Madman Run

Chapter Three

Blade and his friends crouched and swung to the south, probing the trees for movement. After a minute Geronimo spoke.

“There’s no one there.”

“Go double-check,” Blade said.

The youthful Blackfoot glanced at the giant, then nodded. “Whatever you want.” He was up and off in a flash, weaving as he ran, the Winchester at the ready.

“Givin’ orders just comes naturally to you, doesn’t it?” Hickok asked.

“Don’t start,” Blade warned. “Someone has to check, and he’s more skilled at moving stealthily than the two of us combined.”

“Speak for yourself. Geronimo’s good, but he has a long way to go before he’s in the same class as Atilla.”

Blade said nothing, his eyes on the forest. Attila was the current head of the Warriors, an extremely popular, extremely deadly man whose mastery of the martial arts, marksmanship and combat tactics bordered on perfection. His partisans believed he was the best Warrior the Family ever produced, a sentiment Blade shared.

Geronimo had disappeared, melting into the foliage without disturbing a leaf.

“That hombre better be careful,” Hickok commented.

“Do I detect a note of concern?”

“Me worried about that no-account Injun? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Why don’t you just admit you love him like a brother?” Blade asked without taking his gaze from the woods.

“Sure I care about him. I care about you, too. But that doesn’t mean I’ll get all misty eyed if he gets himself killed. I just don’t want him to lose the rifle, is all.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“In a word, no.”

Hickok made a hissing noise. “You’re gettin’ real sarcastic in your young age, you know that?”

“Think so?”

“I know so. You’re changing, Blade. You’re not the carefree kid you used to be.”

“Are any of us?” Blade responded. “And thanks.”

“For what?”

“For calling me Blade instead of Mikey. If you don’t stop, I’m liable to lose control and haul off and bust you in the chops.”

“Sarcastic and mean. I liked you better when your main interest in life was catchin’ crayfish.”

“We all have to grow up sooner or later. Back in the old days, before the Big Blast, some people went through their whole lives without acquiring an ounce of maturity. It’s not the same now. We don’t have that luxury.”

“You’ve been listening to Plato again, haven’t you?”

“What’s wrong with listening to the wisest philospher in our entire history? Even my dad looks up to him. Hearing Plato speak is like having the mysteries of the universe unraveled right before your eyes.”

“Oh, brother.”

Blade was about to elaborate when he saw Geronimo returning on the double.

“Find anything?”

“I didn’t see anyone,” Geronimo reported, “but I found a network of trails and a garden.”

“A what?” Hickok asked.

Geronimo looked at Blade. “Kindly remind that know-it-all that I’m not talking to him until he calls me by my name or the earth plunges into the sun. Whichever occurs first.”

Hickok glared. “Enough is enough, already. Come on, Geronimo, give me a break.”

In two swift strides Geronimo reached the gunman and gave his startled chum a bear hug, actually lifting Hickok off the ground. “You did it! You called me by my new name!”

“It slipped out,” Hickok exclaimed, flustered by the embrace. “Now put me down, you cow chip, before somebody sees us!”

Geronimo let go and beamed. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. For a White Eyes, you’re not half bad.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not get all mushy about this. Show us the garden.”

Nodding happily, Geronimo led them down the road through a narrow tract of woodland to a cleared area where flowers grew in profusion, neatly arranged in trimmed rows. There were roses, columbines, geraniums, violets, marigolds and more.

Hickok shook his head in astonishment. “I never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes.”

“There must be someone living in the castle,” Geronimo reiterated. “As far as I know, there aren’t any towns nearby.”

Blade thought of the laugh they’d heard and nodded. “Let’s go see.” He led them along the road, which wound past the garden, through yet another strip of forest, and angled directly at the castle.

The farther they went, the more obvious the damage became. The glass panes in those windows still intact were all cracked or splintered.

Inch-wide cracks marred those sections of the outer wall where the vines had yet to get a purchase. And two other turrets were missing portions of their sides.

“I don’t get it,” Hickok said as they crossed a narrow field toward the medieval edifice looming in front of them. “Why are the crops and the garden so well taken care of, but the castle hasn’t been fixed up in ages?”

Blade was wondering the same thing. He spied a wide wooden door at the base of the building. “We’ll ask the owner.”

When they arrived at the closed door, a raven perched on the battlements vented a strident cry and flapped into the sky.

“I’ll do the honors,” Geronimo offered, and knocked loudly. His blows seemed to echo within, then fade.

A minute elapsed, and no one acknowledged the pounding.

“Let me,” Hickok said, delivering several firm kicks to the bottom panel.

Again there was no response.

“Maybe no one is in,” Geronimo stated.

Blade grabbed a large black handle and tugged, but the portal refused to budge. “It’s locked.”

“Kick it in,” Hickok suggested.

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

“No,” Blade declared. “I told you we must make a good impression on these people, and we won’t if we barge into their home.”

“Then what do we do? Twiddle our thumbs until someone shows up?”

The giant bore to the right. “No, let’s have a look around.” He craned his neck to view the top of the castle as he walked slowly to the corner. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the place was uninhabited. But how could that be when the garden and the crops indicated there were occupants?

Around the corner lay more of the same, more vines and a cleared space between the structure and the trees. The lowest windows were all a good 20 feet from the ground, too high to reach without a ladder.

“This dump is sort of spooky,” Hickok remarked.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid?” Geronimo asked.

