"What did he say?" Ralph asked.

"He has empowered me to handle it," Wenzel replied glumly.

"Isn't he going to make a statement?"

"No. He will not be making a statement. Or pursuing this matter any further."

"Why not? He has more information than anybody else has come forward with."

"TheRitter told me to make this whole thing disappear. It never happened."

"I don't understand. What do you mean? He came all this way. Why can't he help us catch these guys?"

"I would not presume to speak for theRitter on this matter," Wenzel replied somewhat lamely. "But if I found out that I had been tricked out of a substantial amount of money by what was nothing more than a childish hoax, I would not want that fact widely known."

"So he's just going to walk away from all that money? And let them get away with it?"

"If he leaves a statement, it will eventually become a matter of public record, no?"

"If we ever catch the guys, yeah. It'll come out in the trial." "I think he would like to, how do you say it? Cut his losses now."

"Okay. If that's the way he wants to do it. You might suggest to him that the next time something seems too good to be true, it probably is."

The Sons of St. John

by Jay Robison

The wind blowing in from the Atlantic was cold. It often was on the west coast of Scotland, even in summer. The crude stone shepherd's hut where Brother Aidan and his three fellow monks sat kept the wind out for the most part, but it was far from warm and cozy.

He glanced around nervously at the three other men in the hut with them, all in their plain brown homespun robes and with heads that were shaved except for a patch of hair on the crown. This patch of hair was grown into a spectacular topknot. In the case of Brother Aidan that topknot had grown to nearly waist length.

Not for the first time, he questioned the wisdom of so many of the brothers gathering in one place. They were monks of the Celtic mission, quite possibly the last in the world. For the last four centuries, ever since the murder of Bishop Primus and the takeover of the Iona monastery by the Benedictines, their spiritual traditions had been all but wiped out. It was only due to people of the Hebrides-stubborn even by the generous standard of the Scots-and people like Brother Aidan, who continued to practice the ways of Celtic Church in secret, that the traditions begun by missionaries such as Pelagius, St. Patrick, and St. Columba lived on.

"You are sure he is trustworthy?" one of the other monks, Brother Oran, asked. "If we were to be found . . .".

"Finlay Robinson has fed, even sheltered the men and women of our order since before you or I were born. If any man is to be trusted, it is he." Aidan's voice held a calmness he did not feel. The Presbyterians were, if anything, even more determined to exterminate the old ways than the Roman church had been. Finlay Robinson was as tough an old man as walked God's earth, but information sometimes had a way of slipping out.

Aidan held his breath when the sheepskin he'd lashed to the hut's doorframe was pushed aside. He and the other brothers audibly exhaled when his friend entered, alone. He was something of a romantic figurein these parts, because he'd been all the way to the east coast of Scotland, having taken service with Robert Mackay as a young man. The fact that Finlay Robinson had been as far away as Edinburgh was considered remarkable. More important, from Aidan's point of view, was that he worked hard to keep the old ways alive, and the brothers had rewarded that loyalty by making Finlay the guardian of its most precious possession.

"Finlay," said Aidan. "You surely are a sight for sore eyes. It's been a long time since we've seen each other."

"I went to pay my respects to Robert Mackay. He's . . . not well."

"I will remember him in my prayers. It was good that you went to see him." Aidan knew that this was not why Finlay had been so insistent they meet, and waited for the old man to continue his story.

"He was a good man, and has led a good life. God willing, he has a little life yet left. But I also chanced to speak to Robert's son Alex. And his wife. A most unusual lass."

"Unusual?" asked Brother Dunstan. "In what way?"

Finlay laughed. "I would say she's unusual in every way. When she wields that strange musket of hers, she might as well be Boadicea reborn. But it was the news Alex and his bride brought with them from the Germanies that I needed to give to you. I don't suppose news of the Swede's exploits have reached here?"

"Vague talk, but nothing that seems creditable," said Aidan.

"Alex was in service to him. He says Gustavus has set up an empire for himself in the Germanies, but it is a most unusual empire. According this Alex's wife-the lass's name is Julie-her people, the Swede's allies, persuaded him not to have an official church."

"No church?" Brother Oran sounded half-disbelieving, half-scandalized.

"None," said Finlay firmly. Too firmly for Aidan, at least, to think he was lying. "Presbyterians live alongside Lutherans, Catholics, Jews . . . it seems every sort of belief is represented in the city of Julie's birth."

"Then, they would accept us?" Aidan's voice came out as a faint whisper. It was as if voicing his hopes aloud would dash them.

"Alex and Julie Mackay both said yes. Robert Mackay is a tolerant man in many things, but he would not accept a lie from his son. If Alex says it is true, it is true. If you desire to go to Grantville, I will see to all the arrangements."

