Orenda - Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Paul rapped softly on the door to Patty's room. He paused a few moments, looking at his watch. It was nearly eight-thirty, and he was anxious to get on the way to Zoar. He rapped again, a bit louder this time, and heard her rustling toward him.

Patty opened the door until the short chain on the security lock stopped its progress. She peeped sleepily through the crack.

"Good morning, beautiful," He said, cheerfully.

She blinked groggily, and smiled. Paul noted that the thick welts under her eyes had shrunk and lightened. Even with her hair mussed, and her eyes puffy from sleep, Paul was stricken with her looks. Unlike most women, he thought, he would not mind looking at her every morning.

"Give me a few minutes," She said. "Why don't I just meet you in the restaurant for coffee?" She asked, smiling again at him.

"I thought we'd have coffee at Bimeler's cafe. Why don't you just invite me in to watch you get dressed, then we'll get going," He stated, giving her an exaggerated leer.

She pulled the door closed. Paul thought that it would momentarily re-open as soon as she released the security chain, but it remained sealed. He could hear her scurrying about, getting dressed, humming to herself. His fingers drummed lightly against the door frame in frustration.

A few moments later she emerged, dressed in light blue slacks and a bulky white sweater. Her hair was in place, and her face shown with a healthful glow, un-clouded with make-up. She looked up at Paul with a coquettish glance, and pirouetted for him.

"Look ok?" She asked.

"You look even better than you did last night. . .if that's possible." He answered. A grin had spread across his broad, tanned face when she spun around, showing herself off to him. His green eyes sparkled like emeralds, the tiny brown flecks in them glinting like gold in the morning sun. His soft, sandy hair moved slightly in the northerly breeze.

Patty caught her breath. "And you, you are what is known in modern parlance as a `hunk'," she said, her voice suddenly gone sultry.

"Ah! A shame you didn't notice that last night!" He replied.

"I did, I did" She took his arm and led him toward her sedan. "Lot's more room, and I want the chance to show you that I can drive a car without almost killing someone!" She laughed, sending musical tones lilting into the morning cold.

Paul sat in the passenger seat, his briefcase propped on his knee. He glanced occasionally at her, awed each time by the spell she had, apparently without effort, woven over him. What was the allure she held for him? She was beautiful, but he had known many beautiful women. She had a need for his strength, he had felt it last night when she looked at Jenny's picture. Yet today she seemed confident and strong. Perhaps it’s pure lust, he thought, but immediately discounted the idea. It was more than lust, although he most definitely desired to know her body intimately. It was a combination of everything about her that attracted him, he decided.

Patty drove carefully and confidently. After the fiasco last night, she did not want to make an error today. She stole quick glances at Paul whenever she felt his eyes turn away from her. She had awakened this morning with him on her mind. When he had called her `beautiful', she had felt heat flood her thighs, and her knees had fluttered weakly. She must guard against these thoughts, she admonished herself. Too many times in the past five years had she allowed desire to bring on the horrifying flashback; and the degrading sense of shame and guilt.

But there was something about this man that she couldn't put her finger on. Something special. He was physically attractive to her, for sure, but there was more to his allure than mere physicality. He was sensitive. She had felt it last night when he had helped her from her car, and then moved it out of danger for her. He was courageous. She remembered clearly how he had purposely strode towards her car, saying exactly what he thought about the offending driver; with absolutely no idea of who or how many people were in the vehicle. He was gentle. She remembered how his eyes had softened when he spoke of the child, Jenny, and her pitious condition. All these attributes of his personality she found more attractive than his handsome, well-built physique. She wanted him, she decided, and felt a cloud of depression settle over her as she realized that it could not happen. She did not want to feel the pain, or suffer the degradation of watching him pull away from her in disgust, revulsion glowering from every detail of his face. Tears welled in her eyes, and the road blurred slightly.

"Hey! What's the matter?" Paul asked, playfully poking her in the ribs. the sedan swerved to the right, nearly running off the road. She jerked frantically at the wheel, pulling the vehicle back into its proper lane.

"Whew!" Paul said. "Where did you learn to drive, anyway?" He laughed, as much with relief as with humor.

Patty did not respond. Her mouth pulled into a hard, tight line, and she drove silently the rest of the way into Zoar. She followed Paul's directions without a word, and pulled the car to a halt in front of the decrepit cafe.

"Patty, I'm sorry. I was just joking." Paul said quietly as they sat in front of Bimeler's cafe.

