Satan, she repaid with laughter. Triumphant, exultant mockery, bouncing off the walls of a trailer bedroom and echoing down into the Pit.
Jeff, exhausted for the moment, lay by her side and watched her. Puzzled by the laughter, perhaps, but not caring. He was awash in his own satisfied pleasure and, still more, in the pride of his accomplishment. Whether he understood the savage humor filling his wife—and he didn’t, not at all—he was reassured by the joy in her face and the warmth of her hands, stroking his body.
Finally, Gretchen understood the full extent of her victory.
Total, complete
. She had beaten the Devil. Whipped him like a cur.
She had saved
everything
from his dark realm. Even the one thing she had thought lost forever. The only thing she possessed of value to the Beast, which she had traded away to save her family. Now, at the threshold of her new life, she reached through the iron gates and snatched back her virginity. Gleefully, she robbed the Robber, and gave the treasure as a gift, to the man who had earned it.
Tears came, too—tears of joy and gratitude—but the laughter remained. Far below, deep, she could hear Satan’s howl of rage.
I have been cheated! Swindled!
Laugh and laugh and laugh. Kissing and fondling her husband all the while. He was young, and clean, and glorious, and so fine, and so wonderful. Gretchen was not surprised to see how quickly he returned to her. Nor with what eagerness she joined him.
She had beaten the Devil. Now, she would torture the monster.
Satan’s torment lasted through the night. Again and again, Gretchen lashed him with her pleasure. Hers and, even more, the delight she gave her husband. For hours, the Devil rampaged through his stone-glowing chambers. Shattering the walls with his horns, lashing the rubble with his tail, stamping his rapists under cloven hooves.
As her husband’s ecstasy mounted—more from his wife’s love in the doing, than from the doing itself—the Devil fled in despair. Out of his chambers he sped, down and down into the bowels of the Inferno.
Gretchen followed him, like a dachshund after a badger.
Go away!
shrieked the Beast.
Leave me alone!
But she was remorseless, merciless.
Watch, monster.
She cornered him in a grotto, dark and dank with refuse.
Satan cowered.
Stop it,
he whimpered.
You’re hurting me.
Watch.
Her body—warm, wet, soft, loving—crushed vileness against the stones.
Watch.
She was done with Satan, then. Done forever. Even Gretchen was satisfied with her triumph. Her husband’s love filled her, purging every trace of the past. Gone now, all gone. Gone forever.
Gretchen believed in that love, now. It was like a pledge. Never again would she have to measure her life by how bad it might be. Only by how good.
There would be surprises in their life, she knew. Many of them, as they came to know each other. Some of those surprises would be unpleasant, of course. He would be petty at times; nasty; spiteful. Whatever. And so would she, at times.
No matter. There would be no surprises at the heart of their marriage. Of that, Gretchen was quite certain.
She stroked Jeff’s face, gazing into his eyes. The green orbs glowed, like the buds of spring in a springtime face. Soft, young, full of promise. Wet, warm, full of life.
Gretchen was very pleased with herself, then. She had kept her promise to the duchess.
She laughed.
It had been so easy!
She had expected years of toil and struggle.
So easy.
It was just family, she now understood. That’s all. Nothing but the adoration which binds a family. Different in some ways, true. But every member of a family is different, and precious, and valuable. So to each one is given something special. To a baby, a breast. To a child, care and caresses. To a grandmother, comfort and an ear to complaints.
To a husband . . .
So easy!
Just family adoration. Add orgasms.
Nothing to it. In fact . . .
Gretchen’s practical mind worked on the problem, as her hand moved down, working on her husband’s adoration. It did not take her long to reach the obvious conclusion. No longer than her hand.
Both felt the confirmation. Growing, firm, strong.
“I love you,” she murmured. And set out happily to work on it some more.
Whatever doubts Jeff might have had were long gone by morning.
He awoke before she did, and gazed upon her. And discovered, as untold millions of men before him, that a wife is even more beautiful than a bride.
They made love again, first thing. After that, Jeff made them breakfast. It was just oatmeal, since that was the only breakfast food still available in the town. Even then, it took him quite some time. Gretchen was being very playful.
When the porridge was done, they wolfed it down and returned immediately to the bedroom. The rest of the morning was spent there. It was a happy morning, full of discovery. Trial and error, some uncharitable souls might have called it. But Gretchen and Jeff cared not the least. They welcomed the trials and laughed at the errors, and, most of all, simply savored the work. Love, like all growing things, also needs to be watered. Who cares if the bucket spills, now and then?
Come noon, the family’s children could no longer be restrained, especially the youngest. They had fretted for almost a full day. Worried, fearful, anxious. The walls of the trailers were well insulated, but thin. Sound carried right through them.
None of the children had ever heard Gretchen make noises like that.
Never
. Not Gretchen!
They would have been utterly terrified, except for Gramma. The old woman had reassured them, soothed them, calmed them.
Nothing to worry about, children
. She had stayed up the entire night, just listening. Smiling, as she had not smiled in years.
Still—
Noon was enough! Enough!
The children poured into the trailer. Timidly, they approached the door. Timidly, knocked.
Moment!
came the command. They heard people moving behind the door. Gretchen’s voice, it sounded like, even though it was laughing. Something about robes.
The same cheerful voice—Gretchen’s?—now bade them enter. When the children came into the bedroom, they stared at her. Eyes as wide as saucers.
Gretchen? Is that you?
True, the woman in the bed
looked
like Gretchen. Sort of. But there was not a trace of steel in that angel’s face. No armored soul, in that soft body wearing a robe.
Uncertainly, their eyes moved away from Gretchen and settled on the strange creature lying next to her. Also in a robe.
And what was this?
