation had been factionalized. Now several Koht loyalists withdrew.

Meanwhile the story of his sermon circulated widely through Nehtaka County. Charges were made that Harvey Chellgren was behind it, and though most people didn't take them seriously, Harvey felt compelled to deny them. When questioned, Curtis said he'd known Harvey too long and too well to believe he'd do such a thing. Mary and he had Harvey and his family over to supper one evening, making sure the Sentinel learned of it, and a couple of weeks later, Chellgren returned the courtesy. The rumor died.

Fritzi had not walked out of the parishioners' meeting, but neither did he attend Koht's service the following Sunday. Instead he stayed home and listened to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. At his firm insistence, Margaret stayed home too. He'd asked her point-blank if she had talked to Koht about Curtis's healings, and she admitted defiantly that she had.

He thought of telling Mary-his strong sense of honesty was pressing him-but when Koht resigned, he decided to leave well enough alone. The damage was done, and seemed less severe than he'd feared at first.

Two weeks later he had his first heart attack.

Three weeks before the election, a sawmill worker beat up his wife and threw her out of the house naked. The man had a history of arrests for violence, and had served time. Macurdy and a deputy went to arrest him. The man shot at them through a window, the bullet striking the police car, and yelled curses at Macurdy, whom he called "a creature of Satan."

From cover behind the police car's heavy engine block, Macurdy tried to talk the man into surrendering. The man replied that Mary's barrenness was God's punishment. Then he fired another round and disappeared from sight. That bullet smashed through two patrol car windows.

Macurdy fired his. 38-caliber revolver once, then rushed the house, covered by the deputy with a rifle. There was no return fire. He found the man dead in his living room. Macurdy's bullet had struck him in the throat.

The required hearing found Macurdy not at fault for the death. A minority opinion, though not recommending a reprimand, held that Macurdy should have continued talking with the culprit. The community in general rejected the criticism as bullshit, saying the man had gotten what he had coming.

Curtis, however, brooded over it. It seemed to him the minority opinion was correct.

Two weeks later, with Mary's blessing, he appointed Harvey Chellgren acting sheriff, then resigned, and withdrew from the sheriff's race. He and Mary would have left Nehtaka then, except for Fritzi's ill health.

The same day he resigned, Curtis went to Berglund's Logging Supplies and Equipment, and bought one of the new chainsaws-a 115-pound Disston. From Saari Ford he bought a pickup. Tnen he hired Paul Klaplanahoo, Roy's youngest brother, as a partner, and went logging for Lars Severtson. He told Mary it felt good to work in the woods again. He lost weight (he'd been getting fat), felt better physically, and insisted it was good to get away from law enforcement.

7 Fritzi's Cabin

In May '49, Fritzi had a coronary, and died. In his will he left the house to Margaret, along with his investments; he held mortgages on several properties. To Mary he left $10,000 cash-a lot of money!-and an abandoned homestead, one hundred sixty acres grown up to young Douglas-fir and hemlock. Rascal Creek ran through it. It was twenty-six miles from town, had a four-room log house with loft, a frame barn, a couple of log sheds and a privy. Fritzi had given the house a new roof and other essential repairs, and used it as a hunting cabin.

Curtis suggested they sell the land and leave. The word was, there were lots of logging jobs in Montana and northern Idaho. If they went there, he could call himself thirty; Mary could still pass for thirty. But she was pregnant. "I want to stay, to be near Dr. Wesley," she said, remembering her several miscarriages. And Curtis agreed.

With serious money in the bank, they decided he'd quit work for a while and fix up the cabin, make it suitable to live in. Drill a well so it wouldn't be necessary to haul water from the creek, put on a front porch, add a bathroom and laundry on the rear, install an electric generator… Using his saw, a hired 'dozer, and a rented truck, he could widen and gravel the one hundred fifty yards of dirt lane between the state road and the house. They could advertise the place in the Portland Oregonian. Well-to-do city people were paying good money for summer homes.

He worked on the cabin all summer and into the fall. Mostly he commuted from Nehtaka, over the hilly, winding state road, graveled but washboardy. But when he was pushing on some project, he sometimes batched in the cabin for two or three days, working by lamplight. His intention was to finish before the rainy season arrived.

Occasionally Mary went with him when he commuted, to do light tasks, being careful not to strain or tire herself. But mostly she stayed home. There she sewed curtains, and being handy with tools, built shelves, birdhouses, bird feeders…

By mid-September, they were in love with the house, and decided to live there themselves, after the baby came. The Severtsons would begin logging soon on a tract twenty miles beyond the cabin. Curtis would work there, commuting.

By mid-October the place was done. It had a hybrid wood-and-propane stove in the kitchen, a refrigerator, a small diesel generator and pump house, a shower in the bathroom… and for possible instances when the generator might break down, a new privy behind a screen of rhododendrons. At Mary's insistence, Curtis had converted a small shed into a sauna; everyone in her Finnish mother's clan had one in the backyard. The larger shed he'd rehabilitated for storage, to make up for the lack of a basement.

Fritzi's hunting cabin had become their dream home. It seemed to them they might not leave Oregon after all, certainly not for years. People in Nehtaka were used to the idea that Curtis didn't age, and while there were those who felt as Pastor Koht had, and Margaret, the couple could live with that.

