The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (60 page)

The years passed. Art Marsile prospered, but his mode of life varied little. Hugh studied at the Athbill School of Divinity at Lawrence, Kansas; Jean enrolled at UCLA.

Three years after Don’s disappearance, Don’s mother received an official letter from the Army Department in Washington, notifying her that Sergeant Donald Berwick was not dead, as had been presumed, and shortly would be arriving home.

Two weeks later Don Berwick returned to Orange City. He was reticent about his war experience, but it became known that he had been an undeclared prisoner-of-war, that he had escaped from a Manchurian labor camp and had made his way to Japan. He looked considerably older than his twenty-three years; he walked with a faint hitch in his stride, and his face was much more firmly modeled than anyone in Orange City had remembered it: the forehead low and wide, the nose straight and blunt, the cheekbones and jaw pronounced, the cheeks hollow.

On his second day in Orange City he went to see Art Marsile, whom he found a trifle thinner, a trifle more leathery. Art brought out beer from the refrigerator, told him what news there was to be told: that Jean was making good grades; that Hugh had become an evangelist, and had changed his name, now calling himself Hugh Bronny—which had been his mother’s maiden-name. “And what do you plan to do, Don?”

Don settled himself back into the couch. “You remember the night we went up to the Freelock house, Art?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve never forgotten that night. Afterwards I did a lot of reading—all the books I could find on the subject. In Manchuria I had time to do a lot of thinking. I did it. I still want to be a scientist, Art—a new kind of scientist. I’m going to the University. I’m going to learn as much mathematics, psychology, biology and physics as possible. I’m going to read a lot more. Then I’m going to apply scientific techniques to the so-called supernatural.”

Art nodded. “I’m glad to hear that, Don. I’m going to ask you a personal question. How are you fixed for money?”

“Pretty good, Art. I got an awful whack of cumulative back pay. I’ll go to school on the GI Bill.”

“Good enough. If you run short, I’ve got lots of money. Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

“Thanks, Art. I’ll sure call on you if I need help. But I think I’ll make out pretty well.” He rose to his feet and shuffled uneasily.

Art said gruffly, “Why don’t you stay to dinner? I telephoned Jean you were here; she’s due home in a few minutes.”

Don sat down, a queer hard pounding under his ribs. Outside a car door slammed. Feet came running up the walk, the front door opened. “Don!”

“Seems like absence makes the heart grow fonder,” observed Art Marsile grinning.

“Father, don’t you look while I’m kissing Don!”

“Okay. Just let me know when you’re done.”

Don applied for admission at Caltech, and was accepted. A year later he and Jean were married.

There was news from Hugh meanwhile. He had established himself in Kansas, and held weekly revival meetings in various parts of Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas. Occasionally he sent home hand-bills: “Monster Rally. Fighting Hugh Bronny, Leader of the Christian Crusade.”

On Easter of the year Don was to take his BS degree, Art drove out to Don and Jean’s apartment in Westwood. “I’m gonna make the jump,” he announced as he came through the door. “In fact, I already made it.”

“What jump, Father?”

“Remember my telling you about the dowser, how he told me there was oil?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m going to do some wild-catting. I had a good year, I can blow whatever it’s gonna take. If I hit it, fine. If I don’t, it’s out of my system.”

Don laughed. “Either way, it’ll be interesting.”

“That’s how I figure,” said Art. “The geologists say no, the dowser says yes. We’ll see who’s right.”

“How long before you know for sure?”

Art shook his head. “They start down next month. They drill till they hit oil—or until I run out of money. Whichever comes first.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Don. “If hope will do you any good.”

“We’ll all hope. We’ll drink a toast,” said Jean. “If Hugh were here we’d ask him to pray.”

“Hugh
will
be here,” said Art. “That’s another thing.”

Jean made a face. “I thought he was established in Kansas.”

“Well, he’s coming west,” said Art in the level voice he always used in connection with Hugh. “He seems to be a pretty big man in his field now. They’ve got him booked for meetings all over Southern California. He’s going to make his headquarters in Orange City.”