“No. I’m just bringin’ up a fact is all.”

Blade was halfway to the rear when he happened to glance at the grass near his feet. Lying within inches of his black combat boots was an apple core. “Look at this,” he said and squatted.

The others moved in for a better glimpse.

“An animal, you think?” Hickok speculated.

“No,” Geronimo said. “Animals eat cores. They don’t care about ingesting a few seeds.”

Blade jerked his thumb at the battlement. “My guess is that someone ate the apple up there and tossed the core over the side.”

“I wish to blazes they’d show themselves,” the gunman stated gruffly. “I don’t like playin’ cat and mouse, particularly when I’m the mouse.”

Rising, Blade continued to the far corner. When he strode into the open, he couldn’t quite credit the sight he beheld.

“Will you look at those!” Hickok marveled.

“What in the world are they?” Geronimo asked.

There were six small buildings situated in the middle of the yard, three in one row, three in another. Constructed from polished marble, they were one story in height and approximately 20 feet wide. They were ornately embellished with miniature columns and intricate engravings depicting elaborate scenes.

Blade scratched his chin, reflecting. He’d seen photographs of such buildings, but he couldn’t recall where.

“They’re too dinky to be houses,” Hickok commented.

“Maybe they are memorials of some sort,” Geronimo guessed.

An image flashed into Blade’s mind, a picture in a book dealing with twentieth century social conventions and customs. “They’re mausoleums,” he informed his friends.

“Mauzi-what?” Hickok responded.

“Mausoleums. Places where the rich and famous were buried.”

“Why would anyone want to be buried in a small house?”

“That was the custom before the war. Most people were buried in public cemeteries, and tombstones were placed over their graves. But those with money to spend could have a lasting monument erected in their honor.”

“And I thought Geronimo has a swelled head.”

Blade walked forward. “Loved ones visited regularly and deposited flowers in remembrance of those who died. Caretakers performed regular maintenance and upkeep to keep the tombs in top condition.”

“I’ll never understand the bozos who lived back then,” Hickok said.

“What good is buildin’ a monument if you won’t be around to enjoy it?”

They halted at the first mausoleum and studied the etchings. One scene displayed naked young men and women engaged in leaping over bulls by grabbing the horns and executing acrobatic flips.

“What the dickens is that supposed to be?” the gunman inquired.

“I believe it shows the bullfighters of ancient Crete.”

Blade surmised. “Don’t you remember our classes on the subject?”

Hickok snorted. “I remember the paintings of the soldiers marching off to war or in battle, but I never paid much attention to those other pictures and drawings of men wearin’ dresses and women in their birthday suits prancin’ around trees.”

“What a warped mind,” Geronimo cracked.

The gunfighter disregarded the gibe. “Why would anyone want Cretan bullfighters on their tomb?”

Blade shrugged. “Maybe to show they were students of ancient history.”

“Or to prove they were idiots,” Hickok amended.

The giant moved to the recessed door and tried to open it, without success.

“You’re not plannin’ to go in there?” Hickok declared.

“I’m curious to see what’s inside.”

“I can tell you. An old wooden coffin and a bunch of moldy bones. Let’s leave well enough alone.”

Blade walked to the next tomb, which was slightly bigger than the rest, and stared at a pecular crest engraved near the top: A man in a suit of armor was holding the body of a child in one hand and the head in another.

“Disgusting,” Geronimo said.

“Let me guess,” Hickok stated. “This guy was tryin’ to show that he was fond of the Middle Ages.”

“Makes no sense to me,” Blade chimbed in.

Geronimo dropped to one knee and ran his fingers over the grass. “This is strange.”

“What is?” Blade prompted.

“A lot of people have been here within the past day or two.”

“Standin’ in front of this tomb?” Hickok said skeptically.

“No,” Geronimo answered. “Going into the tomb.”

Blade and the gunfighter exchanged bewildered expressions.

“You’re crazy, pard,” Hickok said.

“Which one of us is the tracker here? I know what I’m talking about. At least ten, possibly fifteen people entered this mausoleum.”

“Did they come out again?” Blade asked.

“It’s difficult to tell. Either they went in first and came out, or they came out, then went in.”

“You must be sufferin’ from heatstroke, pard.”

Blade walked to the next tomb, thoroughly confused by the string of events. What connection was there between the tiny plane, the tilled plots, the apple core and the mausoleums? What was the significance of the laugh? And how did it all tie together with the castle?

He thought about the Founder’s cryptic diary entry. Carpenter mentioned taking a hike and bumping into the castle’s owner, a man named Edward, who had requested that he leave the estate at once.

Although Carpenter tried to be friendly, the owner became angry and even threatened to club him with a walking stick. Rather than provoke the man further, Carpenter returned to the compound.

Blade realized the descendants of the recluse had been on their own for almost a century, completely cut off from the outside world. Perhaps they were simply afraid to make contact. He was more determined than ever to find them and convince them they had nothing to fear. If he practiced a little diplomacy, as his father was always stressing he should do, then he might persuade them to accompany him to the Home. The Family would be delighted at learning there were people living within walking distance, and friendly relations could be established. The Tillers would be very interested in learning the techniques these people used to grow such fine crops and flowers, and perhaps a system of trade could be set up.

The giant idly glanced at the castle and felt a prickling sensation run along his spine. There was someone at one of the windows, staring back.