Their daughter was born on November 2. She was flawless, beautiful. They named her Hilmi, after Mary's favorite aunt. On a late-November day, beneath seasonal clouds with intervals of sunshine, Curtis moved their household goods to their new home. He'd agreed to start cutting for Lars Severtson on December 5. And Mary had the Chevy. She could drive to town whenever she wanted.

Paul Klaplanahoo had gone to work on an uncle's fishing trawler, so Curtis traded in his 115-pound Disston on a new, 65-pound McCullough, figuring to single-hand it. Lars Severtson was skeptical. "I doubt even you can do it by yourself," he said. "You're strong enough the bucking will go okay, but some of those firs are six, seven feet through. With those handlebars, cutting the slant on the undercut will be a bear and a half."

Curtis said if he had to, he'd cut the slant with the ax.

Single-handing proved beastly hard, wearing a heavy, waterproofed canvas jacket and pants against the rain and the devil's-club. And while his spiked boots, for the most part, kept him from slipping on fallen trees, they didn't help a lot on steep slopes. The first couple of days he seriously considered taking a day or two off, and finding a partner after all. But that would complicate life, and besides, single-handing was a challenge he'd come to enjoy. By Christmas the work was going smoothly, and he felt stronger than ever before in his life. The rain, the cold, the slippery footing, the incredibly heavy work-none of it bothered him. Between the job and his little family, he was enjoying life immensely.

He was 45 years old.

The rains had been frequent, sometimes persistent, and occasionally heavy. On February 17, a major storm blew in. The rain poured, and the wind made woods-work dangerous. At noon, Lars pulled everyone out of the woods who hadn't come out on their own. Macurdy loaded his gear in the back of his pickup and started home. Where the road crossed draws, the creeks were bankful, and in one place an overtaxed culvert threatened to wash out.

When he got home, the Chevy was gone, with Mary and the baby. Why they might go to town on that particular day, he couldn't imagine, short of injury or illness. Tight with apprehension, he stowed his gear in the shed, then got back in the pickup and started after them.

Three miles down the road, he found the Chevy. Another culvert had begun to wash out. The car had hit it, gone out of control, and smashed into a tree. Mary was dead, her chest crushed by the steering column. Little Hilmi was gone, her basket thrown out an open door.

Macurdy howled, grasped the tree with his big hands and beat his head on its trunk. Abruptly he stopped, and began thrashing around in the brush and devil's-club, looking for Hilmi. Not there. In the creek then. He broke into a trot, bulling through the brush along the stream bank, watching for the basket. Within a hundred yards he found it, bobbing upside-down, lodged against the limbs of a fir that had fallen across the stream. He plunged into the turbid rushing water, normally not knee-deep, now above his waist. Dropping to his knees in it, he groped among submerged branches, searching by feel.

After several minutes, blue with cold, he clambered dripping from the water, bellied over the fallen fir, and charged stumbling downstream again. He was too distraught to draw warmth from the Web of the World; it didn't occur to him.

An hour later, other loggers, who'd found his pickup and the wrecked car, found Macurdy. Like some huge beaver, he was groping beneath another blowdown, submerged. They saw him when he came up for air. He did not resist when they dragged him from the icy water.

They took him to town with them. He sat dumbly, shivering violently despite the heater blowing on him, whether from shock or cold they didn't know.

Wiiri and Ruth Saari took him in that night. They were as close to kin as he had in Nehtaka. They did almost all the talking, they and Pastor Ilvessalo from the Finnish church, whom they'd called in. Their guest sat slumped in a wingbacked chair, wearing flannel pajamas and a bathrobe belonging to their large son, off on a football scholarship at Oregon State. The wind whooshed around the house corners and porch posts, and the rain pelting the windows sounded almost as harsh as sleet. Macurdy's responses were mostly monosyllables. At length the pastor put his raincoat on to leave. Only then did Macurdy speak at any length. "Thank you, Pastor," he said. "Thank you, Wiiri. And Rudi. You've helped. You've all helped." Then he relapsed.

After the pastor left, Wiiri helped Macurdy to the guest room. "Sleep," he said from the door. "You won't feel good in the morning, but at least you'll feel alive."

Macurdy lay for some while in a sort of stupor. After a time, it seemed to him that Mary was there in the room. Mary and someone else, whom he could sense but not see. "Hello, darling," Mary said. "Do you know who's with me?"

He stared, unable to respond.

"It's Hilmi, dear. Our daughter. We're fine. We're both fine. And you will be. You'll be fine too. We love you very much."

Through brimming eyes he watched her fade, then sobbed himself quietly to sleep.

The funeral was on February 21, in the Finnish church. A double funeral. Little Hilmi's body had been found floating in the Nehtaka River, a remarkable distance downstream from where she'd died. Her casket was kept closed.

By that time Macurdy was functional, but seemed an automaton. A number of Severtson's loggers attended. Most were as uncomfortable in church as they were in suits. They'd have loved to carry him off to a tavern with them, get him drunk and hear him laugh. But it was, of course, out of the question.

He was more alert than he seemed. When Margaret Preuss came in with her new boyfriend, he wondered how long this one would last.

Wiiri gave the eulogy, breaking once despite his Finnish stoicism.

After the service, the attendees filed past, most murmuring condolences, the loggers shaking Macurdy's strong hand with their own. But afterward, the only one he remembered clearly was Margaret. She said nothing, but her eyes, her smile, bespoke satisfaction. Victory.

She had no idea how close she was to having her throat crushed in his hands. But he had places to go, and though he didn't consciously know it, things to do.