She shook her head, as if to rouse herself from sleep. "No. . .no, it's not you. I was thinking of something else." She did not want to hurt his feelings. It was not his fault that the gloom had settled over her so suddenly. She attempted to brighten the atmosphere a bit.

"Come, you promised me some coffee?" She smiled, but the glow that had emanated from her face earlier when she smiled had disappeared, had dulled, and Paul realized that this smile was merely a facial expression. There was little real happiness behind it.

"Howdy, folks," Bimeler greeted them. "Care for some boiled bean juice?" He waved a fresh pot of coffee at them.

Paul laughed. "Sure would." Then he introduced Patty to the old man.

"What are we havin', a reunion?" Bimeler asked, after hearing her name. "Surely, you ain't no kin to Gen'rl John Sullivan?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, that's why I've come to Zoar. Trying to trace my family tree." She smiled, and cupped her hands around the steaming mug of coffee he poured for her.

"Well, after see`in you, if yore great, great, grannmammy was anywhere's at all close, I can understan' the Gen'rl runnin' off with her." He leered.

Patty blushed, and told him that as she understood it, her ancestor which had married the General was much prettier than she.

"How do we go about getting into those records you were telling me about yesterday" Paul asked, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb towards the old brick church.

Bimeler broke off staring at Patty, and walked to his ancient cash register. He opened it and began rummaging around in the large drawer underneath the cash section. "I've got the key in here somewhere's," He said, running his fingers into the furthest corners of the drawer. "By the way, Jenny's drawin' didn't give you the night-quillies, did it?"

"Not me," Paul said, propping his elbows on the counter, and resting his chin on his hands. He remembered Patty's strong reaction to the picture, and glanced at her.

"I found her drawing very interesting, Mr. Bimeler. I'd like to meet her. Will she be in after school today?" Patty asked, her voice was low key, for she didn't want to seem overly anxious to the old man; perhaps alarm him about her interest in meeting his granddaughter. she had to talk to Jenny! Her eyes slipped sideways toward Paul. She noticed him looking at her as if to ask `what's this all about?' and favored him with a small, tight smile.

"Ever'day, jest like clockwork. . .less'n that raggedy ole bus breaks down again." Bimeler answered, producing an old key, well over six inches long, from the drawer. "Here 'tis." He handed it over the counter to Paul.

"Thank you. I'll be sure and bring it back before you close for the night." Paul finished the last swig of his coffee, and rose.

"No hurry. If the cafe's closed, I live in the last house on the corner," Bimeler pointed up the side street on which the cafe was located. "Big ole white barn. . .last on the right. Be the only one with lights on. Just bring the key by there if I'm not here."

Paul nodded in understanding, and laid two dollars on the counter. He took Patty's elbow, and guided her through the scattered, dilapidated tables of the restaurant. He held the tarnished brass bells hung over the doorway in his fingers, so that they would not ring when he pulled the door open. He knew as soon as he touched them that it was a mistake, and his fingers came away covered with a black mixture of grease and dirt. Frowning, he wiped them on the door as he closed it behind him.

Leaving her sedan parked in front of the cafe, they strolled along the sidewalk toward the brick church. The temperature had risen with the sun, and was now well above freezing. It was a clear morning, and the sunlight shone brightly off the colorful leaves which seemed to be everywhere. The entire town seemed blanketed in red, yellow, and brown.

When they came abreast of the church, Paul looked along the side of it, and saw two doors side by side. They ambled slowly to them, and found the one on the right led into the pew lined main sanctuary. The door to the left was locked, and there was a considerable build up of windswept dirt and mud along the bottom of it. It had not been opened in a long time. Paul fumbled the key into the lock, but found it hard to turn. Finally, it gave with a groaning screech, but the door opened outward, and would not budge against the accumulated mud. While Paul kicked at it, and dug it out a little at a time with a broken branch, Patty entered the main sanctuary of the ancient church.

She strolled between the lines of wooden pews. She would have sat down but they were thickly coated with dust. She brushed at one of them, clearing a small circle, and noted that the wood still gleamed. She walked to the front of the square room, and turned around to face the empty auditorium. She could almost hear the worshippers, singing out their hymns in strong, German voices. German voices! This brought her mind abruptly to the old German Bible in which the curse had been recorded. Her ancestors, she realized, had worshipped here. She shivered, and walked quickly back to the outside, where Paul was just inching the other door open.

