Wrack and Rune (18 page)

“Hell, no,” growled Thorkjeld Svenson. “If I’d seen him, I’d have stopped him.”

“Didn’t he tell you anything about how it happened?”

“Said Orm threw him.”

“Unscientific,” snapped the elder archaeologist.

“He did give his head an awful whack,” said the younger archaeologist.

Shandy cleared his throat. “Have any of you gentlemen read Robert Frost?”

“Urgh,” said Thorkjeld Svenson.

“What for?” said the elder archaeologist.

“I started to,” the younger archaeologist confessed. “But I got to the one about ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,’ and it seemed like a betrayal of my profession. I couldn’t go on.”

“M’yes, quite understandable. The point I wished to make is that in one of Frost’s poems there’s a reference to boys swinging on young birch trees. I’ve done it myself when I was younger and a good deal lighter. Birch saplings are extremely limber and springy. If you bend one down, then release it suddenly while holding fast to the trunk near the top, you can get whipped right up in the air. If you hang on, the weight of your body will pull you down again. If you don’t, you go flying. In winter when there’s snow on the ground to cushion your fall, it’s fun to let go. At least, we used to think so. If the ground is bare, you keep your hold and shinny down the trunk.”

The elder archaeologist sneered. “Thank you for the dissertation, Professor. So your theory is that Dr. Svenson had a sudden urge to return to the amusements of his youth?”

“There are lots of birch trees in Sweden, I believe,” said the younger archaeologist.

“Ungh,” said the president, wrapping his left forepaw around a withy young tree not far from the runestone. “Birch.”

“My point exactly,” said Shandy. “If you’ll stand aside for a moment?”

He ferreted among the dead leaves and rabbit holes, and came up with a forked stick. “This explains Dr. Svenson’s sudden flight, I think. Somebody bent this nice young birch over and held down the tip by pinning it to the ground with this forked stick. The soil is deep and humusy here, so that would be no great feat. You’ll observe traces of leaf mold on both forks.”

The elder archaeologist shrugged a very superior shrug. “Birch trees are not in my field.”

“Naturally you wouldn’t have noticed,” said Shandy. “Your whole attention would have been quite properly focused on the runestone or, as it happened, on the coin you’d just found. As you see, this is not a white but a gray birch, so that would make it even less apt to attract your eyes. I submit that Dr. Svenson must have happened to lean against the bent sapling, perhaps to rest himself a bit. He may even have taken hold of the trunk. Was he actually holding the coin in his hand?”

“No, I was holding it,” said the younger archaeologist. “He’d backed off a bit to get a better look. He’s extremely farsighted, I believe.”

“As presbyopia increases with age, he naturally would be,” Shandy agreed. “Anyway, the weight of his body, or merely the jar of his touching the tree, could be enough to loosen the forked stick from this peaty soil, and he’d have been catapulted into the air just as you described. Not being prepared, he either wouldn’t be holding the tree at all or wouldn’t have a firm enough grip to keep from being thrown off. Since you can’t seem to agree on which tree he fell out of, I suggest that he was never actually in either of them. He merely swished through their leaves, as it were, and came straight back down again. That’s why we don’t see any freshly broken branch.”

“And he didn’t even knock off any leaves,” cried the younger archaeologist, “because they’re still so young and sappy.”

“Quite,” said the elder archaeologist, giving his colleague an analytical once-over.

“Ur,” said Thorkjeld Svenson. “Who?”

“Who’s been in here, other than yourselves?”

“You.”

“Did you notice me messing around with birch trees?”

“No.”

“Then I daresay we can let me off the hook. Who else?”

“Fat slob. Orange.”

“That would have been Fergy of Fergy’s Bargain Bam. He told me he’d been here. I’m afraid he arrived just as you were all exclaiming over that gold coin you found. What did he do?”

“Got the hell out.”

“I see. He didn’t bend any birches en route?”

“He couldn’t have,” said the younger archaeologist. “He wasn’t here that long. He just came into the clearing and President Svenson yelled—that is, requested him to leave—and he left.”

“He would,” said Shandy. “Anyone else?”

“Only the surveyors.”

“Ah, yes, the surveyors. Did they happen to mention why they’re surveying?”

“No, I don’t think they said anything except ‘Excuse us.’ We did, of course. They weren’t bothering us.”