Dunstan, Oran, and the third monk, Brother Colman, all looked at Aidan. He was not the oldest of the brothers, and he certainly did not consider himself the wisest of them. But though he chose not to use the title, Brother Aidan was also Bishop Aidan, chosen by his fellow monks and nuns (the few still left) in the hope that some day, he could ordain new clergy of the Celtic mission and revive their church. It also meant that the decision to stay or go was his.

The uncertainty in the eyes of Aidan's fellow brothers contrasted with the fire in Finlay Robinson's. Aidan did not like the idea of leaving the place where he'd lived and ministered all his life. But if the dyingembers of the Celtic Church could be once more fanned into life, however far away, perhaps Aidan's successors could return, living and preaching openly.

He embraced the old man who'd done so much for them. Finlay would not fail them in this.

"That is good enough for me, Finlay. Make the arrangements and contact us when they are complete."

Reverend Enoch Wiley felt old. It was a hot day, and he'd done quite a bit of walking. Young Martin Riddle, who walked next to him, kept casting concerned glances his way. I'm his father's age, Wiley thought sourly. Maybe I'm a reminder that Chuck's getting old, too.

If he was being honest with himself, Enoch had to admit that he didn't feel well, and hadn't felt well for a while. Maybe it was the stress, he thought. Of all of Grantville's clergy, after the Ring of Fire only Larry Mazzare's pastoral responsibilities had increased more than his own. Between the influx of Scottish Presbyterians and Central European Calvinists, the Grantville Presbyterian Church was easily twice as large-if not more-than it had been before the Ring of Fire.

It was enough to age anyone before their time, even if they were married to someone like Inez, who seemed to have bottomless stores of energy. And the reason for this trip wasn't making Reverend Wiley terribly happy, either.

Donald Ogilvie had been a member of Grantville Presbyterian since shortly after arriving in town as a member of Mackay's troop. Ogilvie and the minister had struck up a particularly close relationship; the Scots veteran was about the age Wiley's son John Enoch would have been. John had been left up-time and while no one could ever replace him, the young Scotsman did partially fill a hole in Wiley's life.

Donald had been a founding partner in the Thuringen Gardens-when Wiley first met him, he proudly proclaimed himself as the bouncer-but had cashed in that partnership to buy a small piece of land and launch a number of business ventures, none of which came to anything. When Ogilvie's money ran out, Reverend Wiley had helped him get a job as a construction foreman, where he'd done very well and allowed the young man to pay off his debts without having to sell or mortgage his land.

Tragically, Ogilvie had been killed not quite a month ago, breaking his neck after falling from his horse.

The only possession he'd had worth speaking of was his land, and he'd left it to Enoch Wiley's church.

Martin was here because he didpro bono legal work for the Presbyterian church. It was something of a Riddle family tradition, as both his grandfather, Thomas Price Riddle, and his father, Chuck Riddle, had given Reverend Wiley legal assistance before the Ring of Fire. This despite the fact that the entire Riddle clan was Episcopalian. Martin's father had once said that this was what members of a community did for one another. With Thomas's health quite fragile these days, and with Chuck taking over as chief justice for Thuringia-Franconia, this job fell to Martin. He didn't seem to mind though. He said it was a nice break from his work as a public defender and gave him some experience in different areas of law.

They finally reached the spot. Lothlorien Farbenwerke was barely visible behind them.

"Here it is, Reverend Wiley," Martin said. "Here" was several acres of scabrous trees and scrubby grass that adjoined the old Lothlorien Commune. Ogilvie's sense in buying real estate had been little better than his business sense, it seemed.

"What did Thurman Jennings say?" Jennings was the top seller of commercial real estate in the area, andhad looked over the property at Martin's request.

"He said that it wouldn't generate too much interest from anyone looking to buy a farm," the young lawyer said. "The property's too hilly and as you can see, the soil out here isn't great. And right now, it's too far from utilities to make it worth anyone's while to develop commercially. Maybe someone'll want a country seat or something. Who knows?"

"So it's basically worthless?"

"No," Martin said slowly, marshalling his thoughts. "Given the real estate market in this county right now, no land is truly worthless. This particular piece just isn't as valuable as some. If you do want to sell it, we can see if Lothlorien's interested, but I'm sure that would have to wait until Tom and Magda get back from Italy."

"It'll keep, I suppose," Reverend Wiley said. "We'd better get back to town; Inez will kill me if she thinks I'm overdoing it."

Martin nodded, and the two of them started walking back to Lothlorien, where they hoped to get a ride into town.