It took quite awhile, for the door would move a few inches, piling up the dirt and grass roots in front of it; Paul would clear some more of the debris out of the way, then move it another few inches. Finally it was open, and they stepped down into the dark, dank interior.

It smelled musty, and dust motes spiraled upward, swirling into the shaft of sunlight they had let into the room. The air was tinged with mildew, and Patty hoped the records were not rotting. There was no electric light in the basement, but there was a kerosene lantern standing on the only piece of furniture, a rough-hewn oak table.

They propped the door open for both light and air, and surveyed the stack of wooden crates against the back wall of the single room basement. The floor was hard packed dirt, but a platform of bricks had been placed upon it where the crates were stacked. Paul walked slowly toward the back wall. The scurrying sound of disturbed mice reached their ears. The mice were not particularly afraid of them, so it was obvious to both that no one had visited this vault for a long, long time. Paul hefted a crate off the top, and carried it to the middle of the room.

"Your chair, madam." He gestured grandly at the dusty crate.

Patty curtsied, but instead of sitting on the box, began removing the top from it. "I like to see what's living in what I sit on!" She said.

"God only knows!" Paul said, then laughed as she pulled the top off, and a flurry of small, gray mice cascaded onto the floor. Patty yelped in surprise, and high-stepped away from the box. The mice quickly disappeared into the stack of crates.

"This is going to be great!" Paul said, distastefully. He thought of spending hours digging through mouse shit, and lost much of his enthusiasm for the project.

Patty, however, was digging industriously through the box. Whoever had put these records up for posterity had thoughtfully placed the myriad sheets of paper, the oldest of which were written in German, into modern plastic folders, and labeled them by either family name or subject. Patty began separating them into different stacks. On one pile she placed all the folders labeled with names, on the other, the folders labeled, `births', `deaths', etc.

Paul pulled crates down, opened them, waited for the wave of mice to recede, then placed them beside Patty, who quickly sorted them out. She soon had all the material in four stacks.

This separating process complete, she picked up two files, one, very thing, was labeled `Sullivan'. The other, much thicker, bore her matriarchal maiden name, `Boerner'. She took these files near the door, and placing one of the empty crates in the doorway, sat and began to read through the two files.

Paul had his briefcase open, and had scooted a crate up near the oak table. He busily listed names and dates from the `birth' and `death' files into his notebook. He became absorbed in his research, and did not pay any more attention to Patty.

There were only two brief entries on the Sullivan name in the records of Zoar. The first was the recording of the birth of John and Ophelia sullivan's first child, a daughter, born April the fourth, 1785. The child was named Giselle, after her aunt.

The name appeared again the following year. It was written that Giselle Sullivan, infant daughter of John and Ophelia, had been dragged from its crib by a wild beast of type unknown, and carried into the wilderness and devoured. It further stated that charges had been made, by the child's aunt, of neglect on the part of its father, John Sullivan.

She charged that the father was drunk with his cronies while his sick wife, Ophelia, was unable to care properly for the infant. She claimed that he was therefore responsible for the demise of her namesake. Patty shuddered at the mind picture the situation caused; and saw the baby being dragged, screaming, by one tiny arm from its crib, out the window, and into the deep forest.

Other than these two short references, her surname did not appear in the records of Zoar. It was evident, however, that many generations of her family on her matriarchal side had thrived here among the rolling hills of the Tuscawarus valley. The final entry appeared in the early nineteen fifties, when the last of her far removed cousins had died, leaving no will. The last Boerner's property had reverted to the commune, and was now owned by the State of Ohio.

Patty stared dully at the two folders in her hand. She felt empty. Nothing! Not a clue to the face that tormented her in her dreams. She had hit a dead end, and there was nowhere else to turn. She felt as if her sanity was slipping away. She had clung to this slim thread of hope, had hung her future on its flimsy strength, and now she had followed it to the end. Hanging from the end of the thread, she looked down into a pit of abysmal blackness; insanity or death. It did not matter to her which.

Paul was industriously scribbling away, recording dates, names, births, and deaths, when his stomach growling loudly broke his concentration. He looked at his watch. One o'clock! He glanced over at Patty, framed in the sunshine coming through the doorway. She was slumped quietly on the crate, head hanging down between her knees. She seemed to have shrunk to half her size.

"Patty?" Paul called. "What's the matter?"

