Bookerman, alone, had not taken part in the meeting and the decision. This was not considered by any of the other councillors to be odd or unusual, for the doctor had already set up and was supervising a new felting operation. He still was also carrying on experiments, and he still practiced medicine, as well.
The next morning, however, when a felter came to Milo and asked if he knew where Bookerman might be found, he not having been seen at the felting operation, at his experimental lab or at the building set up for use as a hospital for some days, Milo went looking for the physician.
Milo’s persistent knocking at the door of the small cottage inhabited by the doctor, however, raised nothing other than echoes, so he proceeded to break in the locked portal, bracing himself for the likely discovery of the aged physician’s corpse, cold and probably decomposing by this time.
XII
But Dr. Bookerman’s cottage was empty, completely empty of human presence, either living or dead. Although it was neat as a pin, with everything cleaned and dusted and the bed made up with tight, military precision, items of clothing hung in definite order in the closet and footwear arranged similarly on the closet floor beneath them, it was obvious that no one had resided in the house for two or three days.
A careful search of the place revealed a few facts to Milo. Bookerman’s pampered and treasured fine Thoroughbred gelding, Schnellig, was missing from the shed out back in which he had been stabled, and so too were both of Bookerman’s saddles and all of his other horse gear. Gone as well was the small yurt that had also been stored in that shed, which facts could mean much or nothing. The doctor could simply have undertaken a search, far afield, for any of the various plants and minerals with which he had been experimenting, though it was not his wont to undertake these trips alone and without informing at least his felters of his plans and of his estimated time of return.
Missing from the cottage itself were a number of items. Not only was the 8x57mm Mannlicher-Steyr rifle, with its fitted case and its scope, gone, but also the manual reloading set and all of the supplies—bullets, powder, brass cases and primers. Nor was this the only firearm missing from the doctor’s collection of them; his Heckler & Koch VP70Z automatic pistol was not to be found, his long barreled Smith & Wesson Model 29 in .44 Magnum, his Rottweil superposed shotgun with its case and all of its accessories, his AR-7 small bore rifle, and a Spanish-made double shotgun sawed off to twelve-inch barrels and fitted with a pistol grip. His saber was gone, too, along with some clothing and boots, some cooking utensils, a spade, pick and axe, his medical bag and the small chest of surgical equipment.
It appeared to Milo that the doctor had simply packed up and left. The question was, where had he gone and why? When he broke off the lock of the footlocker he found in the laboratory at the felt works, he found some answers, though these answers bred a host of new and unanswerable questions for him.
“Friend Milo,
“You read this only because I at last have decided that the time has come for me to leave. Please do not come after me or send men to track me, for I am well armed and I will shoot any of you that I discover upon my trail.”
The very next sentence sent cold chills coursing up Milo’s back, covered his skin with gooseflesh and set his nape to bristling.
“Them I will assuredly kill, though I have reason to believe that, like me, a mere bullet would not kill you as it would kill other, more normal, humans.
“I do not know your true age, although I suspect you to be far older than you now aver. My own age, too, is very much more than the one I claim, but if I am wrong about you, you could not believe it were I to herein note it down. Suffice it to say that I have appeared just as I now appear for an exceedingly long time. Nor are you the first friend I have had to suddenly desert due to my noticeable aberration of not aging as do all other human beings.
“Part of what I have told you of myself at various times over our years of friendship has been of truth. I was, indeed, born in Niedersachsenland, to a wealthy, landed family of most noble blood and antecedents; my father was a margrave, a renowned military officer, a very brave man and a widely recognized hero, may whatever God exists bless his gallant spirit.
“Along with all of my brothers and half brothers, I was sent up to University and given the chance at a decent education, then presented a commission in one of the most illustrious of the Schwadronen of Hussaren, the Kaiser’s then-favorite one, in fact. It was during my baptism of fire that I discovered—twice over—that something extremely odd about me there was.
“We received orders to deliver an attack against the flank of the French army opposing us. That charge was delivered with great firmness, driven home, but just as I reached the French at the head of my Jungen, a French officer fired his pistol and the ball struck me in the breast. I distinctly felt the hideous pain as that large piece of lead, after passing through my dolmen and blouse and shirt, tore into my flesh, shattered rib bone, lacerated my heart, then exited my back, smashing another rib in the process. Forcing myself to ignore, alike, the agony and the giddiness and the firm knowledge that I was a dead man, I almost decapitated that Frenchman with my sharp saber, then bored into the formation, resolved to take the lives of as many of them as possible before I tumbled, dead, out of my saddle.
“I felt myself to be truly acting out the words of the ‘Alte Reiterlied.’ (‘Gestern noch auf stolzen Rossen, Heute durch die Brust geschossen, Morgen in das kuhle Grab.’ And then, ‘Und so will ich tapfer streiten, Und sollt’ ich den Tod erleiden, Stirbt ein braver Reitersmann. ’) (an old cavalry song: Yesterday, still on prancing horses, Today, shot in the chest, Tomorrow in the cool grave. And so will I fight bravely, And should death claim me, Then dies a brave cavalryman.) I set myself to fight until the last drop of my blood had been drained away and the great dark had enfolded my being, as befitted a man of my race and house.
“But, friend Milo, when the recall was winded and I hacked my way back out of the French ranks, my good horse wounded many times over and stumbling under me, my saber blade dulled and nicked and cloudy, my clothing all torn and gashed and soaked through with my own blood and that of many another, the top of my fur busby shorn raggedly away and the heel of my right boot shot off, I still lived, nor was there much deep pain in my chest, as there most surely should have been.
“Then, when almost I was out of the French lines, a wild-eyed, frothing gunner appeared suddenly and jammed the slender finial spike of his linstock into my body, skewering my right kidney and bringing from me a scream of pain. I split the man’s head with my saber, the linstock’s own weight dragging its point from out of me, then rode on, groaning and grinding my teeth in my agony. My good horse made it back with me still astride him to almost the point from which the charge had been launched, then he suddenly fell dead and a passing troop sergeant dragged me up across the withers of his mount and bore me back to the rallying area.
“The indelible mark of Fahnrich Karl-Heinrich von --- was made on that long ago day, friend Milo. Every officer and other rank of the survivors of that charge treated me with a respect bordering upon awe; my Oberst not only presented me with one of his own string of chargers to replace my dead one, but offered a very generous price for a full captaincy in his unit, and immediately my father was apprised of my exploits, he sent the monies to buy me that position, plus funds to pay for uniforms and equipment commensurate with that rank.