"Get the sacrifice ready, Truman," said Nicholson. "We'll use that old stump in the woodshed. Chuck, stoke up the furnace. Remember, we've got to burn up every last piece of bone or tooth. Carry him out, you guys."
The chair was hoisted and borne through the long hall to the kitchen and out the back door. Floreando had a huge woodshed, dating from the days when firewood was the only source of heat. Some ancestor had put in steam heat around 1900, but the woodshed still maintained a supply of wood for the fireplaces. Even in midsummer, the nights there get pretty cool.
A single light bulb illumined the area. The "stump" of which Nicholson had spoken was a cylindrical piece of tree trunk, about thirty inches high and the same in diameter. One of the Huns was whetting a double-bitted lumberman's ax.
"Now," said Nicholson, "you know the invocation to Donar. Gary, you keep hold of Newbury. He might try to wriggle away, tied up as he is, while we're looking elsewhere. Now, are you all ready with the responses? Great Donar, lord of the lightning-—"
Overhead, lightning flashed and distant thunder rumbled.
"Hey, leader!" said a Hun. "He's got something in his pocket."
"Search him," said Nicholson.
From Uncle Peter's hunting coat, the speaker brought out the pint bottle. He chuckled: "Why, the old rumdum!"
"Throw it away," said Nicholson.
"No, Nick, wait!" said Truman Vogel. "No use wasting good booze." He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Then he wet a finger and tasted. "Oh, shit! Seems to be plain water. Now what would he carry a bottle of water around for? It's not like he was out hunting or fishing."
The prospect of having one's head chopped off, and moreover by an amateur executioner who would probably make a messy job of it, is a wonderful stimulant to thinking. "Hey!" I yelled, although I suspect it came out as a croak. "Give me that!" The effort made my head throb.
"Won't do you no good," said Vogel. "What is this stuff, anyway?"
"I can't tell you. Catfish swore me to secrecy."
"Oh, yeah? We'll see about that. Gary, just tighten those ropes a little."
Gary obeyed. I put on an act—and not entirely an act—of a man bravely resisting torture and then succumbing to pain.
"Okay, I'll tell!" I gasped. "It's the magical Iroquois water. Their medicine men make it, to give their warriors the strength to overcome all their enemies. When they get enough, they hope to drive all the whites into the ocean."
"Oh," said Nicholson. "Well, maybe it'll work for us. I've got enemies to overcome, too. Let's see it."
He took the bottle from Vogel, sniffed, and tasted. "Seems harmless."
"Don't!" I cried. "You don't know what it'll do to you!"
"Fuck you, buster," said Nicholson. "You won't be here to worry about that, you know." He tilted up the bottle with a gurgling sound.
"Seems like good, clean water," he said. "Okay, on with the ceremony."
"And off with his head," said Vogel. A titter ran through the Huns. "Stan, you and Mike haul Newbury over to the stump,"
"You want we should untie him?" said a Hun.
"God, no! He's no pushover, even if he is a gray-haired old geezer. Take the chair and all and put him so his neck is facedown on the stump—uh—well, you know what I mean."
I was dragged, still bound, to the stump and laid across it. By twisting my neck, I could still see what was going on. The Hun with the ax stood up and spat on his hands.
"Now repeat after me," said Nicholson: "Great Donar, lord of the lightning—"
"Great Donar, lord of the lightning—" said the other Huns.
"And god of the immortal, indomitable Nordic Aryan race—
"And god of the immortal, indomitable Nordic Aryan race—"
"We sacrifice a man unto thee—"
"We sacrifice a man unto thee—"
There was a violet flash in the clouds overhead, and thunder rumbled.
"In return, we ask that thou smiteth our enemies with thy lightnings—" Nicholson's knowledge of Jacobean English grammar was weak. The Huns responded as usual.
"Beginning with Phyllis Wilder, Isaiah Rosen, and Paul Grier—"
"And that thou giveth us a sign—"
Again a flash and a rumble, but more faintly.
"Louder, we pray, great Donar!"
This time, the thunder was barely audible. Nicholson said: "He's not in a good mood tonight."
"Let's give Newbury the business, quick," said Vogel. "It's Thursday, and we can't wait a week for his day to come around again."
"Ready with that ax, Frank!" said Vogel. "Wait till I give the signal. But—that's funny. Was war ich—what was I— going to say? I—ah—ach—" He stared about in a puzzled way. "Was fur ein Unsinn—" He gasped and clutched at his throat.
"You been poisoned, Nick?" asked Vogel. The other Huns murmured excitedly.
Recovering himself, Nicholson shouted, gesticulating fiercely: "Wir wollen wiederherstellen die Einheit des Geistes und des Willens der deutschen Nation! Die Rasse liegt night in der Sprache, sondern im Blute!"
The Huns looked bewilderedly at one another. One said: "Hey, Truman, is he off his nut?"
"God, I dunno," said Vogel. "We can't take him to that Jew doctor—"
A Hun ran around the corner of the woodshed into the light. "The fuzz!" he shouted. "Split, you guys!"
With muffled exclamations, the Huns scurried away. I have never seen human beings scatter so quickly. There was a sudden glare of motorcycle headlights and the roar of motors. Away went the Huns, wheeling over lawns and through woods, as two state police cars turned into the driveway. By the time four troopers appeared around the corner of the woodshed, pistols at ready, the only persons present were myself, still tied to that chair, and Marshall Nicholson. The gang leader held his right upper arm out stiffly while the forearm pumped up and down with a clockworky motion, as if he were pounding an invisible desk with his fist as he ranted:
"... Wer ein uolk retten will, kann nur heroisch denken! Der heroische Gedanke aber muss srehfs bereits sein, auf die Zustimmung der Gegenwart Verzicht zu leisten, wenn die Wahrhaftigkeit und die Wahrheit es erfordert!"
"We left the house after they carried you off," said Charlie Catfish, "and hiked along the road till we found a place to 'phone."
"Oh, my poor feet!" moaned Phyllis Wilder.
We stood in Doctor Rosen's crowded waiting room, with two troopers holding the handcuffed Marshall Nicholson. Jack Nicholson sat with his face in his hands. Young Nick was still orating in German. Questions in English brought no response.
Rosen finished his examination, or as much of it as he could do with an obstreperous patient. He said:
"Mr. Newbury, do you speak German?"
"A little. I got fairly fluent in Germany after the War, but I've forgotten most of it."
"I read it, but I don't speak it worth a damn. Ask him when he was born."
"Warm waren Sie Geboren?' I said to Nick.
He paused in his harangue. "Warum?"
"Tut nichts! Sagen Sie mir."
"Der zwanzigst April, achtzehnhundert neunundachtzig."
"April twentieth, eighteen eighty-nine," I told Rosen. One trooper murmured: "That'd make him older than his father."
Rosen said: "Mr. Nicholson, what was your son's birthdate?"
Old Nicholson looked up. "April thirtieth, nineteen forty-five."
"Has he ever studied German?"
"Not that I know of. He never finished High."