The ride back into Grantville was mostly silent, for which Enoch Wiley was grateful. Inez had been gently chiding him about his dark mood these last few weeks, reminding him that he was no fit company like this. He was trying to shake it off, but without success. This inner bleakness was even starting to creep into his sermons. He found he had to make a great effort to cut back on gloom, doom, fire and brimstone.

Donald Ogilvie's death brought out into the open a sadness that had been growing inside Enoch Wiley for months now, ever since he and Inez had agreed to act as guardians for Idelette Cavriani during her stay in Grantville. Idelette was not the cause, however, merely the catalyst. She was staying in their son John's old room, which had accumulated a number of books and other things Enoch did not use much but didn't want to get rid of. At Inez's tireless prodding, he finally sorted through all the boxes. Except for one box, now in his study, that he refused to open. He knew what was in there, and avoided confronting the feelings he knew it would bring. With the death of young Ogilvie, however, those feelings could no longer be held at bay.

Enoch forced his thoughts back to the present, to a pleasant and sunny summer afternoon. Martin Riddle was absorbed in case notes and Angus Gunn, who drove the cart they were riding in, seemed lost in his own thoughts. He'd had business at Lothlorien and had offered Enoch and Martin a ride back to town.

The burly Scotsman was an enigma to Enoch Wiley. He was quite friendly and outgoing, and attended services at Wiley's church regularly. He didn't have a steady job, but managed to make enough for a small room and to have free time to spend outdoors. Angus was an artist of some talent, Enoch understood, especially when it came to drawing things like buildings, natural formations, or fortifications, a talent he'd developed as a scout in Gustavus Adolphus's army. He was quick to do favors for people, as evidenced by giving them a ride back into town from Lothlorien, but despite all that, Enoch sensed that there was a part of Angus Gunn that was closed off. Something spiritual, since his attempts to initiate spiritual discussions with Angus generally went nowhere.

Martin got dropped off first, his offices being closest to the dye works. Angus then dropped Enoch off at his home. Today was Monday, and the church offices were closed. Inez gave him a hug when he walkedin.

"You look like you got a little sun today. You need to be careful, as easily as you burn."

Enoch smiled at his wife and sat down. "I don't know what we'll do with that land. It's not exactly prime real estate, from what Martin says."

"Well, that's not surprising. Donnie was a hard worker but not overly blessed with practical sense," Inez said. "He'd never gotten that share in the Gardens if he hadn't been able to speak German."

"True. But I don't know what the church will do with it."

"Trust God, Enoch. He'll bring the right opportunity at the right time. You know He will."

"True enough, dear." Enoch heaved himself up with a sigh. "I think I'll go to the study for a while." Inez gave him a look that spoke volumes. "What?"

"Enoch Wiley, you know what. You need to go talk to someone. You keep promising me you'll get out of this mood you're in, but I don't see any signs of it. It's not good for you."

"I will, when I have time."

"You need to make time."

"I'll see what I can do, dear," he said, studiously ignoring Inez's disapproving frown and climbing the stairs to his study.

He closed the door behind him and went to the box he'd been avoiding opening for so long, and opened it. On top was a book entitledThe Whole Earth Shall Cry Glory , written by George MacLeod, a prominent Scottish theologian and moderator of the Church of Scotland in the 1950's. The book had been a gift from his son, John Enoch Wiley. Enoch's eyes went from the book to the picture on his desk, a picture taken less than two months before the Ring of Fire. John stood proudly in his black habit. Inez, standing on her son's right, smiled just as proudly but Enoch couldn't help but remember how strained his own smile had been when that picture was taken. It was then that John had given him George MacLeod's book, one more attempt to bridge the gap that had grown up between them, one more attempt by the son to help his father understand the path he'd chosen.

To his everlasting regret, Enoch Wiley had not read the book before the Ring of Fire permanently separated him from his son, and since then he just could not bring himself to look at it. He knew he would have to read that book sometime, along with other books John had given him over the years that he'd barely looked at: works by Thomas Merton, Keith Miller, J. Philip Newell and others. But as the emotions he'd kept down so long threatened yet again to rise up, Enoch Wiley knew that he could not look at this box, not today.

It had taken months for the details of the brothers' journey to come together. Aidan had never been entirely sure how many of their order there were in the western Hebrides, and he could only locate two others in addition to those present when he'd met with Finlay Robinson. Sister Hilda, who took her name from the woman who'd presided over the Synod of Whitby, and Brother John Scotus were both together. Sister Hilda was caring for the older monk in what was clearly John Scotus's last illness. "You go, you and the other three. I can't leave Brother John here, and I am too old in any case. It is fitting that I stay behind."

"Do you know of any others, Hilda?" asked Aidan.