Slowly, she raised her head and looked at him. The look in her eyes was so forlorn and lost that his heart went out to her. He walked quickly to her side. She looked so small and helpless that Paul felt as if he must comfort her, much as he had rocked the terrified Jenny to sleep against his chest the afternoon before. He placed his strong hand on the back of her neck, and massaged it gently.

"You look like you lost your best friend, and all hope of ever finding him again." He said. his voice earnest and concerned.

She began crying softly, turning her head so that he would not see the tears streaming down her cheeks. Paul sat down beside her on the crate, and put his arm around her trembling shoulders. He pulled her head around against his chest. "Cry it out," He said, "You'll feel better."

She cried for a long time, and Paul held her silently against him until the tears subsided. Then, he took her chin in his hand, and slowly, hesitantly, brought his lips down to meet hers. He tasted the salt from her teardrops. She gently returned the kiss, then pulled away from him. He kissed the teardrops from her eyes, and tried once more to place his lips on hers. She turned her head aside. Paul leaned back from her, and pushed and straightened her hair off her forehead.

"Feel some better, now?" He asked.

She did not respond, and continued to stare blankly ahead.

His stomach growled loudly again, and he patted it. "Let's go get some lunch. . .life always looks rosier on a full stomach." He stood and offered her his arm.

She nodded slowly in agreement, and stood, brushing the dust her skirt had accumulated back into the dank air of the basement. She gripped Paul's hand tightly as he led her up and out of the dismal vault which had, only a few hours before, been the focus and hope of her life. Now she felt defeated, doomed; only a matter of time.

The wind swirled drifts of un-raked leaves into tiny tornados as it kicked up in the face of a strong arctic cold front which was sweeping down from Canada. To the North, a thick band of clouds were forming for their march southward. The temperature had not yet begun to plummet, but Paul knew it would not be long as he scanned the front line on the horizon.

"Looks like some nasty weather tonight." He remarked.

Patty gazed up into his eyes. "I don't care." She said softly, and laid her head back on his shoulder. They strolled like this slowly along the sidewalk to Bimeler's cafe.

"Thought you might come by for lunch!" Bimeler greeted them. "So, I fixed somethin' special." He grinned, pausing for dramatic effect. "My world renowned, famous, beef stew!" He lifted the lid from a heavy, steaming pot, and the delicious aroma swirled into the air. Paul's stomach growled in appreciation.

Bimeler joined them for lunch, seating all three in the corner booth which Jenny had occupied the day before. Paul ate heartely, washing down the tasty stew with great quantities of iced tea. Patty barely touched her food. She picked at it, eating a single bean, or a small bite of potatoe, at a time. Paul noticed the contrast in the way she had attacked her dinner the evening before. He could not understand her abrupt and total mood changes. She seemed so remote, and he wondered at what she could have found in her research that had so profoundly altered her personality in so short a time.

Bimeler spoke to her. "Find ever'thin' you needed over to the church?"

Patty did not seem to hear him, and continued absent mindedly picking at the stew.

Paul energetically nodded his head to keep Bimeler's feelings from being hurt. "Just about. I've just got to organize my notes now, and do some comparison studies." He paused. "This stew is fantastic!"

Bimeler thanked him, and again looked at Patty. "And you, ma'am?"

Startled, Patty looked at him. "What?"

"Did you find what you was lookin' for at the church?" The old man repeated.

"Afraid not." She answered, shaking her head. "I only found my name in there twice, and what I found had no bearing on what I'm looking for." She frowned and pushed the nearly full bowl away from her.

"Didn't care for the stew, ma'am?" Bimeler asked softly. "I could fix you a hamburg' or somethin' else."

"No, no. The stew was delicious. I'm just not very hungry right now. She sipped at her tea, preoccupied.

"I know it's none o' my business, ma'am, but maybe I could help. I know most o' the history o' Zoar right here." He pointed at his head with his index finger.

"I was looking for some references to my family. Perhaps an odd relative or something that I may have been told about as a child and since forgotten." She replied.

"A odd ball in your line, huh?" Bimeler closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Let me think on it a minute. Yore mama's side o' the family was the Boerner`s, if I'm not mistook?" He cocked one eye open and watched her nod in affirmation.

The cafe was silent while the old man meditated. Paul

heard the soft whirring sound of an ancient refrigerator and the subdued clicking made by an old Coca-Cola clock stationed above the grill. He looked through the cracked window fronting on the deserted street, and noticed that the wind was gusting much stronger than when they had entered just a few minutes before.