It was the youngest of them who first understood. Little Johann, not five years old, his instincts still unencumbered by the memory of ogres. That large, round, friendly face—nestled cheek to cheek against the woman who had raised and sheltered them all—could be one thing only.
“Papa!”
he squealed.
“Papa! Papa!”
A moment later, he was scrambling onto the bed. A small tide of children followed.
Papa was back, sure enough. Right where he was supposed to be. Within seconds, Jeff and Gretchen were half-buried under happy children.
Little Johann, being the first, rightfully claimed pride of place. Like an eel, he wriggled himself between them. It took him not more than a minute to find the newest family treasure. Jeff’s big, soft, warm feet.
“Papa,
” he murmured. Johann’s eyes closed contentedly. Winter was no longer something to fear. Not with Papa’s feet to keep him warm.
Chapter 32
Hans watched the angels of death for several minutes before he spoke. He was puzzled by the difference between them. It was not the fact that one was male and one female. It was simply that Hans had always thought of angels as being . . . ageless. So why should one of them resemble a young woman, and the other a gray-haired man?
Their hair seemed strange, too.
But he was not frightened. He knew they were angels of death because of their black color, but he could detect no evil in their faces. Only a sort of calm concern. They seemed to be watching over several souls.
Not Hell, then.
Hans’ eyes ranged through the room. That, too, was odd. He would have thought a divine antechamber would have been better constructed. Or not constructed at all. Simply—
spoken
into existence. But he could see the nail heads holding the wooden framework together. Very sloppy workmanship, actually.
His eyes studied the filmy substance separating him from the dimly sensed soul of another. The other soul, like his own, seemed to be lying on some sort of cot. Hans admired the filmy substance. Very ethereal, he thought. But he was a bit nonplussed by the cot. It did not seem at all heavenly.
He was not dead yet, then. His soul was simply suspended somewhere, waiting to be reaped.
The filmy substance was suddenly brushed aside. One of the angels of death entered into his space. The young female one.
Hans studied her face. Her features were not what he would have expected on an angel. Very large, broad. But he decided she was quite beautiful. He liked the way her tightly coiled black hair framed her forehead. And her dark eyes seemed very warm.
He cleared his throat. “I am ready,” he whispered.
The angel leaned closer, turning her head slightly to present an ear. “What did you say?” she asked.
Hans was puzzled.
Why would an angel speak English?
But he accepted the divine will, and repeated himself in English.
“Take me, angel,” he repeated. “I am ready.”
The words seemed to register. The angel’s eyes widened. Her lips curved into a smile, the smile became a laugh. Hans got his next surprise.
“ ’Take me!’ ” she mimicked. Another laugh. “I’ve heard of one-track minds before, but this—(strange idiom; something about a cake being taken).”
But English it surely was. Hans was quite familiar with the tongue. The only member of Ludwig’s band that he had genuinely liked was a young Irishman. The Irishman was also dead, now. Hans had seen his brains explode.
The angel was still laughing. “You may be ready, honey,” she exclaimed, “but I’m not!” Another laugh, quite gay. “Aren’t you the randy one!”
She patted his cheek. “Welcome back, Hans Richter. I’ll get your sisters.”
They arrived within an hour, and Hans discovered that he was still alive. Alive—and healing well. But he had spent many weeks on the edge of death. It was now the month of August.
Other changes had taken place, he discovered, and still others were in the offing. By the end of the day, he met Gretchen’s new husband. And his new employer.
“You don’t have to be a soldier anymore, Hans,” explained Gretchen. She gestured to a man standing behind her. He was a large man, rather young, with a friendly smile.
“This is Mr. Kindred. He is—
was—
the publisher of Grantville’s newspaper.”
“What is a newspaper?” asked Hans.
Gretchen frowned. “It’s like a broadsheet, except it comes out once a week and tells people what’s happening in the world.”
Hans started to ask another question but Gretchen overrode him. “Later, brother. For now, Mr. Kindred could use your help. He is trying to build a print shop, so that he can resume his publication. But—” She hesitated. “His old methods won’t work, so he needs to build one the way father did. He would like your help. Three other former printers have already joined him. If it goes well, you can become a partner if you want to.”
Hans stared at the publisher. “I could be a printer again?” he asked, very softly. “Not a mercenary?”
Gretchen nodded. “They will ask you to join what they call the militia, and do some training every week. But unless you want to be a professional soldier”—she laughed, then, seeing the expression on her younger brother’s face—“you don’t have to.”
“Be a printer again,” Hans whispered.
The next day, the doctor he had thought was an angel of death released him from the hospital. Helped by his sisters and his new brother-in-law, Hans entered a new world.
It was all very strange, but Hans did not care. Not even when he was conscripted into the labor battalions the day after he moved into his new home. The battalions were being mobilized every day to bring in food from the surrounding countryside. Winter was coming, and the teeming town of Grantville was working feverishly to prepare for it. Hans understood the urgency. He understood winter all too well.
And then, acceptance turned into sheer joy. Because he was still weak, the Americans decided he was unfit for hard labor. They were on the verge of sending him home when one of them, hearing that Hans had been a printer, asked if he was comfortable around machinery. The next thing Hans knew he was being trained to operate the most wonderful machine he had ever seen. A “pickup,” it was called. Hans fell in love with it immediately. Over the next few weeks, he learned to drive most of the American motor vehicles. And fell in love with all of them. He was almost sorry when he had to start his new job in the print shop.
But the print shop was urgent, now. The American leaders were determined, it seemed, to begin publishing newspapers and broadsides. And books, soon enough.
They called it “propaganda.” After Hans read the first pamphlet which came off the press, he fell in love with propaganda also. He liked the Bill of Rights, even if he thought it was probably insane.