“Well, they’re bothering me,” Shandy snarled. “President, doesn’t it strike you as odd that a surveying team should show up here the same day Nute Lumpkin slaps a lawsuit on Henny Horsefall?”

“No,” said the president.

“Come to think of it, you’re right. I must go have a chat with those chaps. Did they see you find the gold, by the way?”

“By gold, I presume you refer to the artifact,” said the elder archaeologist.

“If you say so. Getting back to my question, were they here when it turned up?”

“Who knows?” said the younger archaeologist. “We were all in such a dither the Assyrian could have come down like the wolf on the fold and we’d never have noticed.”

“To which Assyrian do you refer?” inquired the elder archaeologist.

“Arrgh,” said Thorkjeld Svenson, settling the matter once and for all. “Go ask, Shandy.”

“I shall, President. First let me ask how long you’ve been here. You didn’t stay all night, I gather.”

“Sieglinde wouldn’t let me,” the archon of academe confessed. “Left on the bus with you. Had to hoist you aboard. Out like a light. Bad example for the students. Thought you were sloshed.”

“I was tired, drat it! Did anybody stay to guard the runestone?”

“Damn well better had. Headless Horsemen.”

The elder archaeologist’s upper lip drew back in a sneer. Before he could make whatever nasty remark he was formulating, Shandy explained.

“He means the Headless Horsemen of Hoddersville, a local workhorse association. They volunteered their services, as did the Lolloping Lumberjacks of Lumpkin Corners, and a good many other people.”

“Get the Balaclava Blacks over here if we had anybody to ride ’em,” said the President wistfully. “Hell of a time for a riot. Nobody on campus who knows a mane from a crupper.”

“I used to ride a little,” said the younger archaeologist.

Tm afraid there’s nothing little about the Balaclava Blacks,” Shandy told him. “They were bred as draft horses, but they also have a remarkable amount of speed and—er—independence of spirit. We generally have some students who can handle them, but this year’s cavalry contingent have all been graduated or gone off to summer jobs. Last night we—er—called out the militia, as it were, and I’m proud to say our people gave a good account of themselves. Doubtless they’re girding their loins for another round right now. I hope so. The reporter who spilled the beans about the runestone is in the hospital, but no doubt news of the—er—artifact will get around one way or another. Tell me, weren’t you surprised to find it so close to the surface?”

“Yes,” the younger archaeologist replied. “Even more incredible is the fact that this young reporter simply picked up that helmet fragment off the ground yesterday. Even if the artifacts were simply dropped near the runestone by Orm Tokesson or his men, they ought to have been deeply buried by an accumulation of leaf mold and whatnot by now.”

“Would you care to describe the chemical composition of whatnot?” said the elder archaeologist.

“Ask Ames,” grunted Svenson, who must be as sick of the elder archaeologist by now as Shandy was. “Happens. Tree roots. Frost heaves. Animals digging. Kids playing treasure hunt. Done it myself.”

The thought of Thorkjeld Svenson in merry childish play was unnerving. Shandy ascertained that the archaeological party had arrived at half-past seven that morning and found the Horsemen still on the job, then wished them good hunting and went on out to the road.

O
NE OF THE SURVEYORS,
the one who was doing things with a measuring tape and making marks on the road with chalk, looked vaguely familiar. A sunburned lad of nineteen or twenty, he straightened up and welcomed Shandy with a buck-toothed grin.

“Hi, Professor. Jeff Lewis, in case you don’t remember. We sure had one wild time last night, didn’t we? More of the same tonight, do you think?”

“I should keep the geese on the
qui vive.
They are your family’s—er—gaggle, aren’t they? I’ve seen you at school but hadn’t realized you were one of the local Lewises.”

“Sure. Born and drug up right here in Lumpkin Corners. I told Miss Hilda what you said in class last year about the geese saving Rome, and she happened to think of it yesterday. So it was your idea, really.”

“How remarkable. I wonder what I ought to have been talking about at the time. Anyway, I hope the incident will inspire you to read a little history now and then. Shall I be having you as a regular student this year?”

“I hope so. I signed up for Advanced Agrology, but the course is so full I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

“We’ll have to—er—look into the matter. Tell me, Lewis, what’s the object of this surveying caper you’re up to?”

“It’s my summer job. I have to earn my tuition.”