Bimeler straightened, and opened his eyes. "Seems I 'member somethin' 'bout the Boerners. . .way, way back. Jest old tales passed down through the years, you understan'." He cast a sidelong look at Paul when he remembered his remonstrations about `ghost' stories of the day before. Paul said nothing.

"Go on, Mr. Bimeler." Patty said, hope rising in her.

"Call me Andrew, please."

"All right, Andrew. Please tell me what you've heard."

"It had somethin' to do with the little girl that old Gen'rl Sullivan and his wife. . .Ophelia was her name, I think. . .had. That would be the first direct blood ancestor in yore line." He nodded, the tempo of his words picking up as the memory of the legend became clearer.

"Yes, her name was Ophelia. I saw in the records that their infant child was eaten by a wild animal." Patty said, her interest growing.

"Yes, that's right. Children gittin' 'et by wild animals wasn't a uncommon happen'in in those days. This was mighty rugged country. Now, if I 'member the story correctly, Giselle, Ophelia's younger sister, for some reason or other, blamed the baby's gettin' 'et on its daddy." Andrew scratched at his chin, and his blue eyes took on a far away look.

"The baby was named Giselle, after Ophelia's sister." Patty confirmed, adding to the tale.

"Yeah, that's right. Way I heard it was that Giselle was very close to the baby. Ophelia almost had died a havin' it, and Giselle did most o' the motherin' o' it. Anyhow, the night the baby got kilt', Giselle had to go off to church or somethin', and Gen'rl Sullivan was s`posed to be carin' for the baby. Ophelia was bed ridden at the time. Anyhow, when Giselle got back to the house, the baby was gone, and the Gen'rl, supposedly, was in the library passed out drunk." Bimeler lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply before continuing.

"A bear, or a wolf. . .maybe even a cougar, climbed through the baby's window, and hauled the little girl off to the woods, where it 'et her. Giselle, the story goes, went nuts after that, and came to believe that John Sullivan was cursed."

Paul saw Patty's intense interest, and did not want her to be disappointed. He broke in when Bimeler paused.

"This isn't another one of your `injun ghost stories' is it?" He asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice. Patty looked hard at Paul.

Bimeler appeared hurt. "Now, the lady ask't me for the story. I wasn't there, so I can't guarantee that it all really happen'd, but most o' these old stories got a good bit o' truth in 'em."

"Please Mr. Bim. . .Andrew, go on." Patty flashed her eyes angrily at Paul.

The old man's injured countenance smoothed out with Patty's words, and he continued. "Folks didn't know how to take Giselle after that, 'cause she went aroun' tellin' ever'body that'd listen that the baby had died because o' a curse the injuns had laid on John Sullivan." He paused, "Now John Sullivan was a big hero to the villagers, and they didn't take kindly to Giselle's gossip. Fact is, they started to speculate that maybe she had had a injun lover amongst them that got kilt', and that was why she was goin' 'round tellin' off on Gen'rl Sullivan." He glanced sideways at Patty to see how she was accepting the news that one of her ancestors may have had sexual relations with an Indian.

She noticed the look and smiled, the first time in many hours. "It doesn't bother me, Andrew. . .really."

The old man blushed. "Well, some folks might take offense at someone sayin' their kin had a injun boyfriend. Though, Lord knows, from what I've heard, they was a plenty o' he'in and she'in goin' on amongst the injuns and the white folks o' Zoar in them days!" He scratched at his chin again, and squirmed on his chair.

"This all happened close to two hundred years ago, didn't it?~ Paul interjected. "You tell it as if it happened yesterday."

Bimeler turned slowly to Paul. "I guess I've been here so long, and so filled up with these old stories o' Zoar - after all, I'm the onliest one left - that they do seem like they happened yesterday." He did not have the words to explain to Paul that with a heritage as rich and full as Zoar's, the time that events occurred held little relevance to the accumulated lore.

"You are quite a repository of knowledge, Mr. Bimeler." Patty smiled at him again, sweetly, and patted his wrinkled hand.

Paul frowned, but resolved to keep his mouth firmly closed. He could see that Patty was taken in by the old man's story, and attempting to counter Bimeler's influence could cost him the romantic interlude he had already fantasized about with Patty. Also, for some unknown reason, she seemed to be regaining some of the spirit she had lost in the church, and he did not want to spoil it for her.