“Father! Surely he’s not going to move in with you!”

“It’s his privilege, if he wants to, Jean. It’s his home.”

“I suppose so. But I thought that later, after Don got his degree, we’d move back to Orange City.”

Art grinned. “When Don gets his degree, you two are going to the Hawaiian Islands. It’s a present from me. By the time you come back—then we’ll see. Things may be cleared up. Maybe Hugh’s got other plans in mind.”

But Hugh had no other plans in mind. He arrived in Orange City the next week, tall, gaunt and solemn, wearing a pale blue suit, a Panama hat on his craggy forehead. Art received him with decent cordiality, and Hugh took up residence in his old home.

The drilling on Marsile No. 1 began. Don finished his undergraduate studies and received his BS; he and Jean flew to Honolulu for the month’s vacation which had been Art’s present to them.

During their absence they received two short letters from Art: the drilling was proceeding slowly and expensively. Nothing at five hundred feet; in the second letter, nothing at twelve hundred feet, with the drills scratching slowly through hard metamorphic rock. He made a dry comment that Hugh disapproved of the venture, on the basis that money being wasted on the drilling could be put to better use: namely, the Christian Crusade, an evangelistic movement which Hugh had founded.

The month passed; Don and Jean returned to Orange City. Art met them at the airport. His face was dour and drawn: Marsile No. 1 was still dry. “We’re down to eighteen hundred,” said Art glumly. “The rock gets harder and meaner every foot. And I’m running low of money.”

Jean hugged him. “That’s nothing to fret about. It was just a gamble—just a game.”

“Damn expensive game. And I like to win my games you know.”

They drove to the old house under the pepper trees, walked up the iris-bordered gravel path, entered the house.

“Good heavens!” cried Jean in wonder. “What’s all this?”

“Some of Hugh’s publicity,” said Art drily.

Wordlessly Jean and Don examined the placards thumb-tacked to the wall. Most conspicuous was a large photograph of Hugh Bronny speaking into a microphone, fist poised in grim exultation. Four placards bore a picture of Hugh with scarehead printing: “March in the Christian Crusade with Hugh Bronny!” “Hugh Bronny, the Devil’s enemy!” “Sweep America clean with Fighting Hugh Bronny!” A cartoon showed Hugh Bronny depicted as a muscular giant. He carried a broom labelled “The Fighting Gospel”, with which he dispersed a rabble of half-human vermin. Some wore horns and bat-wings; others were characterized by bald heads, large hooked noses, heavy-lidded eyes; others were marked with the communist hammer-and-sickle. “Clean out the atheists, the communists, the deniers of Christ!” “Keep America pure!” cried another card. “Hear Fighting Hugh Bronny at the old-fashioned fundamental go-for-broke revival! Bring the children. Free soda pop.”

Jean finally turned back to Art; she opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“I know,” said Art. “It’s kinda crude. But—well, it’s Hugh’s business. This is his home, he’s got a right to hang up what he wants.”

“But you live here too, Father!”

Art nodded. “I can stand it. I don’t like the things, but what’s the good of making Hugh take them down? That don’t change Hugh, and it only makes things tough.”

“Sometimes I think you carry tolerance too far, Dad.”

“Now I don’t know about that. Here comes Hugh now. I guess he’s been asleep.”

A door closed, slow steps sounded along the hall.

“He’s changed quite a bit,” said Art in an undertone.

Hugh came into the room. He wore an unpressed black suit, a blue shirt, a long gray necktie, long-toed black shoes. He seemed enormously tall, almost seven feet; his head seemed larger and craggier than ever; his eyes flamed blue from cavernous sockets. He had gained force since Don had seen him last—force and poise and intensity, and absolute assurance.

Hugh did not offer to shake hands. “Hello, Jean. Hello, Don. You both look well.”

“We should,” said Jean with a nervous laugh, “we’ve done nothing but lie in the sun and sleep for a month.”