“Of course. I should have phrased the question more succinctly. Why are you surveying this particular place at this particular time?”

“Because my boss told me to. Oh, I get you, Professor. You mean how come Nutie the Cutie has this much drag with the town surveyor’s office? Hey, are you investigating, like you did when Belinda was kidnapped?”

“I’ve been asked to look into things a bit. Unofficially and on the q.t., Lewis. That, since you’re so interested in ancient Roman lore, is Latin for button up.”

“Oh, sure. But hey, Bill and I have been wondering ourselves. This is my buddy Bill Swope. Professor Shandy.”

“A relative of Cronkite Swope, no doubt,” Shandy observed as he shook hands with the other sunburned young man.

“Hey, you know Cronk?” said Bill. “Did anybody tell you he wiped out last night on his bike? He must be having a bird, stuck in the hospital with all this stuff going on.

“He may be by now. He was still a bit—er—out of it when I saw him a while back.”

“They let you in? Boy, you must know the right people, Professor. My dad was going over on his lunch hour from the soap factory, but when he called up to see if it was okay, they said no visitors.”

“Yes, they told me no visitors, too. When they caught me in his room, that is. I got what I believe is known as the bum’s rush.”

The fact of the great Professor Shandy’s having been thrown out of Hoddersville General somehow made him one of the gang. The two young surveyors laughed their heads off and proceeded to chat at length on the town’s time, asking for details of Cronk’s accident and agreeing with Shandy that an oil slick on the road at night could definitely have caused the crack-up. He didn’t tell them about the missing helmet and the defective headlight because, after all, one never knew.

“Now, getting back to this surveying job you’re doing. What has Nute Lumpkin to do with it?”

“Why, this is his land now. I guess. Anyway, it’s part of the Lumpkin property, all the way from Horsefall’s line down to the bend in the road where Cronk took his header. What we’re supposed to be doing is making sure Henny knows where his line is. Lumpkin claims that logging road where Cronk found the runestone belongs to him.”

“Is he also claiming Horsefall’s back teeth?” said Shandy. “Er—if it’s not asking out of turn, Lewis, how does your family feel about Gunder Gaffson’s offer to purchase the Horsefall property?”

“Lousy. We figure as soon as Gaffson got hold of Henny’s place, he’d be trying to squeeze us out, too.”

“And you don’t care to be squeezed?”

“Why the heck do you think I’m out here with dust up my nose and blisters on my back, trying to put myself through Balaclava? Dad says he’ll make me a full partner in the farm as soon as I graduate. You’re not catching me in the soap factory like my brothers, punching a time clock and wishing the heck I were old enough to collect my retirement pension. I’m going to major in Orchard Management. I was sort of hoping to buy a few acres off Henny someday, but I know I’d never be able to meet Gaffson’s price. We only have twenty acres now. But you said yourself that with proper rotation of crops you can get a high yield out of a small area. I don’t know how you’d rotate an apple tree, though.”

“You wouldn’t. You’d select your varieties with care, plant so as to utilize your space as efficiently as possible, and keep your trees well pruned. Forget Advanced Agrology this year. Go straight into Arboriculture. Get in some work with Professor Ames on Soils and Fertilizers. Next spring you’ll know enough to start planting, and by the time you’re graduated you’ll have the nucleus of an orchard.”

“Hey, right on! That makes sense.”

“Good. Now suppose you help me make sense. Is it possible this sudden insistence of Nute Lumpkin’s on establishing accurate boundaries means he’s planning to strike a deal with Gunder Gaffson?”

Young Lewis peeled a fragment of skin off his sunburned nose. “Sure, why not? Then he’d own the whole hill, as far as our place.”

“And why should he want such a large tract to build on?”

“Because of the soap factory, maybe?”

“What?”

“My brother told me the soap factory’s bought a computer company and is planning to move it here to Lumpkinton.”

“What would a soap factory want with so many computers?”

“I dunno. It’s what all the big firms are doing, buying up other businesses that they don’t know how to run. I guess they call it progress or something. Anyway, that’s what they did. So a lot of engineers and executives and vice-presidents and guys like that will be moving here and they’ll all want classy houses, so Gaffson’s got this jazzy development he wants to build. And I suppose Nutie the Cutie figures he’ll sell them lots of antiques to furnish their places with.”