"No. There was Sister Margaret, but she passed away last spring. She got a chill on her stomach and never got well. She was the only other I knew about."

"I see."

"Aidan, are you going to take back the treasure? Take it with you to this Grantville place?"

"Finlay says he can arrange it."

"You should. God willing, war won't come here, or to where the treasure is kept safe. But if there's a place that would be even safer, you should take it."

Aidan nodded. He'd been inclined to take the treasure with him; Hilda's counsel all but settled the matter. But between the time it took Finlay to get the treasure from the place where it was kept and the time it took to arrange affordable passage to Europe, it was late spring before Aidan-accompanied by Oran, Colman, and Dunstan-left for Hamburg on a Venetian-flagged freighter. Once they arrived in the Swede's empire, which called itself the United States of Europe, the necessity of paying for room and board with labor added quite a bit of time to their journey to Thuringia. It was late summer before the four Celtic monks finally arrived in Grantville.

Aidan, at least, decided to test the city's tolerance. He drew back the hood of his robe, displaying his topknot. If there were hostile religious authorities in this place, he would bring their wrath on himself, and hopefully allow the other brothers a chance to escape. In the end, however, no agents of the Holy Office or any local inquisitions, or representatives of the various Protestant churches, interfered with them. They drew some curious stares, but there was no overt hostility.

Once in Grantville, Aidan was at a loss as to what they should do. They needed to find a place to stay, and jobs to earn their keep. Modest as their material needs were, they couldn't survive on nothing, and Aidan hoped, in time, to earn enough to start a small church. If things went very well, perhaps he would live long enough to see a monastery founded, but that would require a patron with the financial means to buy or lease land and to pay for the construction of an abbey.

"The grace of the love of the skies be thine, the grace of the love of the stars be thine, the grace of the love of the moon be thine, the grace of the love of the sun be thine."

The familiar prayer, spoken by a strange voice, jolted Aidan from his thoughts. A tough-looking man, definitely a fellow Scot, stood before him. The stranger had a weathered but not unkind face-clearly he was someone who spent much time outdoors-and Aidan thought he could see echoes of Finlay Robinson in it. At first the monk thought his eyes were playing tricks, then he took in the tartan on the stranger's kilt. The tartan proclaimed him a Gunn, a kinsman (probably distant) of his friend, since the Robinsons were a sept of the Clan Gunn.

More important at the moment, though, was that there was at least one person in this town of strangers who knew one of the traditional prayers. "That one is one of my favorites. I am Brother Aidan." He introduced the other three monks. The stranger introduced himself as Angus Gunn.

"I'm afraid, Angus, we are at a bit of a loss," Oran said. "We have no work and nowhere to stay."

"You can stay with me, at least for a few days," Angus said. "Until you find something more permanent.

Same with work. I am afraid we will be rather cramped."

"We're used to modest living spaces," said Aidan with a smile. "We have only our robes and this." Aidan indicated the carefully wrapped bundle he carried. "Are you sure this will not be an imposition?"

Angus's only answer was to reach inside his shirt and bring out a small wooden cross, one he wore on a chain. Aidan looked at it and nodded gravely.

"A fine likeness of St. Martin's Cross. Wherever did you get it?"

"I made it. At least, I sketched it, and got someone to carve it for me. I visited Iona as a young man, before I started soldiering. Brother Aidan, it would be an honor for me to help you, and no imposition."

They stayed with Angus for the next few days. Manual labor jobs were easy to come by. This Grantville place, and other cities nearby, was expanding rapidly. Strong backs were needed for many construction projects. Oran and Colman both found work on a construction crew, and Brother Dunstan was hired at a coal mine outside the city. After his second day at work, Dunstan reported that rumors had them all being Buddhist monks (from their hair, apparently), despite the fact that none of them looked the least bit Asian. Apparently Brother Dunstan's new fellow workers thought it was funny too, and a few had started to join him in prayers before shift, even as they nicknamed him "Jackie Chan."

Aidan had wanted to get work as well. He was a silversmith by trade, having completed his apprenticeship before becoming a monk. However, the other three monks insisted he find lodgings, and if possible, a small worship space. After several promising possibilities came to nothing, Angus suggested a final avenue of approach.

"Reverend Wiley may be willing to let you and the others stay at his church, at least for a short time."

"Are you sure he will not have any objections? I am beginning to be convinced that these 'up-timers' are serious in their notions of universal tolerance, but there are limits in all things."

"That will not be a problem, Brother Aidan," Angus replied. "I remember not long after the Ring of Fire that Reverend Wiley gave shelter to a Benedictine monk in need of a place to stay in Grantville. I was still in Colonel Mackay's service at the time, but I understand they developed a mutual regard."