hold onto, something not silent.
Grantville was not silent but its voice was not familiar to him. There were people and magical things called “cars” and horses, and children screaming.
Shabbethai sniffed and looked about, hunting the source of the screaming.
There had been a time when he had screamed like that, screamed with the pure joy of play and running and jumping.
Now, since that last view of his home in Smyrna and his mother standing motionless, crying on the dock, there had been silence.
“I am not the Son of God.” Shabbethai tried to smile, tried hard and the smile almost came to his face. His steps began tentatively, slowly but soon he was running again, running as if he was being chased or, maybe, he was chasing something.
He ran toward the sound of screaming, away from silence.
Grantville Public Library, 24th of Av, 5394
(T minus 5 hours 1 minute)
Julie Drahuta trudged up the steps of the Grantville Public Library.
The day hadn’t been that long. It was just that it was Friday, the end of the week, and her thoughts had been on the weekend until the phone call.
The work of a social worker slash police officer who specialized in child welfare in a town filled with seventeenth-century Germans and twentieth-century Americans—West Virginians, to be more precise—meant her work was rarely finished, weekend or no weekend.
If there was a minor problem or a major one and if it involved children, which it often did, Julie was called in. She had earned a reputation of solving difficult and delicate problems, of translating cultural languages and norms from one century to another, from one religion to another, from one family to another.
Julie’s Flying Mom Squad, made up of Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, and even Jewish mothers, multiplied her effectiveness but it also kept her on call twenty-four/seven.
Of course, what had truly brought her to the attention of almost everyone were the Pascal children; Blaise and his sister, Jacqueline. Their father had sent them to Grantville to protect them from their historical notoriety. Who would protect Grantville from them?
Julie Drahuta, of course!
The Pascal children were reminders to every up-timer just where and when they were. Blaise showed up in religious texts, math texts and almost every encyclopedia had an entry about him. Heck, even she knew of Pascal’s Triangles before the Ring of Fire.
Blaise embraced twentieth-century tech with a passion that was frightening, if not life-threatening. Jackie liked to write and learn languages.
Were there more children hiding in the history books? Hopefully they would go somewhere else. The Pascals were enough.
It was Jackie Pascal who had called her. The girl’s problems rarely required police or fire intervention. This was why Julie didn’t bring backup with her as she trudged up the stairs.
Tina Jones, an assistant librarian, met Julie at the front door to the library; snapping Julie out of her daydreaming about the impending weekend and the relative dangers of the Pascal children.
Julie knew that the circulation desk was a throne to Tina and for her to come out from behind that desk meant something serious had occurred, something more serious than a misshelved book or an angry scholar who felt that his dignity had been assaulted because a child was often asked to translate for them. Jacqueline was really, really good at languages.
“What’s up?” Julie smiled. Julie rarely smiled when she was happy. This situation had the makings of unhappy written all over it.
“It could be nothing, nothing at all. Or it could be everything. I don’t know what to think.” Tina Jones was the one Jacqueline Pascal went to for permission to use the phone to call Julie away from her nice, neat and tidy “end of the week” thoughts. Jackie’s first two words over the phone were the words that brought Julie to the library.
“Officer Drahuta.”
Jacqueline only called Julie “Officer” when it
Grantville was not silent but its voice was not familiar to him. There were people and magical things called “cars” and horses, and children screaming.
Shabbethai sniffed and looked about, hunting the source of the screaming.
There had been a time when he had screamed like that, screamed with the pure joy of play and running and jumping.
Now, since that last view of his home in Smyrna and his mother standing motionless, crying on the dock, there had been silence.
“I am not the Son of God.” Shabbethai tried to smile, tried hard and the smile almost came to his face. His steps began tentatively, slowly but soon he was running again, running as if he was being chased or, maybe, he was chasing something.
He ran toward the sound of screaming, away from silence.
Grantville Public Library, 24th of Av, 5394
(T minus 5 hours 1 minute)
Julie Drahuta trudged up the steps of the Grantville Public Library.
The day hadn’t been that long. It was just that it was Friday, the end of the week, and her thoughts had been on the weekend until the phone call.
The work of a social worker slash police officer who specialized in child welfare in a town filled with seventeenth-century Germans and twentieth-century Americans—West Virginians, to be more precise—meant her work was rarely finished, weekend or no weekend.
If there was a minor problem or a major one and if it involved children, which it often did, Julie was called in. She had earned a reputation of solving difficult and delicate problems, of translating cultural languages and norms from one century to another, from one religion to another, from one family to another.
Julie’s Flying Mom Squad, made up of Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, and even Jewish mothers, multiplied her effectiveness but it also kept her on call twenty-four/seven.
Of course, what had truly brought her to the attention of almost everyone were the Pascal children; Blaise and his sister, Jacqueline. Their father had sent them to Grantville to protect them from their historical notoriety. Who would protect Grantville from them?
Julie Drahuta, of course!
The Pascal children were reminders to every up-timer just where and when they were. Blaise showed up in religious texts, math texts and almost every encyclopedia had an entry about him. Heck, even she knew of Pascal’s Triangles before the Ring of Fire.
Blaise embraced twentieth-century tech with a passion that was frightening, if not life-threatening. Jackie liked to write and learn languages.
Were there more children hiding in the history books? Hopefully they would go somewhere else. The Pascals were enough.
It was Jackie Pascal who had called her. The girl’s problems rarely required police or fire intervention. This was why Julie didn’t bring backup with her as she trudged up the stairs.
Tina Jones, an assistant librarian, met Julie at the front door to the library; snapping Julie out of her daydreaming about the impending weekend and the relative dangers of the Pascal children.
Julie knew that the circulation desk was a throne to Tina and for her to come out from behind that desk meant something serious had occurred, something more serious than a misshelved book or an angry scholar who felt that his dignity had been assaulted because a child was often asked to translate for them. Jacqueline was really, really good at languages.
“What’s up?” Julie smiled. Julie rarely smiled when she was happy. This situation had the makings of unhappy written all over it.
“It could be nothing, nothing at all. Or it could be everything. I don’t know what to think.” Tina Jones was the one Jacqueline Pascal went to for permission to use the phone to call Julie away from her nice, neat and tidy “end of the week” thoughts. Jackie’s first two words over the phone were the words that brought Julie to the library.
“Officer Drahuta.”
Jacqueline only called Julie “Officer” when it
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