Hugh nodded somberly, as if frivolity and self-indulgence were all very nice, but that personally he could not afford the time.

“I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk about this oil well business. Do you know how much money has gone into it?”

“No,” said Jean. “I don’t care.”

“But there’s no oil out there on the desert. That money could be put to a worthy Christian use. I could do wonderful things with it.”

“No, you couldn’t,” said Art. “I told you once before, Hugh, I’m not putting any money into your Christian Crusade, whatever you say.”

“Just what is a Christian Crusade?” asked Jean.

Hugh bent his head forward, swung his arms. “The Christian Crusade is a great and growing cause. The Christian Crusade aims to bring the power of the Bible against the evils of this earthly sphere. The Christian Crusade aims to make the United States of America a real Christian God-fearing community; we believe in America for the Americans, Russia for the communists, Africa for the Negroes, Israel for the Jews and Hell for the atheists.”

“I don’t plan to finance it,” said Art with a feeble grin.

Jean turned to Don, made a small helpless gesture. Don shrugged.

Hugh looked from one to the other. “I hear you’ve just graduated from college,” he said to Don.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And now you’re a scientist?”

“Not quite. I’ve acquired some of the necessary background.”

“So now what will you do?”

Jean said, “Father, take us out to the oil well.”

“Don’t call it an oil well yet,” said Art. “It’s dry as last week’s biscuits. Around Orange City they call it ‘Marsile’s Folly’. But if I strike—”

Hugh made an unverbalized rumble of disgust.

“—if I strike there’ll be lots of sick people around here. Because I quietly bought up mineral rights everywhere in sight. C’mon then, let’s go. Coming, Hugh?”

“No. I’m working on my sermons.”

They drove east from Orange City. The dark green foliage of the citrus groves came to an abrupt halt, with dun hills and the parched vegetation of the desert beyond.

They turned off at a side road, wound between balls of dry tumbleweed and gray-brown boulders, then suddenly came on another dark-green orange grove. Art stopped the car, pointed. “See that tank and the windmill? That’s where the dowser told me to get my water. I got enough to irrigate that whole grove. Now look—” he started forward “—just around this little hill…” There was the derrick, the drill-rig, the drill crew in sweat-stained shirts and hard hats. Art called to the foreman. “I don’t see no gusher, Chet.”

“We’re down to shale again, Art. Better going than the schist. But not a whiff of oil. You know what I think?”

“Yeah. I know what you think. You think I’m pouring money down a gopher hole. Maybe I am. I got another four thousand dollars to blow. When that’s gone—we quit.”

“Four thousand won’t take us much farther. Specially if we hit any more of that schist, or that black trap.”

“Well, keep biting at her, and when she blows, cap her quick; I don’t want to lose a gallon.”

Chet grinned. “All the oil you’ll get out of that hole won’t come to more’n a gallon.”

IV

They returned to Orange City.

Jean said grimly, “I know we’re going to argue with Hugh the whole time we’re here. Darn it, Dad, he’s a fascist! Where did he ever learn such things? Not from you!”

Art sighed. “I guess it’s just Hugh. He’s got a good mind, but—well, maybe it’s his funny looks that he couldn’t apply himself normally. And now he’s found a place where his looks help him out…And it don’t do no good arguing with him, because he doesn’t listen.”

“I’ll try to behave myself.”

But at dinner the argument started. Hugh insisted on knowing what field of investigation Don proposed to enter. Don told him, matter-of-factly. “I plan to study para-psychological phenomena—psionic research, some people call it.”

Hugh frowned his great eyebrow-buckling frown. “I’m not sure as I understand. Does this mean you study black-magic, witchcraft, the occult?”

“In a certain sense, yes.”

“It’s all charlatanry!” said Hugh in vast disgust.

Don nodded. “Ninety-five percent of it is, unfortunately…It’s the remaining five percent I’m interested in. Especially the so-called spiritualistic phenomena.”