"Anyhow," Bimeler continued, "After the baby got kil't, and Giselle started goin' aroun' tellin' ever'one that he was cursed, and makin' all the trouble she could for him, he decided to return to his home in New Hampshire. That's the last anyone heard o' the Sullivans in these parts. Fact is, yore prob'ly the first Sullivan to set foot in Zoar in nigh on two hundred years." Bimeler leaned back and scratched at his stomach.

. Giselle told ever'one that'd listen that not "What became of Giselle after they left?" Patty asked.

"Story is that she got worse. Blamed John Sullivan for every death in the three families, after that."

"Three families?" Paul asked.

"Yes, the founding three. Bimeler, Neiderhaus, and Schoenbrunn only was John Sullivan under a injun curse, but so was the three families. She held to that even on her death bed."

"Why were the three families cursed, too?" Patty asked.

"`Cause they was the ones ran things. . .they helped Sullivan to wipe out the injuns!"

Paul desperately fought back his desire to destroy the old man's incredible tale. Curses! Wild animals eating babies! Massacres! This was all a bit ridiculous! But he kept quiet.

"Go on, Andrew." She prompted.

"They's not much more to it. They say that old Giselle's last words were the curse, and supposedly it went somethin' like this: The curse o' the Tuscazoarans is upon the injun slayer, John Sullivan, and his line, and on the three families, forever. It will follow them no matter how far they go. . .in time, or distance." Bimeler glanced at Paul in time to see his eyes rolling upward.

"My God!" Patty said explosively "That's what was written in the German Bible!"

Paul looked at her, struggling to refrain from making another skeptical remark. "Old German Bible?" He croaked.

"Yes, a family heirloom. It must have belonged to Giselle. She must have written the curse in it!" This development had, at least, distracted her from the sense of gloom that she had felt when leaving the church. Perhaps there was something to Giselle's words. Patty intended to look into this curse more deeply. Maybe her salvation would still be found; hidden among the mysterious relics of her family's past.

Paul glanced at the old Coca-Cola clock above the counter, and noticed that it was after three o'clock. Already, the shadows were beginning to lengthen on the deserted street outside the cafe.

Isn't Jenny a little late today?" He asked.

Bimeler turned his head and looked at the clock. "Oh, that ole school bus prob'ly broke down again. She'll be along directly."

"I so want to meet her," Patty said.

"Well, we'd planned to run over to Schoenbrunn Mission this afternoon. We'll have to get going if we want to see it today. Will Jenny be in the cafe tomorrow, Andrew?" Paul asked.

"She usually plays aroun' the house on Sat'day, but if you want, I'll bring her over tomorrow so's you can meet her."

"I've got a better idea," Patty interjected. "Supposing we pick her up around noon tomorrow, and take her on a picnic with us? I'd love to go scout around the old Indian campsite - I'm big on the outdoors - and it would give me plenty of time to get to know her."

"Uhhh. . ." Paul said, "It might be a bit nippy for a picnic, don't you think?" The thought of spending an entire afternoon in the deserted, remote park, did not appeal to him. He did not like even the idea of spending much time in or near the woods. He looked at Patty, his eyebrows arched with his question.

"Oh, it's not too cold. If it is, well, we'll just stroll around there a while, and then have lunch here, with Andrew."

Bimeler beamed. "Ain't that nice! Jenny'd love to go on a picnic. Poor little thing's so lonely out here. I'll be sure to have her ready to go."

There was nothing left for Paul to say, so he dumbly nodded his head in agreement. He questioned again his deep interest in Patty Sullivan. He was rarely drawn to women who took curses seriously and loved the out-of-doors. He stood and dug the key to the church basement from his pocket, handed it to Bimeler, and took Patty by the elbow, helping her to her feet.

"I've got to get all my notes together, after we visit Schoenbrunn," Paul said, opening the door for Patty. "Hope it won't take all night long!" He had, hopefully, more interesting plans for the night.

They drove to the old Moravian Mission in silence. Paul wondered if his show of skepticism had stifled her fledgling interest in him. He asked her, tentatively, if she was upset by something.

"No, I'm just running Mr. Bimeler's story about Giselle through my mind. I'm wondering if she was insane, or if she really knew something that nobody else did." Her voice tapered off.

"Did you ever think that maybe Bimeler's nuts? He could be making all this up to entertain the tourists." Paul told her.

"How would he know about all those things?~

"Same way we do. You found Giselle in the records. He could have, too, and then embellished the story a bit." Paul paused, "I don't believe in hocus-pocus curses!"

Patty drove silently. Finally, after she turned into the parking lot at Schoenbrunn, she turned again to Paul. "You're probably right, Paul. But, just think. . .if Giselle knew some dark secret, and was trying to warn us. After all, you're from the `three families', and I'm a Sullivan."

Paul did not answer her. He saw that for some reason believing in the tale, or at least believing in it enough to investigate it, seemed to have restored her hope. She seemed alive again, and Paul did not want to take that away from her. "Worth looking into, I guess." He mumbled.

Paul did not mention Patty's superstitious suspicions while they strolled through the tiny enclave that was all that remained of the abandoned Moravian Mission. It was named Schoenbrunn because the land it sat on had been donated to the ancient brethren by the first member of the Schoenbrunn family to settle in the valley. The Moravians had stressed simplicity in life and worship, and that philosophy was evident in the Spartan way they had lived.

Most of the congregation of Schoenbrunn Mission consisted of Tuscazoaran Indians, who had simply rolled the God of the Moravians in with their own animistic beliefs. It must have been frustrating to the brethren, Paul thought.

They found little to interest them in the ruins, except the tendrils of the once unique philosophy, pre-dating Martin Luther, that common men could read and understand the Bible. There was no trace of the grandeur of the long forgotten Moravian Empire, now buried deep in the heartland of Czechoslovakia under the iron control of the hammer and sickle, from which this free-thinking concept of Christianity had sprung.

The sun was in the final throes of sinking behind the western horizon when they returned to the sedan and headed toward the motel. Patty's mood had not much improved. The depressing vista of deserted buildings and disparaged lifestyles had thrown her deeper into gloom. Silently, she pulled into the motel parking lot. Paul walked with her to the door of her room.

"Don't suppose you're going to invite me in?" He tried to sound cheerful, but the depressing sight of Schoenbrunn Mission had taken the edge off his wit. His words came out flat, his campaign defeated before it began.

"I don't think so. Not tonight. We have a big day tomorrow, after all, picnicking with Jenny Bimeler." She smiled weakly. She did not want Paul to leave, yet she was terribly afraid of the consequences if he stayed. She liked him very much. Perhaps, she thought, too much.

Paul's eyes were downcast. His disappointment showed even in the way he held his body. Slowly, not looking at her, he turned to go.

"Paul?" Her voice was timid.

He turned back to her, but his eyes did not fully meet hers.

"Paul, thank you for kissing me this afternoon. It helped a lot." She took a step toward him, and threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately on the lips.

He held her for a few moments, finally letting his hands roam around to her back, pulling her tightly to him.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," He said simply.

"I know," she paused. "Me too." Again she kissed him. Then pulled away, and fumbled in her purse for her door key.

Paul placed his hands on her shoulders from the back, and nuzzled the back of her neck. She shook her head, and moved out of his grasp, opening the door and slipping through it. She peeped at him through the crack.

"But. . ." Paul's voice trailed off.

"You don't understand, Paul. Not yet!" Tears welled in her eyes as she softly closed the door.

Paul did not understand. His groin ached and he could feel a headache caused by frustration inching up the back of his neck. He walked along the sidewalk facing the rooms, a slight shivering running up his back. Now that the orange ball of warmth had completely disappeared, the air was quickly becoming bitterly cold. He did not stop at his door, but continued onward, towards the bar. He knew that without a stiff drink or two, he would not be able to sleep this night.

He thought of her soft, moist-warm lips on his, and began to get angry. `Feel like a damn high school kid!' He thought, kicking at a stray leaf which had drifted onto the sidewalk. `Two grown adults, both wanting each other; yet she refuses!' He kicked savagely at the leaf again, and nearly fell when he missed it. The strength of her arms about his neck, pulling almost desperately at him, had brought him close enough to catch the hint of her intimate scent. It pulled at his senses compellingly, irresistible. The closer he got to her, it seemed, the closer he wanted to get. It was as if she were drawing him into herself, layer by layer. He marveled at the depth of her.

Sitting at the bar and sipping a Martini, which was much too wet for his taste tonight, Paul tried to shunt her from his mind. Thoughts of Zoar, Schoenbrunn, even the colorful silliness of Bimeler's ghost stories, could not displace the desire he felt for her. Angrily, he downed the remainder of the drink, and stalked from the bar.